The Slugs are Marching One by One

Every evening 'round about dusk we spend a delightful half an hour collecting "Killer" slugs from on and about the potato plants. Unwilling to sink to their level, we carry them down the hill and release them to rejoin the multitudes slithering upwards, wave upon slimy wave, to feast on the forbidden fruit of our labours.

Why, why, why?

Looking within for the initial motivational desire behind any given action leads inevitably to an expression of infinity.

Scribbler's Block

There are millions of things I've never written anything about. Why not just pick one of them? Shrimp, for instance. Or band-aids.



Sam shrimp hurried along, trying to recall which of the Urchin twins was colour blind. Was it Urma, or Ulma? Left or right? Silly creatures, both of them, but this was beyond silliness. Insisting he'd been boiled! He was as green as the rest of the school, he was sure of it, even if he only could see the end of his tail. He pinched two of his legs harder against the band-aid he'd found and swished through the waves towards Cooper's Wharf. He'd show her pink!

There. Both.

Hail to the New Year, cough, cough.

Nimble fingers flee.
The plague's last, rasping shadow
settles on my voice.

I. B. Alive

Oversized bites of life in an (in some respects) undersized mouth.

Easy Does It

I don't want to rush into anything here.

Anybody watching? No? Okay then.

One,

Two,

Two and a half. . . . . .

Fercrissake. I'm such a wuss.

Dislocation

If I'd known what a lousy driver my inner self was, I would never have handed over the steering wheel. Of course it was interesting seeing where I really wanted to go, but that was before the accidents, and the parking tickets. The going got so rough there a while that I closed my eyes, and now I can't even find my way home. Do you recognize me? Know my address, perhaps? Oh well. Nice meeting you, then, and don't take offense at my godawful honesty. I didn't used to be like this. Really.