Just write the next line

In the suddenly of the moment Eve screamed out, "Please John, blank your mind, don't even think...." but even as the dim of the moment increased and her voice trailed off she knew it was too late; the albanian wheezed to himself as he placed the blue back in the canvas bag....

..but the blue, being a particularly capricious indigo, inked it's way onto a pamphleteer's tract, thus...the non-story spread .....

just before Fatlum launched himself into the aria from Carmen in a surprising falsetto....

"Ah perfido!" he cried with amazing grace, his falsetto failing him furiously (he, too, had taken the course)...

I don't belong here thinks John, but I can't leave now, something might happen.

'...ooo, boiled eggs' said Fatlum in an unexpected pastoral squirm of the tale....

'Boiled eggs?' cried Eve, flummoxed, 'are they something to do with the lost plot?' she hastily scurried off, her greens flashing furiously, to find out...

...if Gorbachev had the answers hidden in an ancient elephant's foot umbrella stand or was it merely an olfactory confusion between peroxide and sulphur?

'I say!'squealed Mikhail Sergeyevich, from the deranged depths of the East End, 'that beta-bloke has awoke!' and he scurried off, forthwith, to the eel 'n' pie shop to sing lustily for his supper.

'You know,' said Eve, hoping she doesn't sound posh, 'there is something quite mysterious about the fiction process. It helps us make sense of reality.'

" I still don't get why all these Russians have suddenly appeared though" she added, shivering slightly; "I hope it doesn't change things too much".

"But then a change is as good as a hoary old saying, so I shouldn't put all those eggs and aubergines in one basket unless I planning on making a Russian salad," she continued, as the Russians gathered round her basket, winking conspiratorially.

...the sweet aroma of a sub-plot...seeping in from the knowing wink and side-ways glance of the latecomer...Rocky Ledge!

‘Does anybody fancy a chicken biryani?,’ said John clearly smitten with Eve’s intellect, ‘ there’s an Indian round the corner.’

'Take no notice of skunk,' says Eve,'he will lead us off the scent.'

Sure enough, skulking around the corner John spotted the Indian, bow and arrow clutched in one sweaty paw and a flaming vindaloo in the other. 'Vive l'ambiguity!' he cried...

from the shadows the albanians hand emerged, clutching a old leather bag containing a salve that he quickly spread on the Indian's flaming vindaloo; thus allowing him his first real relief of the spring and making an ali that would serve all greatly in the paragraphs to come.

Alright for them, thinks John, I don't even know which tense I'm in.

Eve-hiking an eyebrow-ventures that owing to John's nervous twitch, his misguided tenseness seems to be more present than past and offers her own home remedy...

The aspirin (as big as a compact car tire and about the same weight) has John perplexed but he nibbles away at it while watching all three of Eve's heads nodding in unison; noting that the purple of the Indians skin clashes with her blue hair....another one of those damned '60's flash backs...it will pass just as soon as Mr. Leary releases the Albanian's inner lizard.

And if it doesn't, John thinks, Man, he'll just have to keep on crinting.

Meanwhile, darkness having now fallen, John was getting desperate because the copy had to be with the editor tomorrow and he was sure to question the length of his sentences, so he ripped the sheet of paper from his old typewriter, screwed it up and threw it on the floor to join the rest of the crumpled pages lying there. Helvigo Jenkins

More commas, that's what I need, thinks John, or perhaps a semi-colon or two.

John slapped his forehead so hard the force nearly rocked him out of his old typing chair, "My old nemisis, Punctuation! How could I be so daft as to turn my one blind eye - why even now he could feel it creeping out from beneath the divan as his knee jerked instinctively, imagining it's sharp talons sinking into his calf (much like those of so many pompus publishers and their toady proof readers!)

As his chair typed merrily away, oblivious, John decided his only recourse, given the fact that he was allergic to toads, was frenetic fornication...

It didn't take the ol' bill long to put in an appearance. Armed with DNA hirsute evidence and CCTV footage, they courageously raided at dawn and shouted bravely ''Ello, ello' what 'ave we got 'ere then?', before slapping the cuffs on and herding John unceremoniously into the paddy wagon...

new julie also at the crime scene,was my lost wheelie bin with roller skates on who took it? Bit fishy for him to take of.

In the van, meanwhile, the police are busy flinging the book at John; "you're being taken in for questioning on suspicion of being in possession of shaky grammar and punctuation, not to mention rogue waste disposal solutions; anything you say may be taken down and used as evidence, except those skanky underpants. I'm not touching those"

'I love he' Eve thought, 'He love I.' Perhaps there was something more required, after all.

And the maximum darkness falls; man, this is getting as repetitious as a prog-rock wig-out jam.

....and with the slamming of the cell door, John bolted straight up; peeling his face off the keyboard as the drool dripped down from the corner of his mouth, "Whaaa...did, did I miss anything...did I write anything???"

Poor Eve. If she cuts back on the adverbs she may well get published but then John will hate her.

Eve seems to be sitting in the lap of luxury, until his wife enters the room - Eve stares blankly, thinking if ever there was a good situation to interject an adverb, she must surely be face to face with it.

John sighed, slumped in his chair, Eve, Eve, must you rhyme it’s the last thing I expected dear just here, just at this time you must be feeling the pain as the works are gummed up, they’re shot there’s nothing more to gain from this hopeless little plot there’s no neat little ball for it to be rolled up into no tidy ending as the closing credits fall that fairy tale, dear Eve, has flew please, take the wooden stake before it mounts a new stand, or paragraph, or chapter, or remake, and drive it deep, deep as you can!

John decided, after much soul-searching and deep reflection, not to give up his day job...

spam deleted and user blocked

....I must say....I must say...was repeated over many times until finally John, in a partial subconscious stupor reaches for Eves hand, mumbling, "you must remember to turn off the telly and lay waste to these awful info-mercials..." before swirling away into 2 percent oblivion.

'Don't be such an old fuddy-duddy John,' said Eve, 'infomercials are all part of the internet experience.'

...the door to the bedroom swung back on it's hinges so hard that the picture of milk came loose from all but one of it's nails, as Fak, who'd been trying to sleep off his southern comfort on the couch walked in, his deflated ego slumped in his hand...