by Jon Pelletier

Created on: October 15, 2009

ADAPTATION

Kelly Triplich walked to the store. Her eyes were red with anger and her mouth was parched. She wanted to walk to the store, she did not want to drive. Her friends drove past her and a boy threw a bottle. The torch had been passed. She could only think of one thing. She could not understand how to fit in high school. The terms were worse. The grammar was bad. The spelling was atrocious.

In a fit of rage he threw down the book. "This is the worst piece of junk I have ever read."

But this is the opening paragraph and I wanted to use it. I wrote him a note that told him I needed this story told. The motion to the door created a breeze towards the far wall. His hairpiece moved. I asked him to please continue reading my book.

She followed a bluebird along the seashore and watched it perch on a ledge. The economy was falling. Babylon, finally, and we were all dead in our reincarnations. The om shone thru the light and the circles pass thru their long subjects. The young man passing by her mumbled something. The lunatic fringe, homeless drug addicts and turnips, brewed into a stew. We were living life to fullest as the lumpen proletariat.

The earth was falling in. The time had caused a crisis, people have gone belly up, sharks are falling from skyscrapers and the city was frozen.

The herbalist tied a knot in the antichrist and the human race was finally saved. The damned had woken and millions had been touched by the terms. The love and unity have brought one and another together and hearts and minds are being born. We regret our mistakes and apologize. You regret yours and ask for forgiveness.

The tree branch wavers and a tryst develops on a bench below him, the soul plows below and the rose truth repents. The hurt and pain and suffering of millions was approached by the pills I take. I was sure I had the om, in my hand for a moment. I was sure I understood. The sellers buy to regain consciousness.

The child's father whispers over a radio. Clock radio, terminology undecipherable for a young child but I think he understood. He debates giving the man a punch in the head.

The young man dressed in armor believes the things he's told. He doesn't look to Sundance for answers. He doesn't feel the need to feel things for others or show emotion of any sort. His hair is a mess.

"You are an artist, eh?" The publisher asks me, "I never understood you folk. You were never my people. My only glimpse into your sort of mind was this one painting I drew. This tree, it

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