Peter Jay Shippy

I killed or maimed a few dozen flies before I managed to pinch one between my fingers and flick it into an almost empty bottle of Pernod.

After bouncing into the cork a few times my love dove into the dregs, swimming and flapping and voila–a pale, green light.

I finished reading the sport’s page, the second half of Quixote, and some false gossip about my favorite actress.

Finally, between the cucumber and onion, I was ready to sleep. I unbunged my lantern, drank the potion, and slept like an angel floating in gazpacho.