Peter Jay Shippy

July, Blackout

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 voilaĖa pale, green light.

I finished reading the sportís 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.

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