Glassy eyes stared balefully out from beneath a matted tangle of staticky fur. Half-stuffed limbs hung limp about deflated bellies, and silver bells grew black with tarnish at the end of threadbare ribbons bleached of colour. Harley Holmes stood on the other side of the splintery wooden concession stand, a roll of slightly blood-splattered tickets clutched in one hand and a bb gun in the other.
"No," said Simon. "No guns."
Harley pointed at the shelves of mouldering stuffed animals, prizes for those carnival-goers accomplished in the art of mowing down rows of tin ducks.
"I want one," he said.
Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers( Read more... )