Suddenly, everything was gone.
We had grabbed as many of the tacos as we could—our pockets bulged with salsa and grilled steak—and now we had no idea what to do with them.
Inevitably, the Fire Sauce would be our undoing.
Or perhaps our salvation.
Only the Jello-Owl knows.
It perched high on a branch with an apathetic affect and called into the night, "u jelly."
And I was— I was incredibly jelly.
I'm so lonely, though.
I've found the best remedy for that unnamed, ephemeral loneliness is always found at the conclusion of a KFC Double Down, as I'm balling the dripping wrapper up in my greasy sausage fingers and dropping it "accidentally" in the parking lot as I walk back to my car.
I glance back at the soggy KFC Double Down wrapper, now a wilted white plot on the black asphalt, and smile knowing it would be the last trace of me they would find.
Soon I would be in other towns, other places; Maybe make my way across the country to Church's Chicken, or down south until I hit a Pollo Campero.
The road is calling, and my stomach is answering, and the road is saying what's up, and my stomach is saying she could go for some wings.
How the road and my stomach know how to use a phone I don't know, but now the car keys are calling and I grab them and run out the door.
The preceding was a story you participated in on Monday, October 27 2014. The sentence in bold is yours.
Story prompt by John Holdun. Sentences in this story path were contributed by david yee, zigg, Butt O'Connor, @derekarnold, mark, Casey Kolderup, eden rohatensky, nicolerza, Alissa, Lisa Furioso, John Holdun, and Efren.