Droner MrDermy's flash-bandit Army, a reprinted exercise

[Hoshiko]

Combustible engine with waffle-iron parts and a transmittable gravy-train soul. Buying yards of ketchup cloth and zen garden tire space? No, this is easy baked plastic with worms cut out of the mold and multiple piped-icing levels.

Dregs of a floof-haired candy-stuck gentleman with a walking cane and slight rasp to his eye in the tiled walkway of a gym, dressed to the nines in suit and cap made to look like puff the magic dragon by a wee one. American processed but austrian-born, this person was catching slightly on hinges and walking in a manner that upset the changing room persons of stature, none of them slippery on the tiles but falling internally nevertheless. Only one good eye, lost in drywall.

Forsooth and to-go, he steadily creeps and crepes the way daintily, stepping on every third tile and no more, no less down the corridor until he reaches the diamonded and mildewed wall that signifies a very special encounter of the turning kind. Undeterred is his way, his peeping eye and shaking hand knows to guide his face to tilt and glance down the side mute and quiet, drumming scottish war ditties on his soul. A second twirl, back straight heels clicking and cane akimbo as he again makes his slow way down the gradual descent ramp, mouth quivering slightly now, hair floofing quickly now, whole self propelled by the scent of rubber cap spandex nylon and bare feet. A splish, splash, one last turn faster as the shoes scuffle hard against the grit and chemicals, and he reaches the space, dilation and light! sound! purpose finally. Running now, slipping like eggs on toast, and finding the purchase of his purpose on the sandy ledge of the 8 foot mark, head over heels over hair into the waiting arms of the 2:30 aerobic group mid mule kick. Taking 2 at a time, mouth open for chemical hydrating inhalation,  now rolling over the platinum bewetted hair of the cadre and planting his cane in and through a Ms. Betty Dafoe with a resound smack and smart. Having vanquished Ms. Dafoe to the 6 foot section infirm and agape, she of the bright red peonies, she of the cat that yowled, she of 18 woodland lane, a small bent walk and a street crossing away every day at precisely 2:19 pm for Droner, who picked and mutilated her petunias without compunction while she watered and primped them for the picking, having done so he turns his head and hurls one small wink her way with the left as hers widen and run black mascara grooves.

Droner then, mid-air and grinning, teeth hitting water with a slap and peeling back his lower lip at angle as he heads downwards and filter-bound, turning like a small child diver. Far past frantic squat legs and pink pig toes he glances up, drifting slow motion circles. His smile and air bubble fade simultaneously towards his destination as his sodden coat sucks flat into the drain at long last.

                                                                       

***



I want to write more like this later. It's kinda freeing.

[Iranon]

Impressive. I don't think I could keep that up. 00;;

Reading it was like trying to look around corners without actually stepping past them.

[Hoshiko]

Yeah, I don't recommend actually reading it  

[Irreverend Hugh, KSC]

Yeah, I don't recommend actually reading it  

Oh my gods!

But I DID read it!

What's going to happen to me now?

[Shibboleet The Annihilator]

Swote, I kinda want to try this sometime now...

[East Coast Hustle]

Joyce-ish.

and that's a compliment.

[Bella]

Wonderful.

You write the way your mother speaks.  

[Hoshiko]

Wonderful.

You write the way your mother speaks.  

That's causation right there