Every oak tree is gnarled.
Sometimes, so are the faces and hands of old, white men with shocks of white hair.
Every gentle wave is lapping upon the shore. Every mountain town is nestled in a valley, every chimney produces curled rings of smoke.
Every politician is slick, every banker is soulless. Journalists are moral and hardworking. Teachers are worn out. Every woman is unsatisfied, every man is flippant. Mothers are worn out too, but fathers are emotionless. Every woman has jet-black tresses, and every day starts with bitter coffee (which might also be scorching) and ends with whiskey. Who drinks whiskey? That old, white man with ice that clinks.
Clinks? Chinks? Tinkles?
In the city, there are cars honking, lights blinking, and many things are incessant—noise, screams, cries. Oh, and blaring lights. Lots of blaring lights that sometimes flicker.
The country has chirping crickets and waving grass. Parched earth abounds, there is lots and lots and lots of dust. The moon is always bathing fountains, statues and white shoulders lucky enough to be right under it. Fog is thick or dense, sometimes both. Thunderstorms rage while thunder cracks. Lightning illuminates—what, I don’t know. The sun shines down, as opposed to up, and clouds really don’t do anything except float by. And occasionally they don’t exist at all.
Waves crash. Cars don’t, unless brakes are slammed or heard to screech first.
Tears roll down cheeks, and faces break into smiles while the eyes always crinkle when they aren’t sparkling or flashing. Hair shines or curls, always curls. People are clad in clothing, never just clothed in it. Necklaces dangle, and bracelets chink. Arms are thick and strong, and eyes meet more than people.
Thoughts race or sometimes pervade while anger boils. Chills run up or down spines, depending on where you live, and ideas aren’t just clear, they are crystal clear.
What is crystal? It’s what you drink your whiskey in. With the ice that clinks.
Things are notably pale, thick, greasy, cold, strong and dry, which they don’t need to be. If it’s a pillow, we know it’s soft. Ditto Coke and cold. Words like eat and run and speak are passed over for gobbled and raced and exclaimed. People can’t just hold, they have to clasp. They can’t cry, they have to sob, and they can’t stop, they have to come to a halt.
I’m not tired, I’m fatigued. I’m not messy, I’m disheveled. I’m not sad, I’m despondent.
Ah, whatever. At least I’m not gasping for breath or not sleeping a wink over the use of clichés. Every writer falls for them, at some time or another.
Every oak tree is gnarled. Especially this one.
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