Empty

I awoke to a swirling head, stuffed full of ideas. Like seagulls on the shore, eyeballing your fish and chips. Or little lambs in fields, tired of hearing mint sauce,spoken from scarecrow jesters.

My ghost is on fire! 

Not sure the boss will let you leave at lunchtime on Friday for that.

Mrs. Parnell would hop, skip, and jump before she misjudged and went over the edge. Rabbits used to cross the local lane and stare into headlights to simply tap dance. One performance only.Move along now.

Monsters and ghouls were always leaving their caribou outside our house.I would have said four by four's. But the caribou sounded better. The road, of course,is permanently on call for repairs, and the whirling lights at midnight make me fume from lack of sleep,due to their brightness.

I'm sure Mr. Dimple wasn't dead, but who would play head detective, as he'd legged it over the fence with his television to avoid the BBC ten years ago? He was proud of his heritage, I seem to remember, and had frequently trod the way by rugby tackling a foe or even a verbal 

missile.