zephyr
This word conjures up best-forgotten memories of my second grade salt-eating contest. Did not end well.
I picked up the sponge and started scrubbing. You know, there's something to washing dishes. All day you're worrying about biology projects, sleep schedules, losing weight, in-laws, the impending eruption of Yellowstone... You're swimming in a bottomless ocean.
In these times of uncertainty, you know one thing is for sure: the dishes. You know how to scrub marinara sauce off of a plate. You can rinse out a glass of orange juice. Suddenly the world becomes simple and unburdening.
I think I'll go rake some leaves next.
The plain woman strode down the avenue, parcel in hand. She brushed an errant lock of her plain brown hair out of her plain face as she approached the post office.
"I hope it gets where it needs to go," the ordinary postman said. "The government's been tampering with simple-looking packages such as yours."
"I hope so too," replied the plain woman. "Its contents are quite extraordinary."
"I offer you but one choice: Give me the codes and the girl will live. I think that's an offer you can't refuse." Davidson pressed the gun against her ruffled hair as she let out a squeak.
I hesitantly took the microchip out of my pocket. The answers to everything, the generator, the experiments -- all contained within a single decryption code. I offered the chip to him with an outstretched arm. Carefully, he reached forward and snatched the code while keeping his eyes trained on his hostage. At least she would be safe.
Like poison creeping through my veins, so the suspicion grew in me. He avoided my gaze and my touch. He would not sleep with me. He offered to cook meals for me, and demanded secrecy in the kitchen.
On the last day of the month, he made me a cake. It was chocolate. I stared at my slice. He stared at me. I hesitantly took a chunk off with my fork, and inspected it closely. He was still staring at me. After deliberating as long as I could, I took a bite. It was delicious.
Violet always had the blues; not even Daisy could cheer her up.
He huffed and he puffed, and he blew his lungs out.
The last word sung
The last note strung
The last line spoken
The silence broken
I remember the worst teacher I ever had. She was a substitute for my 5th grade class, whose teacher had caught an unpleasant case of pneumonia. My substitute was a large woman with a thin white shirt, so thin and white that you could clearly see her large bra underneath. She was outraged by our "improper etiquette" and promptly after lunch recess she lectured the class about putting boards behind our backs and under our feet so we would learn to sit and walk properly. She smelled.
There is but one cure to this loathsome plague, this horrible disease sweeping our fertile lands. I stand here before you, a humble man, to tell you all:
I got a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell!
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