There was definitely a knock on the door. Frank had seen the framed motivational poster, a beautiful photograph of an erupting volcano (with words to ruin it), rattle. Like rabid squirrels his eyes darted between the door and the drinks cabinet.

he pleaded...he begged for me to take him back. Give us one last chance. He said that he didn't want to die but if I didn't marry him and commit immediately, he would. I said I couldn't think about a relationship with him or anyone right now....but that I would always love him. When I said goodnight., he said goodbye.....

I should have known better.

Frank looked up when he thought he’d heard a knock at the door; Marcia usually brought his lunch at one O’clock sharp. Well, she used before he decided to break things off; before Emma had caught them in a peculiar position with the tent flap open on a breezy October afternoon not more than ten minutes’ drive from the family cabin where they were supposed to celebrate Zelda’s birthday.

The first thing that strikes me is... 'create content'. i ask myself why. Aghimm! (Hippo clears throat) And the reason *sniff*, the reason... wait for it... wait for it... the REASON, is because there's no one else in the room.
Which room?
Who said that?
What were you talking about?
MYSELF. I was saying that I was talking to myself because there was no one else in the room... you follow?

The can of Zippo fluid was half-full, or half-empty, as Frank was beginning to sum up the situation. He reached for the letter opener and fingered the engraving on the blade. The words made him cringe: Emma and Frank forever, written in an elaborate and illegible font.

Frank leaned forward and picked up the folder his lawyer, a sleazy man in a sleazy (brown) suit, had dropped on his desk five minutes before lunch. The wheels on Frank’s office chair squeaked as he sat back, the soft leather backrest letting out a sigh. Frank didn’t feel hungry anymore.

It’s a strange feeling when my body rebels and goes off on its own goddam walkabout leaving me behind.

Vendors’ voices faded with the sights and smells of Platform nine;
skewered meat turned blood red,
and sucked the smoke back into the charcoal fires,
which hissed themselves to death
in the comfort of homemade oil drum barbeque coffins.

The skyline sprinted over corrugated iron covering;
a healthy orange afternoon glow
slurped up dusk’s scars and violent violet bruises.

A secret compartment on the inside of his inside lab coat pocket
screamed Velcro!, and swallowed all evidence;
he relaxed a little, and, drooling on his sleeve,
ripped open the third Ziploc.

Ooh! I like it a lot!

A pungent smell of familiarity filled his nostrils and made his eyes water;
two cotton balls floated out of the bag,
for the flash-o’-high numbed his finger tips,

Standing by the window, Polaroid in hand,
he stared out at the hubcap rolling in the sand;
now the screen door, she was whistelin’ a sad and lonely tune,
and the bastard dogs, they were barkin’ at the moon.

Midnight roared and the sky came apart at the seams.
He looked up and saw where Jesus hides his dreams;
they were glitterin' gold, and blinkin' purple-pink—

So apparently things are going to change around here on 21 December 2012. I know! I must be the last one to find out about this stuff. Again.

The bottle of scotch looked tiny on the coffee table;
he squinted, closed his right eye,
and ‘moved’ it into the O of the SONY flat screen.

Perfect.

A frown formed between his eyes like a battle scar;
he couldn’t stand the sound of his wellies
making that … irritating noise over the marble floors.

I don’t like it one bit.

The smell of blood floated into the sky as the burning flames of apocalypse approached he grinned throwing flaming blasts the size of small continents in the ether This is the end time it has to be right this is why I have awoken To destroy all of creation .

I'm squinting at an Excel spreadsheet right now, deciding how to work a massage into my life. It's a lot of fun. See, first I say, "Which do I want more? A massage or..." and then I fill in the blank with the list of alternative items I have come up with:

I’m a sucker for dog treats. The more disgusting I think they are, the more delectable my dogs find them. Smoked pig’s ears are a firm favourite. They are often difficult to find, especially in Muslim-owned pet shops. This week they’ve been ousted by something even more revolting: smoked pig’s trotters, also known as walkaways.

Cracks in the floor planks opened under their weight,
and in the river below Luna did her lone dance;
her hair rose up through the mahogany like cigar smoke,
and tickled the two lovers’ feet,
who, giggling like champagne bubbles,
celebrated their love (and good health)
by clinking their crystal glasses,
which became invisible
against the backdrop of City’s morning breath.

So Red and I have a "Biggest Loser Challenge" running at home. After our splurge with Clare over the holidays and moving house, we have been living on take-out for weeks and have the waistlines to prove it.

I've been cruising onelongminute for a while now, and as much as I want to write something decent I wonder what the point is. I wonder what onelongminute really is. There is a fierce sense of identity that outsiders find impossible to penetrate and a collective attitude of us vs. them where the them have to become the us before full participation is possible.

Maybe its just the human condition, and OLM manifests as a microcosm of society as it would be if in real life we were all able to strip off our persona and expose our real ego to the world.

Whatever the reason, I think its time for a blog about bloggers again. So, this is what I think of you all now having come to know you a little:

But I decided not to because nobody wants to hear about

At the crack of dawn the rusted screen door hinges squealed;
he placed his hands on the push handles,
and shifted his weight forward.

Front wheels, up!

The bare rear-wheel rims scarred the mahogany threshold,
and the seat cushion squeaked a little louder
under her almost-dead weight.

Cusco! Fuckoff!

Like every other morning for the last thirteen years