Wendy Gales looked up at the signs randomly placed in the foggy field.

External Pleasure 

 

~About Size~
See Cake
on
The Table
in
Another Narrative

 

Loss Now – Pay Later !

 

 

There are Other Stories to Tell!!

 

Those Who Remember New Stories Emerge 

 

Remember That the Chaos of Small Crucibles Can be Stressful.

 

Wendy had been wandering about searching for the next episode – the last one was posted December 18, 2023. She kept tripping over ephemeral opening paragraphs, that would blink in the eye like a second wearing shoes two sizes too small. Stepping on the similes and meandering through the metaphors, she came upon an Epiphany manifesting on a tree. The Epiphany was enlightening from a tree branch. It was hanging just like The Hanged Man, the twelfth card in The Major Arcana of The Tarot.

 

“Look, look, look to the rainbow. Follow the fellow who follows the dreams.”

 

“That’s easy for you to say, you are familiar with the lyrics from old Broadway musicals.” Wendy shook her head, continuing to mutter about annoying esoteric theatre knowledge, and old arcane musicals being turned into so-so movie musicals, and walked off towards the next scene. Unfortunately for her, the next scene turned on a dime, and was now a penny loafer waiting for a handout before the next shoe dropped like a tired idiom.

 

She was now besides herself in total paradox. With a quick pirouette, she paraphrased through a pataphor, and saw a village rising above the next hill. It landed directly in front of her, with a whine of rueful rhubarb.

 

The rhubarb stalks were tall. In fact, the villagers saw it as a long sword and declared they would not be killed. Shield-wielding men chanted, “Save us!” They drove away in black cars, cancelled religious services, and the former owners of the central library denounced it as a massive coup, in which the police were bribed and encouraged to abuse prisoners. Many guests brought flowers and plants symbolizing death. God spread comfort through woks – the songbirds blessed the blossoms with songs and spiritual anchovies.

 

 

“Is it her, or what?” The townsfolk queried the air, as the dumbbells weightily chimed in pondered ignorance. Their walking photos conveyed a message about their work and actions without even looking at the youthful colourful yo-yos sliding in synchronous, sublime solitude.

“There’s not much dialogue around here.”

The townsfolk nodded off in agreement, as they pointed to the intersection of Interlocution and Indifference. The traffic light blinked silence in an obtuse code of anxious disquiet syllables, as a haiku completes a haibun.

haiku comes to rest
dropping phonemes breaking lines-
shattered metronomes