Two heads worse than one

Sarah and I decide to write a story together, January 30th, 2009. Our ideas (we didn't roll with any of them):

The tiny diamond around your pale freckled neck. Where’d it come from?

Japanese paper lanterns

K, so it’s a story.

About

A man

Who can only ever draw things with his eyes closed, with astounding accuracy, mind you.

He’s also a priest.
Protestant.

In the thirties.

And get this...
Wait it’s the twenties.

He
He falls in love with a cabaret dancer who comes to confess her sins which are numerous and terrible.

His name is Joaquin

He draws pictures of the women and, here’s the catch, he can only draw with his eyes closed.

Something like: He draws her (he’s never seen her) with his eyes closed and it turns out she’s beautiful.
Also, she is a bona fide angel.
Bona fide!

A grandmother, spicy, all out of legs. Sold the last pair. Used to work in hosiery at sears. She floats. And, as it turns out, she’s an angel...

Grandfather-aged man, second ww. Drinks gin, hidden in his left boot, which he keeps by the front door. His boot is more often off then on, his cup as often filled as emptied. Father of a goat, whom he had when he was married to an ogre of a woman.
It was a curse, that’s why he’s got the goat.

Field Coyote

Youth Subcultures in the praries spraypaint their wheat. See: Fruitloops.

Church Organs

Brass, expansiveness and the things that go on at night, keys.

Barnacles.

Pulling things out from under your skin.