Creativity

In the Tinseltown parking lot after Gone Girl, I cannonball eight feet above my mother's Corolla. I pause in the air. The back windshield shatters hard. I reverse and follow my arc back to the ground land on my feet and replay the scene jumping into eight feet into a cannonball shape then rewinding. The windshield keeps shattering. A voice over yelps loudly repeatedly in a staccato pattern.

A small blue capped hourglass on the dining room table steadily pours white sand into the bottom half and sand never accumulates, and the top stays half full and never loses any sand.

It was... 1999. Our dad brought mini-doughnuts and chocolate milk to the hotel room. Now we know we were happier than we could have realized at the time.

In 1963 he turned 18. It was a perfect time to die in Vietnam.
Now nothing has changed, we still scrabble across the lawn pouring orange juice on our brain.
When we get to the edge we turn around and go back home again.