Anyway, since the mangoes take too long to fall on their own, the game was to use projectiles to gently encourage them to come down. These weren't projectiles like those that used to fill the night sky when there was fighting in the streets, as my family lied huddled together in the middle of the house in the hopes of avoiding a stray bullet. No, our projectiles were actually simple rocks. They were a lot cheaper than bullets.
I had originally written seven epic blog posts filled with intriguing detail, mystery, suspense, and imaginative, engaging story arcs relating my experience with this movie but I decided to condense them a tiny little bit.
At first I had no idea what the cartoon rage was about. Were all these certainly sophisticated citizens of the 21st century worried that Ms Whittaker would play the part poorly, based on a sound, rational analysis of her previous screen work? Were they time-travelling critics of children's television shows come back to warn us that her performance in the season premiere will be the catalyst for global annihilation? Were their thumbs too big for their tiny iPhones?
So where have I been? After Emma and the Minotaur and it's resounding success (my mother bought like 2 copies and my dog chewed on a proof a little. He didn't like the taste very much. "I'd rather eat broccoli" were his exact barks. He does like broccoli though so I don't know what he meant. But I totally understand. Broccoli is delicious). So, after Emma the first one, I took a moment to enjoy its success (2 copies and a chewed up proof), I got to writing the promised sequel. It says so at the back of the first book: Coming soon: Emma and the Prince of Shadows. "Soon" has sort of come and gone.
They have done it. The little birds have taken flight out of here. The nest is empty, though not nearly as empty as my heart, since there are still bits of feathers, feces, and trash in there. In the nest, I mean. There are no feathers or feces in my heart, as far as I know. I asked my doctor and he just looked at me in disgust and scribbled in his notepad. I took a peek at his scribblings: "please go skills me Wht won't he stop om here eying." I'll have to google all that medical jargon.
There is an old yellow bench behind work. It's where people go out to smoke. There is also a tree out there who's always sitting on the bench. I'm not sure exactly how trees (or birds, for that matter) actually work but I think that's the general idea behind what it's doing. See, the bench was there first, up against the building's back wall, and then the tree decided to grow under it from a crack in the ground. Then it grew up through it and around it and then over it. So, really, the tree is sitting on it.
This is a snippet of the story I'm currently working on. It's a small little bit I like. The setting is my (wildly inaccurate) version of Villaviciencio, Colombia, a town where all human things are very, very quiet for some mysterious reason. They are talking about my own (wildly inaccurate probably) version of New York City, United States of America. a town where all human things aren't very, very quiet, for not mysterious reasons.