The Terrible ChewingThere are marks on my finger; I do not recognize them, nor remember how they got there. This is not surprising, or even rare; there are a number of sharp edges in my daily fumblings. The walkways of my home have myriad of things to stumble against. Digging around in the guts of machines usually yields blood. My kitchen is rife with them. On small scales, I live a dangerous life for fingers.
Seen from an alternate angle, they look like bite marks, a little. There is little in my life to cause such things. Would I consider it, I would think that the things that bite could be in no other place than the closet. I speak of the closet we all have, the deep one, the one where things get pushed ever further back, a compression of history of things past in dusty boxes slightly smashed from the terrible weight.
I have a stout flashlight, and a good hat; I shall go hunting.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Commentary accepted at pen@goob.com, although the traps are agressive and the pointy bits simply drip with dark liquour. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.