THE TELEGRAM

PART ZERO-


START.


PART ONE-


Palavers of the insight; qualms with my death.  Destruction of the future “corner” had to be delayed.  My voice; listen to my voice.  The inner-going ons’ of perpetual existence seemed nonchalant. Sealed.  Gliding past the corner; Century removed her apron.  It was blue and navy blue.  Stripped with repel and dignity; the emancipation of the sincere was at a loss.  Long-winded and lacking brevity; words and gestures gave unto.  She had enough of waiting tables.  It was not the wait-ing part, but the tables were uneven.  Rather, when placing a coaster under the uneven leg; the steady-state dynamics kept mob-ility.  Mobility and steady-states kept the customers at ease.  With full bellies and sour astringents; the alcohol would always turn to sugar.  Sugar would turn to alcohol if mobility could be spelled backwards.  A new 9-5; in this day in age was frayed.  Perhaps a new 9-5 would suit the inner-goings.  Century was the loneliness of computer meets vision screen.  The vision screen was 20/40, but the computer was a SERIES I.  Deciding that the apron was fitting for another employee; she left the soul of the navy blue and blue for another tie-r.  The thick stripes of predication was to see her own image on the back of a used carton.  She lit a Picard and let her hair down.  The green hair was natural.  In this world the norm where she lived; everyone had green hair and peach eyes.  Only mutants had brown hair and blue eyes.  Skin tombs were deceptive and could be considered akin to reptilian.  Skin tombs and skin tones were deceptive and could be considered feathery.  Flocking feathers encapsulated how the null sun gestured life.  Her; Century's’ reflection was of immortality.  With the null sun glazing a petite reflection over her shadowy soul; minute revelations would soon pay her a trip to the morgue.  

Century’s hearse pulled up.

Her head spoke to her.  

“Century, this is no joke.”  

“My life just plain sucks.  All they do is yell at me.”