This was an attempt at a story that ''feels'' nice to read without being too, too Dr. Suess-esque.
A greater, more discerning, effort at this sort of thing will be made in the future. For now, it's very late and any semblance of shrewdness has long worn thin.
Mussels in the sand – with out tear glands, their laughable faces are fodder for my pitiless tabasco slurping. Burping, I pry open another, rend it asunder, fork out it's innards and eat it for supper.
Dinner was divine, complete with kelp steamed corn -- like an old fashioned clam bake, if clam stood for mussel.
''Shuck me another and pour me a shot!''
My fill has been had but as a glutton I'm not satisfied until it hurts.
With distended stomach, I stroll through the surf, washing my feet where the ocean meets earth.
''Life is surely the most potent poison,'' I slurred, lifting my flask and taking a quaff.
The ocean agreed, but my brain simply scoffed.
That kinda drops off at the end. You should never publish unfinished work. I think a lot of this is unfinished. Slow down. Don't rush.
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