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Thursday, March 3, 2011

One Hundred Word Sentence

                The moon does not see such things, pouring in over two soft, blonde heads doting upon each other like primal ancestors, picking at dirt and calluses, remnants of a day outdoors that will always be remembered as being tragic and horrifyingly memorable as a result of the dead pet dog, who will not be forgotten to the two blonde heads, frozen as a vision of running into the street only to be attacked by the harsh blue metal of man’s greatest invention, only to be thrust into a place where fetching the soft, blonde heads’ ball is no longer a possibility.

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