Dangling by a participle, the spider renegotiated the sloppy remains of the studded day to the promise and delight of no one.

It was the cleft sentence that finally shook Janet free from her habitual aloofness and brought her crashing down to earth in a crumpled heap of self-loathing and salad dressing–oil and vinegar trumping oil and water every day of the week precisely because blood is thicker than molasses in the throes of deep slumbers. Janet arose and shook off the worst of the consequences of daily striving–for none was worth her strife in gold, as they might have said–and she went directly to the kitchen sink where she found the spider dangling from the modifier she had neglected to clean after last night’s dinner. But what really got her goat was the pseudo-cleft sentence lying in the sunshine, gloating in the radiant solar radiation.

To learn! To live! To fill longing to the brim and forget to turn off the spigot!

CLICK for the origin story of this style.

More about the author, Delving Yardbarker.

Precaluclated endowments of partial consolation consoled the tolerant sojourner across the brittle universe.

Bridges of provisional comfort comforted Joe in his attempt to infiltrate the suspended indignities dignified by the crossing of the one with the other, although he thought there was room for more–or would be if he could squeeze one more situation of habit along the habitual river. Emptied of all fury, the furious cat meowed the anthem of the fragmented republic, though what he would do with it, where he would go with it, only the bankrupt sandwichman understood. Joe took the satchel of understanding and removed the passbook enclosed with foreign fealty and chucked it into the twice-told river of abundant efficiencies. Disenfranchised gout of all nations swelled with pride in unison and brought a choir of patriots to their knees.

Joe took the partial differential of the partial consolation and filled the integral umbrella with Scottish joy.

CLICK for the origin story of this style.

More about the author, Delving Yardbarker.

Innocent daggers leapt at the chance to delve a little deeper into the heart of the matter, bringing an end to the affair on Styles Island.

Gorgeous lands in the middle of the beautiful sea uplift the homesick pigeon with metaphors as it flies in search of lost thyme, the parsley getting old and fit for little more than to decorate the plate glass window on the outskirts of town. Townes van Sant would beg to differ, but Jacket and Rightly were good for little else than a few batters around the seventh-inning stretch, stretched beyond all recognition like a stop-stopped gadget. Would you believe a marble and a rusty penny at the bottom of the toilet bowl? Leaving it there for the benefit of kites and kestrels, the falconer went on his merry way full of good humor and phlegm.

The daggers, on the other hand, lost the phlegm and the innocence of phlegmatic mourning doves. A day too late.

CLICK for the origin story of this style.

More about the author, Delving Yardbarker.

As she pondered why the gate to the storage facility refused to open, Ginger touched the tip of her finger to her nose.

Nosey paradoxes beset the entrance to the kingdom of olive groves and purple mazes. Amazing candles of onyx green emerged salubriously from the very land that Ginger felt she belonged to, only centuries fore and aft. After the wheezing engine coughed up a lug, paradoxes of great pitch and momentum climbed through the wormhole of desire and set up camp where none but the DMV cared whose car you arrived in or whether you will or whether you won’t. Wilted statues of statutes of limitations bound the throng in an angry simmer, but the glimmer of another hope dashed the fever dream of orange and garlic tapestries.

Ginger put the car in drive and drove through the stubborn gate and all the way to the nose of noisy paradise.

CLICK for the origin story of this style.

More about the author, Delving Yardbarker.

Curled cahoots of banded fleas waltzed across the fluted gems of Daisy’s last dance.

Daisy, having no needs of her own–nor crabcakes neither–neither danced nor banded the flickering filberts found at the depths of the unknown. Knotted firs, however, fired up the raucous crowd with anthems of blight and fortuitousness, fortuitous fleas having waltzed too far for Daisy’s granny. Granny dropped her car’s tranny and stood along the highway wondering which number would reach Daisy the fastest, but Daisy had long ago changed her number to dissuade a flea-bitten suitor, so granny had to rely on a passing lumberjack to pull her tranny to the side of the road and give her a lift to the local dancehall where the fleas and fellas and Daisy had more fun than a barrel of whiskey.

Unbeknownst to them, the waltz of the sugar plum fairies wove the dance in cahoots with a spell, and granny and the lumberjack lived happily ever after the lumberjack rebuilt the tranny and the wolf ran away with the spoon.

CLICK for the origin story of this style.

More about the author, Delving Yardbarker.