Blink and you'll miss it.
Don't blink though, for at least seven days, and he then appears: The Blinkyman.
Can't stop The Blinkyman, you can try but no one can.
That's what they used to say, at least—but after years and years of constant motion, The Blinkyman was, frankly, exhausted.
And so the moment arrived: he let go of the handrail, unbuckled his belt, and began swimming slow and steady toward nihilism.
In the distance, a boat that just did not matter floated on a bullshit meaningless horizon.
A stranger approached me with a metal detector and asked "are you gonna eat that?"
Before I could answer, a tall, lanky mustachioed man clad in purple overalls ran screaming towards us, chaos burning in his eyes.
He shifted his hand and the curious object inside it from behind his back to above his shoulder; I suspected that the brilliant green shell he threw at us made a hilarious sound brushing past his gnarled mustache, but I could not hear a thing above his pained battle cry.
The preceding was a story you participated in on Thursday, October 30 2014. The sentence in bold is yours.
Sentences in this story path were contributed by Anonymous, Butt O'Connor, eden rohatensky, aparrish, Josh Millard, SS Ghot Z, Alissa, waluigi, and John Holdun.