Collage

I liked this exercise.  My mind went places I wasn't expecting it to-though I wish I'd been more prolific...

The smell of sizing was making me nauseous.  The clothes were piled high, bright skirts, skinny jeans, dresses with too many hooks; my arms shook as I struggled to see the correct departments to dump them off.  Wasn't it break time? I was suddenly conscious of my under arms.  The sale was in full swing now, and the customers or "clients" depending on department, were scampering from rack to rack like rats in a cheese maze.  There was one top that I coveted-a soft orange blouse, low cut with small, knotted brushed gold buttons.  Last I checked there were two in my size, but employees weren't allowed to put anything on hold.  As I went by, searching for the object of my desire, I saw a swarm of women near the blouse rounder.  It had been picked clean.

She looked out the window, trying to focus on something that wasn't morphing like Gumby on acid.  She needed to be near a tree, or a fire hydrant-a mailbox, anything solid and static.  The complete opposite way she was feeling.  Joe offered his hand-it was too hot and clammy-which made it worse.  Monica thought of the fresh scent of Jasmine, of cool, pristine waters in the South Pacific, and of root beer popsicle.  She could eat close to five in a single sitting.  The car took a sudden right hand turn and knocked Monica into the hot window.  It seared her cheek like a piece of Ahi tuna.  Strands of brown hair stuck to her lip gloss.  Ahi tuna.  Rotting fish that beetles and worms slipped through and ate ravenously before voiding their little bug bowels.  That was the image she needed.  "I'm sorry," she squeaked and threw up all over Joe's lap and shoes.

"Ha!"  He says to himself.  "The finally caught the son of a bitch."  Chelsea would be relieved.  Not that he didn't like walking her to her dorm-that was the gentlemanly thing to do, but sometimes, after many beers and a couple of go's with Chelsea, her pink breasts bouncing wildly on the top bunk bed, he was pretty beat.  Randy turns up the TV.  The reporter says that not only did they catch the purse snatcher, but they actually found his stash.  Then the reporter, who is pretty hot, starts to snicker, her tight blue suit coat creeping up toward her small, perky breasts.  She says that this guy, Elmer Shrader, has particular taste in fashion.  He only stole purses of the highest quality, the trendiest colors, the best shapes, the finest leathers.  "Apparently Mr. Shrader likes to wear them," the reporter, Maria Valez says.  "He's matches them up with all his dresses and high heel shoes."