djublonskopf
I'm hostage to my own inclinations, my own usurpations of what I want now against what I want then. Never free to be who I could, always a slave to being who I would. I want to fly, but sitting down is so much easier now.
kelp whelp shelp melp pelp . . . palp? Palpitations? My heart is racing, but not in the "workhorse" kind of way . . . more of the "seizuring hummingbird" sense. I fear for my very life . . . but not for long.
None of your business she slurred, staggering against the greasy brick wall. Nunya business at all.
Please, Dakota, let me take that screwdriver . . .
"I said none of your gol-danged business!" she spat,
Indeed, sir. You have done a fine job here. These soldiers line up perdier than any I have seen in my many long years of service to our fine nation.
The general cringed. Three soldiers down, he spotted Leonard . . . his uniform, slightly creased, his buttons, slightly smudged. If the Corporal saw this, he'd have the general's head . . ..
Adam lunged through the air. The volleyball felt hard, cold, and a little rough as the skin and fat of his thumb wrapped around it. He pressed hard, muscles burning in his arm as he slammed the sphere towards the hot sand.
What do you mean she's dead? I just saw you talking to her five minutes ago!
I'm telling you, she's dead.
Wait, no, I see her right there. SHe's standing right behind you.
No she's not.
Yes she is.
Well this sucked.
Beached on the beach, the bleached beached baleen whale blanched at the bland blasphemy of boredom by belching.
Bleach makes everything go down easier the plumber intoned. I hardly even have to plunge anymore. Your pipes are white on the outside . . . and when that crisp, cool bleach cascades down the drain, through the U-trap and over the smooth, clean plastic surface, it's like a sparkling waterfall of corrosive alkaline fluid . . . so beautiful!
Come dance with me, he said to her, reaching one black-sleeved, white-gloved arm towards her.
She accepted, and they stepped onto the floor. Twisting like salted pretzels on the glossy hardwood dance . . . surface, loving every glamorous minute of it.
The squirrel king has pushed us too far. Half the nuts we collect are paid in tribute to that fat, mangey, half-hairless coward. And why? What power does he hold that we lack? None, I tell you, except fear. But winter is coming, and the trees remain empty of nests but for his. And now I fear my young freezing in December more than I fear his fat arm coming down on my head.