Calisthenics, Week 7

 Writing without a constraint (no topic in mind), simply trying to produce a few lines of worth.

Sammy's baby blues, yes those cliche baby blues, are flooded like the Chattahoochee after a musky Southern thunderstorm in late July. Those eyes treading, really floating like a fish bobber, half submerged but not enough to drown in a voluminous mas of liquid thirty milliliters in diameter. Lonely, occupying only six point five milliliters of socket space. Leaves a lot of breathing room. To think. Orbits of this kind tend to offer a little more alone time than necessary. Or so Sammy's unconscious whispers, quietly of course, not wanting to be heard above the chatter and chaotic three-way conversation taking place from the floor above between the knobby-knee'd mate known as Sammy's hustler who rambles dramatically about bases, tight curls, french-tip acrylics, blackest-black stiletto lashes, and shimmering pink lips in his loose, now purple-brown stained Tiger's sweatsuit, spitting more shards of Timberwolf's winter green leaf than actually words. He's usually unheard though, because of shouts coming through cracks of closed teeth inside a curtain drawn smile. Sammy's own petite Susie homemaker, complete with cookbook anthologies, a wardrobe of personalized aprons (each designed the same so as not to confuse), and "mother knows best" hymns lathered in melting butter daily.  He just calls her mostly. However, no matter the space between, no one ignore the mute, crippled peddler with his wonky, muffin top hat. He always has something to say about that day. It seems conscious always butts a nose, throwing in two-cents of mindless blabbler, at the most unfortunate times. Like that cold afternoon in August, and Hell froze over, again. The nineteenth it was. Maybe the twenty-first. No, no, it was definitely two days before or the two right after. Sammy's first shake with an ivory plated hand day it was. Harmless, sure. Lumps of thick carpet sometimes just tend to pack up and migrate north, nestling (on occasion) in the middle of an air duct. Perhaps explaining Sammy's fish bowl cavities. Nothing really threatening, just a small road block along the only highway stretching from north to south. So what to make of such noises in such a desolate place with such heavy ink stippling he asks. The pre-teen testosterone quickly swings his arm like a pin-wheel in a gust of wind, the sign for "steal home". Betty Crocker just leaves a smudge of red on his cheek, and politely reminds him dinner is at seven, not a minute later. Problem solved. If not for that one, the one who's a vocal-chord short of putting words together with sound, and there he sits,  mouthing off fire-flaming proverbial stares.