If I had a title this would be something else in Flash Friday

So this morning there was most of a sketch of a flash on my desktop. It must be mine. It’s very cold outside, but warmer than predicted and much sunnier than predicted. It’s funny, local newscenters in Portland had these extreme names for the weather report like First Storm Alert Responder. Pretty much the weather was limited to rain and not rain. There’s a lot more to deal with here and yet they still seem to manage to cock it up.

I don’t write here often enough not to post leftover sketchs from my desktop — it starts below. It probably needs editing or finishing or something, maybe a shallow unmarked grave. Be nice to one another, at least try.

There was me (there is always me) a guy who may or may not have been Jack (he might have been born in sobriety but he hadn’t revisited in a long time) and this guy I just called The Father Of Invention.

“Pretty formal for county lock up,” jack/not jack said to the father of invention.

“I was at a wedding; tails after six or after marriage.”

“So they locked you up as a preventative measure?”

“No,” he paused hoping he could live in that pause, jack/not jack raised a brow. He sighed, “A friend of mine, well, a guy from work, was marrying this … woman …”

“Good choice,” jack/not jack.

“An orphan,” again the father of invention paused to no effect “He asked me to give the bride away. Who knew ‘Take the Bride up the Aisle’ wasn’t a euphemism?”

Jack/not Jack almost smiled but he hadn’t the muscle memory for it, “Shit happens.”

“No,” I said because I refuse to allow dumbass to occur without me “That’s wrong.”

“Shit too crude for you darling?” Jack/not Jack asked.

“Crude shit is, but, no. Nothing just happens. It’s a force of will to get up each morning and rearrange ourselves in some close approximation to who had lain down. Doesn’t even something as dramatic as the few hours of death each evening; we are always rearranging ourselves, deliberately being us. Nothing just Happens. Not the wind, not fire, birth, death, the front end of chevy dashed on the rocks.