Prices

I've been asked what the price for a story is. But, like it says, price is negotiable. Whatever you can afford is fine withme, can you only spare the second breath that your third daughter took? Fine, I'll take it. Might not be a very long story, but you'll still get one. Maybe you never really wanted that freckle in your eye, anyway. That's cool, I can do something with it.
Lost favorite stuffed animals, odds and ends of bike parts from a bike you don't remember owning, family tapes filled with thumbs in the lens, dragonfly collections, horsefly whips, mighty eggplants, dainty oaks, burnt out light bulbs, the first time you realized that yes, peanut butter cups are an acceptable breakfast, snippets of your favorite dream, your worst nightmare, an old pen that doesn't work anymore (but still writes magnificent stories no one reads), a typewriter that's missing its Q, and has an extra B there instead, the pine needles that got stuck in your foot that time you decided it would be a good idea to go outside barefoot at the cabin, the first time you saw snow and realized that each little bit was unique from every other little bit, your understanding of Quantum Physics.
All these things are accepted, and whatever else you might have around that you don't need. Just ask, and I'll be able to trade something for it, I'm sure.

Balloons.

I bought a balloon today, but it wasn't what I expected. Personally, I blame my absurd stockings for this. I didn't have a camera, so this is what I ended up with at the end of the day: