Waleland and Scotes

[floweranza]

Frances opened his new store on the corner of Waleland and Scotes; in his opinion, it was a quaint little town with a coffeehouse two blocks down and around a corner, and a penitentiary across the street. The townspeople were oddly quietly loud but all the same, tottering from here to there. In the three days that he had situated himself here, painting the walls green, Frances watched them on their routes, and tried to memorise faces, but remembered none at the end of the day. He thought to himself constantly, 'These people are so peculiar,' and ate his radish-hoarse.

On the sixteenth day, Frances flipped the sign to 'open,' and adjusted his tie. You had to be formal, he believed, to get anywhere with this quiet crowd and so his tie said nothing but ellipses all over. He had just gotten settled behind the desk in front of the large window when the door chimed, and a strange sort of fellow made his ambling way to the back. Frances thought, 'Ah, one of those pleasant penitentiarated folks,' and waved his hand in welcome because, really, these were the nicest people around.