Ficlets

I come to and find myself lying prone on the bathroom floor covered in a foul smelling liquid. As I pull myself up by grasping onto the edge of the toilet, I am suddenly struck with the idea that the liquid I was lying in was amniotic fluid. I don’t know how I know this, but I am sure that it is true.

Taking advantage of this rare moment of certain lucidity, I shower, dress then head downstairs to make a martini. I take the steps two at a time in an attempt to avoid the moss covered trees growing from the treads.

After narrowly escaping the clutches of the arms of the grandfather clock in the living room, I finally arrive in the kitchen. I pour one shot of Grape Nehi, 2 shots of Benadryl and 1 shot of simple syrup into a shaker full of ice, put on the lid and shake it to the rhythm of My Sharona. I pour my icy beverage into a juice glass and take it out on the balcony.

I sit on my cardboard Adirondack chair and sip on my martini as I watch airplanes chase the stars.