the color clear

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
“And of course it was at that same moment that the reader of this sentence realized that this sentence was exactly what it was that they were reading.”


Submitted: April 02, 2011

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Submitted: April 02, 2011



She arose weary that morning, funneling through the tulips & stopping by the woods on a sniveling evening---She brandished herself with echoing yogurt---pondering the color clear---she was speaking frankly with the words “tomfoolery” & “caelum”---and though she had never taken a lick of Latin, she knew it now---backwards, forwards, and every which way around.

People stopping by the lemonade stand where she worked asked her where it was that she had found her elemental electrical bubble gum happy taffy. It wouldn’t be too long before it was that they would want more than just the lemonade, and so she backed off in mid-convo, asking the way to the nearest store where she could purchase some sanity---half-priced, hopefully.

Bounding and falling to her left side while watching the sun go down, she stretched out her fingers and tried to draw her silhouette in the air. From the tip of her index flowed the color purple---a vibrant, shivering, pulsating & twitchingly amorous amaranthine, whose last name she wasn’t quite sure of, but she stopped trying to saw off her own leg just above the knee with the binding of the book that she was pretending to read, at that instant.

A small and fuzzy violet duck whose bill was a faint taste of Mandarin Orange Sorbet (dwindling in the stratosphere) stood in front of her, speaking to her without opening its bill. “My name is The Agaric Fly, and my lady---Quack---eh em’, Quack---that is all that you need to know.” And so this personable, hat-wearing, something like 3-foot high little Anatis rang true its promise and only referred to itself in passing, as “- '?????? Fly,” pandering to the mid-bidder, as it was selling ballpoint pens on the side, to fuel its own sliced American cheese habit.

Our nameless heroine, who fought in many a battle blind, opened the eyes that she once could not see with. She reveled in the elements of language of which she spent many a long hour debating on the relevant definitions of terms that none other than her new friend, Mr. Misses Agaric Fly would tell her itself that there was once a lady from Nantucket, who, um’, made the best linguini this side of the Rio Grande.

Stepping up to adjust her slightly marker-stained fuchsia kulats, she moon walked to the loo asking her newfound buddy if it would watch the stand for a bit, while she popped a sweet squat amidst the underlings keeping the potty seats warm in the highway rest stop that they called home.

Miss Mister Fly seemingly buzzed around with the wings it didn’t really possess (at least on these ever-so-boring Sunday afternoons). While trying to tie its own penny loafers with garbage ties and a long sewing needle, of which both it discovered while taking a quick cat nap with Bob Pasternack in that landfill that they both attended on Wednesday afternoons in August for the bi-daily poker game. It was a secret, M. Miss Fly revealed to the “customer.” Because everyone knew that it never snowed in San Francisco on a Monday, if in fact that Monday was spelled “soixante-deux passagers de fantaisie hibiscus.”

“I believe I told you yesteryear, Miss M. Letjeti---it wasn’t a royal flush that I had, which won me the game. It was a pair of non-trivial neon barnstormers which found themselves hippity hopping with our mutual friend, ?????????? ????. That brilliant hand shined at the top of every mountain just this side of the…,” and Mademoiselle Monsieur Wspólny Dom Lata? cut The Agaric Fly off, mid-comment, saying simply that a pair of aces did not beat a royal flush. The two argued back and forth until she that went without sneakers (but instead magenta sandals---almost matching the color of her magnificent kulats) did return.
“While I was peeing & defecating in the office of the president of the united states of america, god spoke to me from my soiled spurting bum and told me a tale,” babbled she. Nervous, anxious, and now out of a job, that meddlesome mushroom tinted fly did pester. “Well? Well, what did our woozy omniscient & definitely a warm & happily huckster have to say?” She looked it right between the seventeen Glær eða blágrænn eðalsteinn augu & spoke with a sullen whisper. “Pssst,” she said to the frustrated fly-duck. “O noso gran cousa no ceo, dixo que eu debería ler máis a guía que veu co meu lector de DVD.” And with that the two of them sat silent as the street lights dimmed.

Flickering in the distance, that pesky man of mirrors jumped and side-to-side skipped, reflecting the replicating orifices of them both. Mocking each other equally, they began to fade in a lustily balance. The tones between them rung out and meshed together a slick & scheming silver. Mommy Mushy Muscaria traced out in the air sweeping & articulating itself through which the meandering membranes found their way like a fallen crystal holiday.

This new passionate feline slid slowly like butter rolling on a lazy Thursday late morning that nobody ever talks about (that is, if they’ve been consummating avec the coital catch in mind). Both the fly and the tripping female delight did ask for its proper ID. MMM stopped quick, swearing by its special Bisquick recipe. “You see,” MMM said while she was revealing her wallet & ID, “I knew Ms. Crocker personally.”

MMM’s ID checked out. And while the now-3 were basking in the broken light of the Detroit street cantonades, they found a new verb to use in the sentence beginning with the statement “And while the now-3 were basking in the broken light of the Detroit street cantonades.”

Outta gum & outta bowling trophies to converse freely about, wondering where all the lemons went, but certainly slurping the last remnants of Lipton, our fantastic female closed her eyes.

And that was that.After all, there wasn’t really much to say about the color clear

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