Flash Fictions
Dry as a Bone.
Something is wrong with my skeleton. It seems sadder than usual, complaining, as it does, about income taxes and molecular density. But I'm puzzled. No, my body isn't composed of ill-fitting notes and pictured cardboard. Although with those amazing qualities, I could get a job lickatee split. My skeleton's in the closet, and the door, the closet door just to be clear but not invisible, is jammed. You might be expecting me to say something about sexuality or past demons or heavy pastries. And while I enjoy the occasional Pound Cake after making the humpity-hump with Dobermans, talking about bestiality is only a diversion. The real issue here is sorrow, my muscle's anchoring system of knitted calcium string's sad, sad feelings. There is a place where all skeletons aren't deficient in the happy, happy arts. A place where bones can discuss their problems with water. You see, water is nice. It provides my bones a place to hide, and sells oxygen to fish for cheap.
Raising rabbits is not easy. No, no it's really not. If you get scared, e-mail me and I'll calm you down. Things being what things being.
