Camping by a roaring fire with my wife in the Islands, I take a swim from my wife's launch pad of a dock and belly flop into the water.
Overcome with fear in the ensuing twilight at my possible demise, I reach up to my wife's arm and pull her off of the dock while she shrieks naked in mid air to the below waters.
A jelly fish stings and clings to her face as she emerges from the shallow depths of the dock. My wife cannot breathe with a jelly fish on her face, thus, emitting no vocalization.
She flails.
I clamber onto the dock from the shallow depths and run to call 9-11 at a pay phone after trying and failing to drag her limping and convulsing body onto the dock with a jelly fish firmly tentacled on her facial orifices.
"9-11."
"Yes? Hello? 9-11?"
"Yes. This Chinese 9-11 hot restauwant."
"Chinese restaurant!?"
"Yes. What you like to owdah!?"
"No likie order nothing. I go now."
With no luck calling 9-11, I hustle back to the dock where I had left my wife and discover her to be missing in the waist deep water off of the dock.
A plump jellyfish squishes nearby standing with tentacles on the dock. I kneel down next to the jellyfish on the dock sickened as it beckons me, or so it seems, with squishes and slurp sounds.
I kiss the jellyfish.
Suddenly, a shimmering devil in a blue dress appears where the jellyfish stood on the dock and a candle lit table is set without effort.
Out of the ether, I am standing on the dock dressed in a white, satin, summer suit with white, square toe shoes accompanied by a shimmering devil in a blue dress and spiked heels.
My devil and I sit and dine until midnight, which is when I shape shift into a tadpole and my devil in a blue dress shape shifts into Carey Grant or Humphrey Bogart: I can't tell which one as a tadpole!
Then: John Holmes walks down the hard, wooden planks of the dock, wisps Carey Grant or Humphrey Bogart of my betrothed shape shifted on the dock into his arms and carries it to shore, off of the dock and away to a boat house up a grassy incline.
So: I am writing this posthumously as a once lived tadpole, eaten by a grouper while I waft in the vapors and vortex that is thought of outer space and beyond without trace, like an erased chalk board.
Overcome with fear in the ensuing twilight at my possible demise, I reach up to my wife's arm and pull her off of the dock while she shrieks naked in mid air to the below waters.
A jelly fish stings and clings to her face as she emerges from the shallow depths of the dock. My wife cannot breathe with a jelly fish on her face, thus, emitting no vocalization.
She flails.
I clamber onto the dock from the shallow depths and run to call 9-11 at a pay phone after trying and failing to drag her limping and convulsing body onto the dock with a jelly fish firmly tentacled on her facial orifices.
"9-11."
"Yes? Hello? 9-11?"
"Yes. This Chinese 9-11 hot restauwant."
"Chinese restaurant!?"
"Yes. What you like to owdah!?"
"No likie order nothing. I go now."
With no luck calling 9-11, I hustle back to the dock where I had left my wife and discover her to be missing in the waist deep water off of the dock.
A plump jellyfish squishes nearby standing with tentacles on the dock. I kneel down next to the jellyfish on the dock sickened as it beckons me, or so it seems, with squishes and slurp sounds.
I kiss the jellyfish.
Suddenly, a shimmering devil in a blue dress appears where the jellyfish stood on the dock and a candle lit table is set without effort.
Out of the ether, I am standing on the dock dressed in a white, satin, summer suit with white, square toe shoes accompanied by a shimmering devil in a blue dress and spiked heels.
My devil and I sit and dine until midnight, which is when I shape shift into a tadpole and my devil in a blue dress shape shifts into Carey Grant or Humphrey Bogart: I can't tell which one as a tadpole!
Then: John Holmes walks down the hard, wooden planks of the dock, wisps Carey Grant or Humphrey Bogart of my betrothed shape shifted on the dock into his arms and carries it to shore, off of the dock and away to a boat house up a grassy incline.
So: I am writing this posthumously as a once lived tadpole, eaten by a grouper while I waft in the vapors and vortex that is thought of outer space and beyond without trace, like an erased chalk board.
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