A year later, I thought it was dumb. A year after that, I wished I could write like that again. The next year, I burned it. My mom spanked me for play...ng with matches. The next day I wrote a story about a mean old mother and her reign of terror. As mothers do, she said it was cruel. The next day, I burned it.I was always a writer. Only, I was never very good once my age hit double digits. And I’ve only gotten worse with age. Last year, I published “The Angel Walks at Dawn,” my third short. Though a couple of ppl were awake but they weren’t noticing. After a couple of minutes I slowly eased my hand down and she gladly made space for my left hand to ease under her buttocks. Now with my left hand firmly placed under buttocks I started to explore the hitherto unknown territories. As I said earlier, this being my first experience with a lady I wasn’t aware exactly as to where the pussy falls when a lady sits. Though I had watched a lot of pornographic films, I never bothered too much. Her watch said 6:30.The cooking stove was outside the tent, which was a little safer and a lot cooler. George had bought some wood the day before, and they had brought some supplies with them on the plane. By the time Sylvia had learned how to cook on a wood stove, it was lunchtime. Dinner was easier. “Want me to get started on the typing?” she asked when they’d eaten.“Not really. I’m still gathering impressions. The only thing I’ve put down is a sketch map, and the typewriter can’t help. He ignored me. "Cap'n," he said, "Germans, lots a'them, over by the creek and heading' this way, mounted." How many?" the woman asked, standing and closing the ledger before her."Don' know," he said. "Didn' stick around to count, hoard a'them, bluecoats." All right," she said, "calm down and go ring the alarm bell." I help?" I said."Get your weapon," she said, "follow me and stay close. I still don't trust you."Standing, Susan Simon was another story altogether. She was about five-foot-eight.