A battle ensued. The individual edible flowers were interconnected with “tendons” that anchored them to the spiky peel and pithy center, and I had to slice and tug and rip and curse to get the flowers out.
“Ten minutes later I rounded a curve and there they were, mounds and mounds of grayish sheep butts and poufy heads, baaing and bleating and trodding and trampling.”
My worst nightmare had just materialized–walking naked onstage in front of a live audience and having to perform some obscure skill–say ventriloquism–in order to save my life.
“No way!” I screamed inside. “No way you’re getting this mature lady on stage with all these experienced tappers, performing in front of a live audience.”
Aunt Lily was portly and white-crowned–the sweetest thing, and she was family, who deserved respect. Time to bring out the whoopee cushion.
I looked at our geriatric audience. Most were in wheelchairs. One woman was snoozing with her mouth open. Another was strangely gurgling.
The woman I’d met just ten minutes earlier smiled, lowered her eyelids, and began to sing–from a place that transcended the human who sat beside me.
About that time I was thinking this is really outlandish. There’s no way someone can make such a specific prediction and have it come true. What’s going on here?
But I did not stop the session.
Soon you have an alien something oozing a toxic goo, crawling and dripping on the walls and shelves.
I reached the sanctum sanctorum. A perfect ball of fluff made from a piece of jeans insulation interwoven with black cat hairs. The hole hollowed out of the center provided a soft and warm place for the architect to sleep.