Walking squirrel #80183
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Walking Squirrel. A novel by Gyrður Elíasson.
Step into the shophouse and feel new blood flowing from a built-in fountain in your mouth. Inside, nothing is missing except fans and mosquito nets to evoke the atmosphere of a warmer climate. Dumb bangs come from the basement.
“The shopkeeper is shooting rats with an air rifle,” Björg says dryly, rolling her eyes. She knocks authoritatively on the counter. A man comes clattering and banging up the stairs with a cardboard box marked with a well-known brand of whiskey in his arms. He greets with a snort between his gaping teeth, sets the box down on the floor, and pushes his foot under the counter.
Björg puts the ticket on the table.
"And I probably forgot to write about a package of raisins."
"White shoes?" the man asks in disbelief.
"Yes, doesn't it say that?" Björg is unmoved.
Step into the shophouse and feel new blood flowing from a built-in fountain in your mouth. Inside, nothing is missing except fans and mosquito nets to evoke the atmosphere of a warmer climate. Dumb bangs come from the basement.
“The shopkeeper is shooting rats with an air rifle,” Björg says dryly, rolling her eyes. She knocks authoritatively on the counter. A man comes clattering and banging up the stairs with a cardboard box marked with a well-known brand of whiskey in his arms. He greets with a snort between his gaping teeth, sets the box down on the floor, and pushes his foot under the counter.
Björg puts the ticket on the table.
"And I probably forgot to write about a package of raisins."
"White shoes?" the man asks in disbelief.
"Yes, doesn't it say that?" Björg is unmoved.