Frank Flâneur leaned on his walking stick just outside the saloon. Some might say he was lollygagging, but to the trained eye he was clearly dilly dallying. The few damp crumpled bills in his vest pocket would not get him through the night so a new enterprise was clearly needed in the quest for the elusive spondulix.
As luck would have it she just happened to be hustling her bustle down the boulevard at this precise moment. Standard Moxie was tightly contained in her serious whalebone corset which caused her bosoms to well up over her marginally proper neckline. Frank was captured by the approaching silhouette, enticed by the sideshow cameo, and ensnared into the jetstream of her bustle as it bounced and bobbled down the planked sidewalk.
Standard’s hourglass figure put many exertions into this confirmed flâneur’s beady brain. Exertions that he hoped would extract enough shekels and sumptuous diversions to pass this day and perhaps trail into a weekend of surreptitious and languid luxuries. Standard Moxie’s brief over the shoulder glance upon her stiff passage was all the encouragement this feral cur required. He twirled his waxed mustache, smoothed his gabardine trousers, checked his reflection in the tavern window, and gave himself a wink.
I have completed over a year of churn. It made my stomach churn as the world completed it’s turn. It made my brain churn with every twisted convolution earned. Nausea followed by irrational elation. Revealing many a revelation, redundant and redux, as prose does it’s full tilt churn. I have been spurned. Many a time burned. By the sun. By the moon. By the systematic system I so often have spurned. It churned up emotions long forgotten. It churned down to my low down roots gone rotten. Still I churn. Would have had it no other way. I now know that a good stiff churn has the potential of producing some of life’s sweetest, creamiest, savory butter. I think I will spend the next year’s churn spreading it where desired. “The thicker the better,” to no one in particular I mutter. So keep the faith. So keep on churning. While others proclaim they can’t believe it’s not butter. Parkay, I say, Parkay Olé.