Michael Malone - Weebly

Priss Ransom, who had said "Ha!" to it all, had said
so only to Tracy Canopy. Tracy had not shared with a
living soul the anonymous accusation that she was a
fool. Evelyn Troyes was still waiting for an opportunity
to ask Priss or Tracy exactly what she should make of
the following: "Your Juicy Fruit Father Field's a faggot.
You bore him stiff.
He'd like to get sucked stiff. Not by you."
Sammy Smalter had laughed at his—he'd heard
worse. And Beanie Abernathy had thrown hers away
without brooding on its evidently prophetic advice,
which was: "You itch, Mrs. A. Lawyur can't reach it,
can he? I'd like to suck those big tits. You got a itch.
You got to scratch it."
While Hayes was starting to worry about these
letters, there were, of course, other letters threatening
Dingley Falls, just as anonymous and far more
dangerous than those smutty misspelled ones that
dispensed both with the post office and with the
postmistress, who had never received one. There were
literal letters far more harmful than words. Words, a
child knows, can break no bones.