I’ve decided to write a dramatic novel one sentence at a time right here on my blog. I think it will either be a murder mystery or a western written in the style of Shakespeare . . . . But I can decide all that later in the book.
Anyway, here goes.
As Lord Krumbly soothingly stepped from the painfully rustic outhouse into the dull, glistening snow, the murderous and harsh bitterness of the agonizing cold winter wind felt like a horrifying, deadly picker bush as it whipped cruelly acrossed his cheeks (the ones on his face).