elanamatic: can't speak
Deep down I am sure everything is copacetic but at the moment all you can smell is the emotional turmoil. The overstuffed pillow digests a sharp right hook. Then another. Soon the space is overcome by a windfall of fists and feathers. Bruised and beaten, the pillow belches out an angry hiss and gives in, defeated.
Brimming with salty fear, the cauldron rumbles, catching my attention just in time. A second later and dinner would be ruined. I lick my plate clean, with the unsatiable haste of an alley cat. When there is nothing left, I make as solemn pinky swear never to go back there again.
