Sweat (an acrostic poem)

 

So much water was pouring out of her body

Watching it rain upon the ground on this sunny day was fascinating

Every piece of her clothing was supersaturated

And she felt like she was swimming in her own juices

That all doubled her feeling of being a badass after that workout

 

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Crispy (an acrostic poem)

Chicken crunched satisfyingly as she chomped down

Relishing the fatty juices playing with her tongue

It made her soul dance with joy

So it surprised her when Bill complained about her chewing

Perhaps he needed to be breaded and deep-fried

Yes, that would make him more palatable

 

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Pastries to the Rescue! (a very short story)

I’m like a broken clock, right twice a day.  Unfortunately, this was not one of them.  How did I know?  The man’s fist changing the direction my chin had been pointing mere moments earlier was my first hint.  Luckily my body is that of a trained warrior.  Well one that had way too much vodka to drink, hadn’t seen combat in the last twelve years and spent half of that time eating fancy buttery French pastries for a living.

At least gravity didn’t fail me.  I collapsed to Mother Earth’s embrace.  I must have offended her as well since her arms were so hard and cold.  I wanted to mourn this decline in our relationship when the aforementioned man decided to kick me in the gut.  That was his big mistake.  I had him right where I wanted him.  I folded myself around that foot and introduced the caught appendage to the regurgitated contents of my lunch, which included an egg sandwich encased in a wonderfully flaky croissant dosed with a lemony hollandaise.  It was so good going down, but not so much coming back the other way.

Still, that was enough to make the man yank his foot out and leave me alone.  As I laid there in my own stomach juices I wondered how this could get worse.  Then I snuffled.

Man, stomach acid and nostrils just don’t mix.

 

 

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