I plucked letters in the alphabet orchard. Just ripe letters that tasted orange, looked spicy, and smelled of excitement.
I swallowed the letters whole and performed tumbles. When the letters distilled, I opened my mouth and sang, and this is what came out:
Should together at accuse encampment city blank to down Sundays childish had I and hospital if the and been ran the booklets by emptied ferret elsewhere.
The words delicious, dizzying.
Author's Bio: Born and raised in Dublin, Ireland, Ethel Rohan now lives in San Francisco. She received her MFA in fiction from Mills College, CA. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Cantaraville; SUB-LIT; Word Riot; Identity Theory; and mud luscious, among others. Her blog is www.straightfromtheheartinmyhip.blogspot.com