The grump flowed across the page with a sour sigh. Issues and elements and people mixed up in a gelatinous mass. Brown with hints of green problems, still not properly digested. It all came out, across the page and over the edge of the table where it dripped to the once pretty pink carpet. The acid mantle of the grump started to hiss and dissolve the flower patterns, leaving blackened trails of steaming carpet grump to ruin the pristine greeting room.
The hostess did her best, it must be said, but no amount of gentility and training could prepare one for a full-on torrent of grump throughout your front room. “Excuse me” she whimpered clutching her pearls “but really I must go” “No, no, please don’t get up. I’ll send the maid” was the last thing I heard as she fled out the door.
Leaving just me and a steaming mound of grump. “Definitely a metaphor,” I thought to myself. “Surely this grump is all a literary fiction?”
But the smell was suspiciously un-metaphorical.
I decided I best get a bucket.
Creative writing class, free writing. We all agreed we were hot and grumpy. It made me wonder, what would grump look like, and how would it behave?
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