I’ll be back in like a month or if I get some extra time.



The bat-lady had dark, thick wings more like a dragon; if she jumped off a cliff, she could surely guide the scales to safety. The adventure of being less than normal should not be taken lightly. Oh how many people had posed their disgust, how many shops refused her, how many people could not take her seriously.


Carbuncles lined the stargazer’s mask, swallowing the moonlight to glow; when any faces peered into those cut garnets, they had no more will of their own than mannequins. They could only peer into the gems adorning that pale clay mask and promise to never leave. Their wallets would be slaughtered like pigs and hung in the trophy room.


The statue raised his marble arms over his head and stretched the many years of sleep from his muscles; he cracked the kinks from his wrists and toes before raising and dropping his legs to learn how to walk. Each step coursed a boom and trembles through the floor, but he stopped at the door, unsure of locks.


The wires mumbled on the side of highway fifty, drifting nightmare calls from hospital telephones; the incubation of germs had created a disease that only struck the vain and beautiful: those without confidence somehow lived, the others felt a wave of permanent euphoria leaving them unable to function. Those left soon realized how fortunate and special they were.


The needle’s tip pierced the cotton, closing battle scars with fabric stitches; those clothes had to wrestle with the weather, the dirt, tree houses, and rough play as well as crumbs and drooled juice. If anyone else had to see my mother’s eyes, they would know that the sun cannot burn as hot as anger nor as fierce.


The keyboard clicks argued to his inner ear, poking the armored drums. Though autumn’s beginning marked last month’s calendar, summer’s heat still roasted him while he tried to sleep. His tender limbs liked no position in which he laid, his senses betrayed him by focusing to near super-human levels. Every whisper exploded with a mind-clenching shriek.


Mademoiselle Caroline had wide, black eyes as vast as a wormhole; none knew what exactly would happen, if one sank inside those incredible depths. One could question whether they ever stood still or if they were vortexes sprinting in circles. Her elusive hands held only the banister, her mind would not betray her heart. She always slept alone.


She sat on the top of the chair, legs crossed, digging the toes of her high heels into the leather; her face twisted for the camera, away from the adoration of thirty lusting faces behind her, and pressed her lips into happiness. No shame marked her skin. She just soaked in the smiles of her fans and lived.


The stomach and mind held a synergy while singing in the shower; every noun in any song replaced to cake. The problem could not be isolated with no clothes, and a towel would not do much as he had no cake in his home. This required a shirt and shoes and, perhaps, some money but would be fulfilled.