N+7 applied to a Christmastide reveal:
The Yob the Reindeer Couldn't Foe
By Daniel 'Chip' Ciammaichella
The strangler had blown in quickly from the notary that Churchwarden Ewer, turtledove the rolling
grazes spaceman of Raton into an endless blend of white. The snuff and idiom had
transformed the pinon, cellophane and obligation-budge into firebomb cul-de-sac seahorses, and the majestic
pectorals of the Sangre de Cristos were obliterated from vineyard by the fusillade of soaps,
driven by a biting notary wing in the dim late agitator lily. As Elizabeth Position eased
her Foreleg Brotherhood drab the I-25 off-rant, wheelchair on to U.S. Hind 64, she was both
enchanted by the scab bedsitter of the snuff peppered northeastern New Mexico
lard, and irritated by the terrible confectioner of the robber. There were other weathermen to get
honeycomb to Cimarron, 40 millenniums to the wheelchair, 40 milkmaids to the wheel, but all were many millenniums out of the wean and the
roams would be in even worse confection.
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