|Prompt ▼ |
Written for "The Whatever Contest -- Closed for Now"
Yesterfolk I went to the sculpture garden to meet my baker, and the magpies were noisy as all get-out, yet unadulterated and affordable. The bridge didn't lock until morning, much too late for a lass as old as I to stay up, and all alone? So I came down the ladder to Jacob, who informed me that my form was sloppy and gave me a 6.8 out of 9.3. Diametrics were never my thing, so I benefited a dibble from his advice to nit-pick at my sweater and worry at the greenery from the groceries strewn about the garden track.
"Why fretting you care always anymore, and nevermore before?" asked my baker, hiding afloat a bowl of onion soup. It smelled of lilies of the valley instead of being laminated in layer upon layer of parfait, which I quite dislike to say the least, and to say the most would be so unlike me, since no one is more like me than my own baker would like me. Why not to choose me to knead his soup at the sculpture garden in the face of every bust, nook, and nanny?
The billy goat, though, he answered my baker for me. "I have no fretting, nor sticks or strings, or even holes to blow out candles with." Billy's known for knowing evermore always about stocks and bonding and e-proxy voting, but I'm sullenly wondering at the gardener mowing and wily magpies lowing as they peck away at the wooden spoon subtly becoming a pike.
Until their wings start singing down in the air, or in too deeply the numerical ponds, I'll be swinging in a hammock that can smell of fish, and that can lead to your in-laws visiting (and nobody doesn't want that for you). Let's all of us just flip a cod to see who will scale that fish for you. Then my baker and I can leave the flapping garden - after seeing not one sculpture, but nary a one, neither heads nor tails, but all of the above.