Scalloped rompers, eyesores for a picnic, and the oozing of the dark stone portend formal wimp flesh cravings.
Wimp meat baked in plaster slabs flakes fibrous like pixelated portraits.
Tube cranked wimp meat liquifies readily, good to squirt through pump chutes to prank fancy towel vendors or witty people in silk suits. Pick on a wimp, teach the wimp milk magic today. Rip the wimp apart.
These people are properly insulated. They hate their jobs but with the fine reactions to their screwtop polo shirts and soaked neckties, paisley quilt weekends are the norm.
Twig arm hugs solidify the geometry of affection. Etched weed runes carry the whispered curses of the designers of our insecurity. Welts rise on the leather.
Truth lies in the etchings of enamel, product of rootless wives and grifting mothers.
A movie made for a goof makes dad happy. His tidepool smile tells the story of our future.
Putting me in your mouth, you squeeze police car lights into the room.
A hard gray flame in the object, which is an imitation of a person's head, makes a cool sound like dried sponges rubbing together fast. It was donated to the school by a Realtor® who owns a local pub.
The pub's funky barkeep bakes a special sort of a soup cake called a Blouse Pump. Selling them at the community farmers market, she makes enough cash to pay stripe licking hunky fellows to tinkle on her sister, a person she despises!
In the cold brick school, future netizens engage in a cruel masquerade. Dramatic brat fights occur daily, and it is only a matter of time until the fake guy's head is damaged. Repair will require not only the proceeds from the sale of hundreds of Blouse Pumps, it will necessitate less contract pissing in the name of revenge.
In view of the bizarre happenings in our world today, we advise tympanic communications sneak messages of mild affection and prudent disdain. In the boat-like dwelling, a heliophilic wise lady who knows a lot about mycelial response to human emotion sneaks her own special spice into the groveling routine of immature craftsmen.
She is the mother of four daughters, who refuse pleasure whenever the opportunity presents itself. Clutching their excised toes to her chest, she sings a pretty lovely tune to herself, and to her unseen watchers.
She has a vivid imagination and will live this way, steeped in unprovoked malice, until the neighbors intervene.
Last night, a family experienced a looping convergence of tick dreams, spiraling iterations emerging from the psychic navel
Mother saw the tick with the gear-marks on its back, beached like a whale on the edge of the estate's central retention pond
Father felt the sucking of the fist-sized tick on his back and felt his skin orgasm and soften, embracing its passenger, providing refuge
Brother sat side-saddle on the herd's tick runt on the ash plains, his eyes protected by name-brand athletic goggles
Sister's hot tick sandwiches provided a free and nutritious lunch to schoolchildren experiencing poverty
Rapid boil ticks in hydrogen peroxide
Out under the yellow horizon, a door leads to the calm. Revolving, sheathed utensils seem to serve as a kind of prize — unwelcome, perhaps, but certainly foreign.
Welcomed thusly, the fear rises in strong jazzy throbs. Supposedly, a key is hidden in the pavement. I fail to find this fact charming. The royalty show no signs of life and I honestly don't know what they are.
Illusory machines exhibit a structure heretofore unobserved, vaguely heretical, intensely aggravating. So no one here knows amusement or follows procedure. But their eyes swell with lust regardless.