Inkwell: Authors and Artists

    
runion-fish; if anyone knew where you go, they'd be all o-
  

    
ver the tide-tables, figure out why Reagan only bombed on the full
moon, th-
  

    
warting the blue-cloaked bandits. Pippi shouted, "Have some mo-
  

    
cha, have some tea; drink absinthe, it's all on m-
  

    
y floor. Can't you guys hold onto anything?" From behind the coun-
  

    
try-music bin, a shopper hollered, "Someone spilled a milkshake all o-
  

    
ver my broken heart," in time with the mu-
  

    
st-see TV jingle playing on a small black-and-white portable on the cou-
  

    
ntry-western aisle.  "Back to you, Stan," the commentator smirked, e-
  

    
vanescing into a rosy-golden cloud.  The camera operator, shrugging, per-
  

    
sueded a customer to take the commentator's place.  "Never was a
Stan," she whispered i-
  

    
ntimately. Her voice carressed the mic now, singing low. 
"Always was a cornflake girl."
The camera operator thought, "Ah, well, it's not like I'm getting paid
jack for this job anyway" and let the tape r-
  

    
un out the window, into the stand of bamboo behind the building, c-
  

    
hoking several endangered birds and upr-
  

    
oar ensued.  Mamasan came charging into the store, y-
  

    
odeled a few bars of "Let It Be", and promptly unplugged the dis-
  

    
tinctive neon light fixtures, plunging the room into darkness.  Gri-
  

    
nchly Fleawagon said distinctly, "Oh, my stars and gar-
  

    
ish gegaws!  What's become of the baby?  Please, Mr. Postman, p-"
  

    
retend you're my baby and climb into the stroller, put on this bon-
  

    
fire, yes, the one on my vanity, over there", but then they were
plunged into da-
  

    
rkness deeper than the darkness before, as his voice trailed off, and
o-
  

    
ver the river and through the woods, even at Grandma's House, he could
no longer be he-
  

    
sitant.  The wolf was at the door, seeing no evil, and o-
  

    
mnivorous as he was, there was no doubt he'd be de-