She twirled her chesnut curls around her

She twirled her chesnut curls around her fingers, her vintage flower print dress swishing past her swedish sofa, her japanese cat clock chiming in her ears. Her young face smiled.

She was a porcelain doll in motion, warm brown ringlets clinging to her shoulders in the sun of the bay window. The smile drained from her face at her mother's return. No amount

of hiding this time would save the little porcelain from getting ruined by mother. She was

dead, stuffed and in a rocking chair in the basement. I couldn't get mother's voice out of my head but

a stick and threw it for Buster to fetch. By the time the dog had returned, the coma was complete. As far as I can tell, Buster dragged me to the docks where I was shipped to

BFE ASAP on DHL. My ETD form was MIA so the SOB at HQ said it was a SNAFU and called in the FBI. Meanwhile, I was still in a coma. Next stop, RIP. When the

ITF (Initialism Task Force, who aren't OK with ACRONYM, BS on the WWW, or RATM) discovered me, they carried away my YABA-compatible, on-the-DL, comatose body to their USSR pad.

The escort van of my imprisonment rattled and rolled by a force-only rocket blast. The nonlethal weapon was hallmark of the West Mississippi Plastic Pants Task Force. I knew then

that my rescue was eminent. I'd soon be proudly wearing the orange plastic pants & reflective vest, scouring the highways of West Mississippi for trash & woe to the litterbugs!