Beetlebug Swamp wasn’t an awful place most of the time, but lately most of the time had become hardly any time at all, and conditions were becoming uncomfortable.
Edna adjusted the silver watch around her thin, bony wrist. The watch always seemed to slip around her arm and turn upside down.
Detective Johnson stood beside the open door of his dilapidated, dark blue station wagon and lit up a cigarette.
‘Twas born of tumult, toil, troubled times This dreary den of literary hubris. Disgruntled poet’s voice was wrought with rhymes And barbs, an arrow not inclined to miss
Editor’s note: This sonnet-in-progress began life as a text message.