Bumbling
“Don’t be such a sourpuss,” he said before taking her with the enthusiasm of a eunuch as the morning sky pissed down in thunderous torrents. She

Rumbling
He had no idea why his wife accused him of being a ghoul. The word had shocked him into that silent place he always journeyed to whenever his wife stomped across the floor in her fluffy slippers offering yet another serving of verbal assault.

Crumbling
She was a spectator in a beauty shop window; pressing her dreams, face and belly against the coolness of frail glass amid the congestion of the city. She admired the marble counters covered with boxes of hair colors, curling irons and other cosmetology items that stood in accordio

Humbling
She was running. Her feet thumped the pavement like worries. She ran though no one was in pursuit. An echo from some past dream had awakened an urgency that dragged her from the subterranean reaches

Fumbling
She hung onto him in silence. A leftover fragment of yesterday’s hangover, last night’s nightmare and the glare of the morning sun. At least that’s what he told himself whenever she’d come and flood everything out of his mind, but sorrow.