Week Five - Free Write

I have no idea where any of this came from. I feel like if I look back at this years from now, I'll suddenly have some sort of twisted epiphany about my current mental state.

Because she looks so good in her crumbled bag yee-haw boots, because her mud-dyed (like the cracks in the tin spitcan) trousers look right, because of the soft lullaby of her vowels--I spot-clean my sneakers, tug at skirts, and crinkle at all of my teeth-clacking, glaring consonants. You held hands like thumb-wrestling, more like hayrides, more like deer carving, like snapping on the camouflage vest.

The tricked flock of pumpkin villages lorded over a fluorescent lamp shaped like a bass arched in heat. The fish nosed flannel couch bags, rasped for water in the dehumidified air. When doors slammed, he cracked, he fawned, he pulsed. Scraps of screamed threats domed around his porcelain ears. The village of pumpkined people--Oompa Loompa green, Grinch orange--treated themselves to playing tricks on adults, kicked the bass, carved themselves with his shards. When they howled, the bass relaxed, with one clipped piece still twisted into dramatized sex.