Once Upon A Shrivel
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Rolling out of bed my one working eye is as plump as a grape. Still limited in vision but ready to take on the day, story ideas flowing, after a stretch, after a bite, ready to start waving that magical wand of creation.
Less than halfway into the tale I can already feel the wrinkle begin, taking a breather to rinse my face, to somewhat rejuvenate with a few swallows of cascading ice water.
By the time I finish my entry for the day the ol’ grape of an eye has wilted to half its size, but there’s still so much to do, so much to see in order to do.
Hit the showers to try and add more life to it, then another meal to get Popeye’d up before another few rounds in front of that screen, this time to earn enough bread-and-butter to keep on the lights, to keep up the roof, to make ends meet by educating some developing minds from the Far East while dreaming of the day when this part of my day will be no more, my dream job being my day job of full-time storyteller.
By the time the last student is set off to contemplate the ol’ Cyclops has reached raisin status as I feel it just barely hanging on to the vine, trying to persuade it to go on just a little bit more, long enough for me to post my daily passion to my life’s work of The Flash Fiction Ponder.
It is now when I have no choice but to retire for the day, that priceless ball of sight mummified and thus giving me no choice but to wrap in blankets as well, grateful for having enough vision to continue to produce for you, hopeful that such functionality will remain until my dying day.
And with this I bring the lid over the ol’ raisin, drifting off with a smile at the thought of starting off tomorrow anew, as plump as a grape.