And the lion shall lay down with the lamb. And in his slumber the lamb shall rise and flail at the great mane with his terrible hooves, and rend the lions belly with his square and terrible teeth. The herd shall descend on the sleeping den and the place thereof shall know lions no more, and men shall beat their plowshares into swords.
Halfway across the river the frog felt the sharp point of the scorpions stinger and the poison paralyse his little frog ass. “Wanna know why?” asked the scorpion “Cause it’s in my nature!” The frog did know why and thought to himself how he had saved the genocide of frogs on the other bank. Before the poison reached his throat he croaked out “… Ashes to Ashes, funk to funky, you know major tom’s a junky …” because, too, in the scorpions nature is a dislike of Bowie tunes.
All around the mulberry bush are muddled tracks one, two three, any number of beasts, primate and other, racing in a circle, in some places several feet between the leap and the descent of paws. Forensic evidence suggests someone got their weasel popped. Mulberry bushes are not native to this land and do poorly in this climate. It’s as though this one were cultivated and coddled for this singular macabre tableau. The detective scratched his jaw and his right knee creaked as he rose, an effect from an old injury on a case involving a bald bear from the fuzzy estate.
I know I say this every few months or so, but I miss G (the last incarnation of a diarist we know). I miss her personally, but I miss too her capacity for organizing and producing flashes and facilitating that in others. I am too tired and bored to make the case for flashes again, but the punchline of the case for flashes is that I need them. For someone with as poor of an impulse control as I you’d think I’d just burst with flashes from time to time. Yes, I thought so too.
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