| Squid Blog Day-to-Day with Squiddy |  |
| Squid Blog Day-to-Day with Squiddy | |
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "thunder". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Thunder - Squiddy Geiger - May 30, 2012
Jerry sighed as the thunder reverberated. It had been very close. He heard a whine from nearby. He got up to go rescue poor Sam from where he was cowering in the next room. He knew he was in the next room because of the agitated scratching as the poor thing tried to go to ground, clawing anxiously at the tiled floor.
He went into the other room and snapped his fingers. At the sound, Sam froze, then looked at Jerry as if to say "I'm sorry, I can't help it." Jerry looked at the five year old Golden Retriever for a moment, then pointed to the door. The dog lowered his head and walked through to the living room, and lay on his bed. Jerry watched until he'd settled and calmed down, then petted him affectionately.
As he listened to the thunder, Jerry wished, as he often did, that the storms could be like they'd been when he was a boy, in West Africa. This storm might be upsetting the dog, but it was nothing compared to those. He remembered the nights when they'd been woken by thunderstorms that were so violent, the cracks and rumbles were constant. By a window, you could read from the constant flashes of lightning.
Still, this was enjoyable. Some people hated thunder, but he relished it. It was alive, and encompassing, as the rolling thunder washed over you, and through you. He loved how, under the right conditions, the hairs would stand up on his arms and neck, as another bolt built. When that happened, he knew it would be very very close, and he'd unplug his appliances and electronics. Just in case.
There, he thought, it's moving on. Sam was starting to relax as the rumbling became more distant. You could hear it, but it didn't rattle your bones anymore. The rain, however, was steady, a lovely source of white noise that soothed him. It had been a long day. He smiled, got up and signalled to the dog, who followed him as he went upstairs to bed, where the rain would lull him to sleep.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "horse". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Horse - Squiddy Geiger - May 30, 2012
The flow of time stopped, at least for awhile. Sensory input stopped, as well. David just was. Without form or function. He knew this wasn't normal, but he also knew it was completely wonderful, and freeing. Until it changed again. Suddenly time flew by, and he felt his toes returning, then sensation flowed up his legs and into his body, a wave of euphoria as it reached his head again.
As he fought to regain coherence, he noticed the clock, the hands racing around the face. That couldn't be right, could it? Time moved slowly, this wasn't possible. The clock kindly slowed down again, the hands moving at a normal pace. He thought.
He realized the tv was on, but try as he might, he could not understand the newscaster. He thought it was English, but meaning failed to register. It had to be English, he recognized the news reader. Bob? Rob? Local station, local news, but incomprehensible. He lost interest in it in favour of the clock again, which was moving at variable speeds now, very slowly, then a burst of speed, then slowly again.
"Fascinating, Captain," he heard himself say, with an odd echoing quality to it. He looked around, expecting to see Kirk. With the way things were going, it wouldn't have surprised him. No Kirk, just a poster of the cast of The Original Series, signed by all of them at the convention so long ago. He noticed idly that it was crooked. Weird.
He sat down, unsure of when he'd stood up. He leaned back in the chair, and fell asleep, a light, unrestful sleep plagued by imagery similar to what he'd been seeing while awake. When his roommate woke him and he discussed his night trip, he couldn't argue when Josh called him a horse's ass. He'd vowed never to do acid again after the first time.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "blue". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Blue - Squiddy Geiger - May 28, 2012
The inspector was growing tired of the interviews. It was always the same incomprehensible gibberish. They'd brought him in to solve a multiple homicide - well, that's what they called it, even though the victims weren't human. He scratched his head, hoping he'd interpreted things properly.
The witnesses and the suspect spoke English, sort of, but they kept substituting a strange word in place of so many things. He was told this was just how it was, and you had to go by context to see what they really meant. After 12 hours of this, his brain hurt. It was time to question the suspect, so he tossed out the cold coffee in his mug, got some fresh coffee, and entered the interrogation room.
He turned on the recorder. "This is Inspector Williams, in interrogation room 1. Please state your name for the record."
The diminutive blue suspect looked up at him, and stated "My smurf is Dopey Smurf.."
The Inspector sighed, then started with, "You are a suspect in the killing of 15 of your fellow Smurfs, er... Dopey. What do you have to say about this?"
Dopey shook his head. "I didn't smurf anyone! I didn't!"
"We have witnesses who say you did. They picked you out of a lineup, and positively identified you." He pointed to pictures of the deceased. "You were found with their blood on your hands. Are you denying you did this?"
Dopey looked at the pictures, then up at the Inspector. "Oh, you mean this. Of course I smurfing smurfed them, the smurfs! You would have too in my shoes. Smurf at me, I'm Dopey Smurf. There are how many male Smurfs and how many females? I'm a smurf, dammit. 83 years old and I've never smurfed anyone. Why? because getting to smurf Smurfette goes by seniority and popularity, and just how smurfing popular do you smurfing think I am? One smurfing girl Smurf for all of us boy Smurfs? Yes I know there's also Sassette Smurf and Nanny Smurf but they have each other, so there's only Smurfette for the boy Smurfs, and I'd smurfing had enough of this smurf! So yes, I smurfed them! All of them. I though maybe if I cut the line down a bit, I'd have a smurfing chance of ending my smurfity! And I'd smurfing do it again. I mean, have you seen how smurfing hot Smurfette is?!"
The Inspector sighed, and shut off the recorder. That was obviously a confession but nobody would understand what the smurfing little smurf had said. "Oh god, now i'm thinking like you, you little smurf. Get up. You're under arrest for the murders of fifteen of your fellow Smurfs."
When he finally got home, he turned on the news to see that Teddy Ruxpin had finally been exorcised.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "fire". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Fire- Squiddy Geiger - May 27, 2012
Fire.
Fascinating, mesmerizing
Entertaining, traumatizing
Flame.
Source of survival
Cause of destruction
Fire.
It fills us with fear
It fills us with warmth
Flame.
Warming, nourishing
Amusing, scarring
Fire.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "should". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Should - Squiddy Geiger - May 25, 2012
Should I?
Could I?
I don't know, does anybody care?
I wrack my brain with the decision
I wrestle with the pros and cons
Will I?
won't I?
The messages from left and right shoulder
Assail me with conflicting priorities
Forcing me to consider things I'd rather not
Dare I?
Did I?
The decision, was it made?
My brain exploded, the choice was forced
I had no control over it, that's my excuse
Do you?
Do they?
Care that I agonized over this
Believe that I made an honest effort
To chose the most appropriate path?
Could I?
Should I?
Letting life flow around me while I ignore the problem
Such a tempting solution it is, not taking a decision
But not really a solution at all, the problem unresolved
Should I?
I should!
I do make the momentous decision
A decision I will stick to once taken, Because
Even if it's not perfect, it was considered and accepted.
"Sunny side up, please."
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "choice". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Choice - Squiddy Geiger - May 24, 2012
The time was drawing closer, when he would have to decide. It wasn't fair, how could he decide something like this? Either way, he hurt someone. And either way, he would feel like a heel, even though the decision was being forced upon him by parents who should have decided themselves.
Technically, Sandra's claim was the stronger. Their parents had made the pact soon after the two were born, and if not for a technicality when he was 12, his parents would never have made the second agreement. They'd been certain the contract with Sandra's parents had been nullified.
Apparently, this was not the case. And this played havoc the second set of plans, with Aliyah's parents. If not for Sandra's parents, he would be married to Aliyah already; two weeks before the wedding, they had made a case for their original contract. It had gone before a judge, who had said both were valid claims, and it had fallen to Andrew to decide which girl he would marry. The court-imposed deadline for a decision was now only four hours away.
Andrew thought about the two girls. Sandra was pretty, and seemed pleasant enough. She'd gotten good grades in school and was now in her second year of University. He'd only met her a couple of times; once, when they'd celebrated the betrothal at 12, and again last week. He'd enjoyed talking to her, but spend his life with her? Help!
Aliyah was lovely, and funny, and the one time he'd met her had been very pleasant indeed. She was not in school; after high school, she took a break for two years to travel. She professed not to know what she wanted to take yet, so had taken a job in an office for the time being.
Should it be Sandra, or Aliyah? He couldn't decide! He had been thinking for weeks now, and his head was going to explode! The funny thing was, before all of this had blown up, he was prepared, quite happily so, to marry Aliyah. it had been the plan since he was 12. Even though he had never met her.
Maybe he should just run away for a couple years, as Aliyah had done. See the world, put life - and these decisions - on hold.
He sat quietly and drank his coffee, at an impasse.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "spot". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Spot - Squiddy Geiger - May 23, 2012
Brian glared at the intruder, a look that in other universes caused instant and very painful death, but which here merely conveyed a message of dislike. The glare continued for some minutes.
"What the hell is wrong with you, Brian?" Karl asked.
Brian looked at Karl, then nodded toward the intruder. "You know what's wrong. Look!"
Karl looked over at Simon. He sighed. "Seriously, Brian? God, you're worse than Sheldon Cooper, and he's a goddamn fictional character!" He sighed again. "He wants you to move, Simon. You're in his spot."
Simon laughed, then saw Karl's look. "Oh, you're serious? Does this guy have all of Dr. Cooper's other foibles? And, more to the point - do you put up with them, despite the fact that living with such a person would be possible only in a fictional tv setting?"
"Yes, he's just as bad, but in his defense, he's my cousin, he's rich, and he doesn't charge me rent." He laughed. "I think this is an acceptable exchange, for now. Actually, I shouldn't have invited you over - this is already starting off better than the last time I had a friend over. You at least managed to sit, before the hissy fit started. Last time, we hadn't even taken our coats off before Sheldon's Clone lost it. So, consider yourself lucky."
He looked at Brian, then added, "and if you like that seat, sit there. Brian can deal with it for one night."
The police never found the bodies. Brian told them Karl and Simon had left shortly after 8pm, but had not said where they were going.
His spot was safe.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "bark". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Bark - Squiddy Geiger - May 22, 2012
The gate was open, and Rex was nowhere to be seen. I cursed under my breath, grabbed my jacket and the leash, and went out in search of the blasted dog. As always, it fell to me, even though I didn't like the yappy little mutt.
I knew his route, but I didn't know how long he'd been out, so I walked quickly around the block, checking yards and in bushes, then headed down the alley. No sign of him. Ok, farther afield. Next block over, same search pattern and no dog. Now the park.
As I entered the park, he started to bark. It was an odd bark, excited and fast, I'd never heard it before. It was coming from the other end of the park. As I pushed through the trees, other barks joined his, a veritable chorus of yaps and howls and barks.
I came out into the open, and stopped, staring. There was a circle of a dozen or more dogs around an object about the size of a small truck. The dogs were circling it, staring at it. As I approached, more dogs were arriving and joining them.
The ship (for that's what it was) was a silver cylinder, on its side. It was featureless, nothing marred its perfectly smooth, shiny surface. Until, of course, a crack appeared, and a hiss as of escaping air. The crack grew, until a door appeared.
A small shaggy figure appeared, and skittered down the ramp to the ground, where it sat staring at the circled dogs, who stopped moving. The six-legged entity raised an appendage and waved it, as it intoned something in a language that sounded almost like it should make sense, but didn't.
I approached, watching. I was behind it as it tried again, the same words, with the same frustrating lack of meaning. There was still no response from the watching canines. The being turned towards the door and beckoned. Fourteen dogs of various sizes came bounding out. I recognized two of them from recent "lost dog" posters.
The dogs raced into the group of waiting dogs, and a melee of excited, happy butt-sniffing ensued, the being forgotten. The latter, at this, turned and walked back into the vessel. The door closed behind him with a solid "k-chunk", and the vessel started to glow. Without a sound, it lifted from the ground quiety, and zipped off into the sky.
I told nobody. Neither did Rex.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "draw". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Draw - Squiddy Geiger - May 21, 2012
Myron worked the paper deftly, the colour from his assortment of pastels filling the whitespace, building the scene. He whistled softly as he worked, a habit he'd picked up early on. It helped him, the song an odd amalgamation of songs from his youth, along with atonal nonsense when he concentrated particularly hard.
The work was coming well. Stacy would like this one, he was sure of it. From time to time he glanced over at a picture, but mostly he was able to do it from memory. It would be perfect, he was sure of that. It always was, and Stacy was never disappointed. It was why she was still with him. Certainly, it wasn't his looks or his money. He had only his talent, and she appreciated it.
No, he took that back. She was the only one who truly knew what his abilities were. He'd been afraid to show anyone what he could do, until that fateful day six years ago. He'd drawn her the necklace, and she'd praised it, and him, and they'd been together ever since.
For other people, he only used pencil. Shades of gray, no colour. With her he let his genius free, and it rewarded them both. He'd never been happier, and she thrived on his work.
At last, he was done. He studied it carefully, checking for imperfections. There, that was wrong, he thought, as he made imperceptible changes to the design. He was very careful with the paper as, judging it to be done, he took it and placed it into an envelope. Time to deliver it. He left the studio for the ten minute drive home.
Stacy smiled as he came in. She returned his kiss happily as he handed her the envelope. She weighed it in her hands carefully, then opened it, pulling the contents onto the coffee table: the blank white sheet of paper, and the two dozen diamonds of varying sizes, from half a carat up to 2 carats. As always, perfect, and just as she had requested. Such a unique and special talent.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "time". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Time - Squiddy Geiger - May 20, 2012
A whistle blew. "TIME!"
The players looked over at their respective coaches to see who had called the timeout. Nobody had, it seemed. Jerry sighed. "Great," he mumbled. "Another Patron Saint time out." The others just laughed.
Jerry sighed again as one of his players disappeared, and was replaced by a complete stranger. He frowned at the player, who of course had no idea why Jerry was frowning. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the strip of paper that explained what the new player's name was and his strengths and weaknesses.
Nobody else noticed the substitution. In their eyes, the game was contiguous. Only Jerry clung to a timeline that transected those of his players. The Patron Saint ensured this was so. He gave his orders to the players around him, just before the whistle blew to end the timeout.
Play went on, with five more players flickering and being replaced, once in mid-play. As was the norm, they finished the game as victors. And once again, Jerry refused to discuss the game. All he said, as they entered the locker room was, "Great game, boys!"
He desperately wanted to discuss the game, but couldn't. Nobody else had seen the game Jerry had seen. Paul Santos, the Patron Saint of the school athletics program, had seen to that. Jerry hated it, but couldn't say anything because, well - who would believe him? As far as they were concerned, the same players who started the game had finished the game.
One of these times, he'd stand up to Santos. One of these days, he'd get to see a full game played, and remember it the way everyone else did.
Not today, though. Not today.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "mutilate". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Mutilate - Squiddy Geiger - May 19, 2012
The old doll was torn and mutilated, showing distinct signs of abuse. Brittnee seemed to be very careless with it; she'd take it everywhere with her, but dropped it, threw it, kicked it, and squished it regularly. Josh was concerned, he'd never seen her treat any of her things in such a manner.
"Don't you like your doll," he'd finally asked about a week after he'd first noticed the behaviour. "She's beautiful, why are you so mean to her?"
Brittnee looked at him for a moment, then laughed. "Sarah likes it, Dad! She's a maskasist!"
Josh corrected her. "You mean a masochist, and where did you hear that word?"
The 12 year old was evasive. "Oh, I don't know. Someone at school, maybe?"
"Well I don't want you using it, and your doll is not a masochist. Stop treating her like that, or I'll take her away." He sighed. "Go do your homework, please. Supper will be ready in an hour."
Brittnee went upstairs obediently, and sat down to do her homework. Josh checked in on her a few minutes later, to find that she was working away on some problem or another. He nodded in satisfaction. He also noted that the doll was propped in a sitting position on the desk.
The girl heard the door close behind her, and smiled at the doll. "Have you learned not to steal another girl's boyfriend yet, Sarah? No? Not yet?" she asked, as she stuck a needle into the doll's shoulder. "Maybe this will help."
Across town in St Anthony's Hospital, a figure wrapped in bandages and encased in multiple casts shrieked in agony, and the nurses rushed in to assist her. They upped her pain medication; it looked to be another rough night for Sarah Wannamaker.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "butterball". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Butterball- Squiddy Geiger - May 18, 2012
Butterball sputtered and died. Joe tried starting her again, but her starter motor whirred and clicked, and fell silent. It wasn't a surprise, really. He'd been neglecting her. He'd take a look after work, when he had time. He'd take the other car instead, even though he preferred to drive Butterball.
She was his first car, purchased when he was seventeen, with the money he'd saved carefully for months. $500 represented a lot of late nights at the drive thru, selling people food of questionable quality.
It was a lot of money for a car that didn't even run, but it was a project. His father had said he would help where needed, but that Joe should do the majority of the work. "A man needs to know how a car works," he'd said.
Joe could fix the car, as he had many times over the years, but it wasn't as much fun as those first years. . It had been fine as a teen to spend umpteen zillion hours in the garage, away from the sun. Now it was just a chore.
He kicked the tire of his beloved 1971 Volkswagen Super Beetle. It was the first year they'd made them, and by the time he got his, it was 15 years old and in terrible shape, but he'd loved it. It was his cousin Bill who'd given the car her name: Butterball. He said she looked like a turkey, ready to be cooked. That, of course, was when she'd been rusty and brownish-red.
By the time he was done with her, she was almost perfect inside and out. A beautiful shiny dark blue, and with all original parts. Dad had done more than just help with the work, he'd sprung for much needed - and expensive - parts as gifts for birthdays and Christmas.
Joe sighed, and headed over to the Toyota in the garage. Reliable but decidedly less interesting than Butterball, the Corolla didn't even have a name, or a personality. It was a tool, to get him from A to B. Butterball was a force, an entity. Temperamental and noisy and lovely and underpowered and fun to drive. Maybe this was good. Maybe it was what Joe needed. Some quality time with an old friend.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "revenge". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Revenge- Squiddy Geiger - May 10, 2012
Shock and dismay
Disappointment and anger
Feeling betrayed
Heartsick, despondent.
So many years together
Shared goals and compromise
All thrown away with - it appears
Without a single regret.
The anger and resentment
Fester inside, growing still
Until finally one night as you
Lie in bed, an idea comes to you
You reject it at first because
You aren't like that
Hurt and betrayed, yes but
You aren't like that
But as the time passes
A shift in your thinking
The plan becomes clearer
As you plot your revenge
Now that you've decided
Nothing else matters
You make plans and change plans
And change them again
The world takes notice
But thinks your cheerful smile
Is because you are over it
But that's part of your plan
You plot and you plot
And you know this is right
The day finally dawns
You spring the trap with glee
In the end you realize
It doesn't make things better
And now your friends
Are disappointed in you
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "illicit". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Illicit- Squiddy Geiger - May 05, 2012
She smiled and nodded, radiant and full of joy whenever she was with him. She looked forward to her time with him, despite the circumstances. When their time together was over, she left reluctantly, counting the minutes to the following Wednesday encounter.
Her days were filled with daydreams about him. Dreams of him being able to spend more time with her. Dreams of truly being together. Dreams of a life in the open, without fear of discovery. She knew it was unlikely to happen, but still she dreamed.
The Handlers were efficient, and everywhere. It was a miracle Wednesdays happened at all. They had appointments in the same building, and had arranged for them to be extended, at least on paper. Their therapists understood, and encouraged the relationship. Yes, they paid for a double session each that didn't actually happen, but it was worth it. If the Handlers discovered the deception, it would mean ruin for her, and prison for him.
She was a Synth. Human and Synth relationships were forbidden, but how could they resist? They both felt it. She'd see him at functions where mixing was acceptable, but the Law forbade touching, unless it was required to prevent injury or death.
He had a plan, though. There was no way to tell a Synth from a Human; the tattoo on a Synth's hand was the only way. He said he knew someone who could remove her tattoo. For a price, of course. With that, and forged documents, they could leave the country, and head to a country that did not outlaw their relationship.
It was not her fault that her parents were scientists in a lab, and she'd started life in a dish. She was as human as anyone else. If she could escape to Europe, she could live freely, and marry him. It was their shared dream. But first, they had to save up the money. And stay undiscovered, of course.
The need for secrecy was stressful, but almost two years of this, she was something of an expert at it. At teh beginning, she'd made mistakes, but had been fortunate that those she was speaking with hadn't noticed. He was just as stressed, but thought they should have enough money in another six months.
Until then, she would keep her head down, and the facade up.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "lost". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Lost- Squiddy Geiger - May 04, 2012
"Dammit!" she thought, as she rummaged through the apartment, searching. It had to be here somewhere, but where? She searched each room quickly, one after the other, in desperation, but did not find it.
She wasn't prepared to go without. People would notice. They always did, when someone lost it. Misplaced it, she corrected herself. She hadn't lost it, it was here, somewhere, and she would find it. She had to find it, there was no alternative.
Well, there was an alternative, of course. She could _not_ find it, and go through the rest of her life without it, taunted and teased, and snickered at behind her back. Her uncle had lost his, and never recovered from the loss. It had haunted him, and she did not want to end up like him. She couldn't face that, so she redoubled her efforts.
It wasn't in the house, so she ran to the garage to check there, realizing at the last moment that this house didn't have a garage. Heavens, it was happening already! She could feel it. She tried the garden shed instead. Thankfully, that was a real part of this property. Five minutes later, empty handed, she sighed.
It was time for work, and she wouldn't help anything by missing work, no matter how much she might feel like it right now. Depression was starting to displace her fear. She found her purse and keys, and went out front to the car. As she was about to start it, she heard a noise from the glove compartment, and opened it; she yelped happily as she caught her mind, and quickly restored it to its proper place.
Life was good, after all.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "flame". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Flame- Squiddy Geiger - May 02, 2012
"The difference is, I'm also lazy." There was silence as after his declaration. He looked around.
"That's not exactly a revelation, Ted," Alana laughed. "We've known you a long time. And lazy isn't the right word. Selectively lazy, perhaps? When you like something and are interested, you'll go until you collapse."
Ted laughed and winked, "you should know, dear." Alana smiled, and the other two at the table also laughed. They finished their coffees and said goodnight, one couple taking their car, the other walking home.
Alana tested Ted as they walked. "You know what Saturday is, don't you?"
"Of course I do, it's the day after tomorrow," he replied, then laughed as she frowned at him. "And it's the fifteenth anniversary of our first date. Do you really think I'd forget that? Not a chance. Fifteen years, and I let six of them get away from me. How stupid was I?"
"Do you want me to answer that?" she asked him, laughing. She snuggled close as they walked.
"Well," he allowed, "I did let you get away for awhile, but I came to my senses and tracked you down." He shook his head. "and for nine years, you have been the single most important being in my universe." He made a face. "Uhhh, too sappy? Let me try again."
"No!" she commanded, laughing. "I like it when you get sappy. When Sally announced that my old flame was in town, and looking for me, I never thought we'd end up together. I was still mad at you."
"But I grew on you!"
"Yes," she laughed. "Doc McWilliams says he has something for that, though. So behave, or..."
"Yes, dear," he said as he kissed her. "I'm your old flame, your new flame, your forever flame." He smiled. "And don't you forget it..."
Bravo!
Posted by G at May 26, 2012 10:58 AM