I was able to write freely and fastly and terribly but that’s okayly.

Blindingly, the sea tossed the ship, jostling its contents under and over each other, until it all fell upon on the rocks, splintering wood, sending up flames from down below, until half masts were soaked, heavy as hearts. Survivors washed up on shore, exhausted but happy to be alive.
Unfortunately the island refused accommodation, soon plucking off its inhabitants like gnats, sending them back out to the ocean. Now, there was no where else to go.

Two youths rough-housed so roughly that I saw one of their butt crackts.
A boy and girl, both wearing converse shoes, sat on opposite sides of the park bench. I don’t think they knew each but I stared down at them from the 3rd floor of the courthouse, hoping to find out. Maybe they’d had an argument and had retreated a bit. Maybe they’d notice their exact same converse sneakers. I got no further indication because the judge called us back into the courtroom. Darn.

1. Put away the yarn.
2. Call your dealer
3. Snort.
4. Repeat.
The remaining 7 steps can best be left by wordsmiths with familiar sensibilities on guilt.

Drip, drip.
Crackle….crackle…
Papers…shuffle…
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Huh? Oh.

She was not the first person who thought she might escape death. Death was like soup during this time of her life, that had been left on a long table, far out of reach, and had gone cold.
She preferred Pop Tarts anyway–a better metaphor. Even out of reach she preferred to eat them sans toaster oven. She even liked frozen Eggo waffles. These were the foods of her college days, centuries ago, another world, marked by things that seemed more urgent than death, when eternal rest was simply boredom.

Dear Sarah-Jane,
We are writing to you, to invite you, and your spouse to our baby shower. Men are allowed at showers now. There will be beer.
And barbecue. Wear whatever you like. Within reason. We’d love to have you!

P.S.–Official invitation in the email. We also texted you. And posted it on Facebook!

The yogurt flared from the plate like something machined with anger. I was projecting of course, trying to be a temperamental artist, donning the dinner table with something passionate and eye-catching.  I failed on all counts. I could not even use the word  “cansaquaga” to describe my stunted effort at expression. The word “cansaquaga” did not exist and yet desperate to enliven the meal, I made usage of the word, when my utensils fell from my hand and I was left with nothing but my napkin.

And the tailor arrived late in the afternoon to take my measurements. He wanted–longed–to start work that day. I informed him of a party I was throwing. I suspected he longed to come to the party as well. I did ask him, by the way. But he politely declined. Which surprised and annoyed me, as he displayed such an outburst of anticipation for the event, as if he knew people who would be there, of which I suspected he would, given his clientele and the mere suggestion of his influence of style. For all I knew, he could very well have sewn for all my party guests. At any rate, he declined and shortly thereafter left with my measurements. I was now alone–left to ponder the rather politeness of this man and his even more politeness of his refusal to attend the party. I wanted him there. I wanted him.

If you ever tell any one, I’ll never speak to you ever again.
Oh, wait. Never mind.