I love reading. Most of my free time, I am lost in books.
Last week, while rummaging through the library, I found a dusty shelf with an equally dusty volume in small, faded print. I opened the book and read: “Shirley stepped off the train with three things in her bag; a notebook, a picture, and a loaded handgun.” “Sounds intriguing.”
I could not wait to find out who was that Shirley, and why she had a loaded handgun in her bag. When I finished my homework and consoled our whining foxhound pup with a chewing bone, I curled up on the sofa and dived into the book: “Shirley stepped off the train with three things in her bag; a notebook, a picture, and a loaded handgun,” a smell, a terrible, choking stench, which bothered me for a while, penetrated my consciousness. Something is burning!