The constancy of blooming flowers in an ever-changing world
#classicmono #bloomscrolling #photography

Corey Booker did his part. Now they rest of us need to get in good trouble too. On April 5 there will be protests happening nationwide.

Take a quick anxiety break. Read some funny short fiction. dalmarsters.substack.com/p/and-tears

Except for those who do, no one writes short fiction like me. Enjoy a quick visit to a tangential timeline.
dalmarsters.substack.com/p/let-me-thr...

Here is some short fiction inspired by a dear educator friend's candid last words fantasy. dalmarsters.substack.com/p/and-tears

Once more shown the golden slow, he’s clothed in holy robes of cream and wine. Secured from under slumber’s snug, a treasure licks and tickles him with luxuries to come. In me, she breathes, find cushions for your tongue. Your corsage of blackberry becomes.

I nodded at the truth of it and offered, “And he’s the one that wipes his ass with his palm.” 8/8

The hostess pointed her vape pen at the bent Wookiee and informed me that “there are two kinds of people in this world: hemorrhoids and pus.” 7/8

“That’s the fuckingist thing I've ever heard,” he told someone invisible. Their silent reply - illuminating. 6/8

“I couldn’t give two slip-on fucks who you are,” I grumbled. “With prejudice, I will kick both your balls up your asshole if you keep at me with that douche chewable breath." He expected more. "You...hospice jockstrap,” I yielded for his negative gratification.

“Let’s all get hard-ons and play podcast!” someone shouted. The gaunt, low-budget Chewbacca staring at me since I arrived finally whispered with visible halitosis, “Am I that guy from Hoobastank or are you just glad to see me?” 4/8

Of all the dystopian parlor rooms I’ve found myself in, this was the first to offer clam sausage entrees. It fit. It fit with all the full-term fur birds discovering new ways to express each other’s glands or whatever that noise was. 3/8

Brandishing the swagger of a sexually active nursing home resident, he confided too loudly in his yeti scab-looking buddy that he would “fuck anything that sticks to me.” 2/8

As soon as he winked at the hostess, I knew he would be sleeping in cold piss tonight. 1/8

He described his level of expertise as unfair. I brown-nosed him to within an inch of his hatehug life. Balancing a performative aplomb, he would confide in me.

“Our lives are a middle school one-act about a dead superhero.”

Yet, alone, we both knew, “If you weren’t my heart, I would beat you.”

A mad scientist movie where all the monsters wear diapers.

Her t-shirt read “Our bodies. Our desserts.” I moved my apron aside. Her eyes found the curly font of my ribcage tattoo: I put the help in cry for help.

Above this temporary CinnaBonzai tent, geese in geometric solidarity honked their sedulous bafflegab.

“Get wormed,” she muttered striding past.