Ian Darke
Green Jelly
Green jelly rolls down my legs congealing into a little puddle of jam on my ankle bone. Purple grass sprouts from it making a nice golf course. The lawn keeps on growing though. It had permissive parents. It folds over and stands the jam up. The green jam is now suspended from the air like a spider by its green sprouts. Sentience forms in the next moment of improbability and it looks around hungrily for something to feed on. Finding an unsuspecting fool currently involved in an intense effort to convince his girlfriend that she must have been imagning it when she walked on him, fist deep into the neighborhood whore, the jam gnawed on his soul; infecting it with a disease that grows like petroleum jelly on the sun heated hood of a car hood. In future instances the jam would at this point continue; its work being done, but this time was different to the jam. It needed to feed. Instead of waiting for the soul to wither and become carrion, it needed to eat now, it needed to eat the meat fresh. Like the ugly american first trying sushi, it feeds itself with a grimace on its face. "I will make them pay for this indignation." It doesn't stop at mere satisfaction; its survival instinct tells it to gorge and it does. Then it grows strong. It is near. My God, its./d,s