one word : exploding expressions of instant impressions
i asked some pals for a single word to launch fun phrases. i glanced at the surprise vocabulary and wrote little lift-offs. the first word comes courtesy of my elevated pal Farmer Dave and it is…
the dust storm swirled in from outside. across the window pane twirled a tiny tornado through the brass of the birdcage. migrant particles landed lightly on the oily nose of Brigadier General Herbert Belvedere and stuck. Itch itch itch in the afternoon glow. Itch itch itch right by his nose. Itch itch itch between his magnificent mustache and his bellowing nostrils. Achoooo! Particles exploded and danced through the cosmos of Kansas City air. One sneeze surfing bit swiftly cruised over the General’s unlit table lamp, under the tusks of a wild boar’s bust, past a pickle perched atop rye crust, behind a velvet smoking jacket, through a bent brass hoop of unknown origin, cleverly zig-zagging around a black marble rook, and settling onto the very last word Belvedere was ever to add to his memoirs. Oh he intended to write more but the well was dry. His greatest tales had been told time and time again and his pen could never quite muster up the courage to match his adventurous tongue. Nevertheless he had written a thick volume on the various here and there and who and what of his once upon a times. The small speck of sand smiled at its fortune of lighting upon such adventures and began to wander.
Herbert Belvedere was a young man and far from becoming a mister much less a Brigadier General when he arrived in the jungle. His cheeks were rosy with humidity and humility. The world lay open before him not unlike the jaws of the crocodile which non-metaphorically lay before him at the present. Its jagged rows of teeth gleamed like a runway to death. Mosquitoes necked with our young protagonist but he paid no heed. All of his might was locked in a brave gaze into the yellow eyes of the reptilian fiend. This very croc had visited the camp every night and made off with one or two members of the expedition. Luckily the expeditionary party only consisted of Herbert and a small family of ducks he had befriended some months ago in Peru. He had brought them along on this adventure because he loved the way they quacked him up. Now as he stared daggers into the killer’s eyes he was determined to avenge the unjust deaths of his feathered friends. The leathery croc was still as stone which was scarier to Herbert than if it had been snapping swimming or slithering. Beaded chains of sweat ran down his smooth forehead as he slowly brought a metal hook from behind his back. On its glistening tip dangled a crimson dripping hunk of raw meat. The slightest twinkle of excitement danced across the crocodile’s skin and in the very next instant its full force was upon the flesh. Herbert twisted the hook skyward and pierced the peanut brain of this prehistoric punk. Later that night he roasted up the crocodile’s full head with the bait half chewed inside. He added jungle peppers, tropical tomatoes, swamp cabbage, wrapped it all in special flatbread he bought in Tootwotoblurba and toasted the memories of his fallen mallard pals. Thus was born the modern Chalupa. No wonder a wonder thought our little dusty friends as it was once again swept of by the wind on its own adventure.