Jazzmin Flush (70)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (70)"
   
   Months, even more into the future, had been like a dream, dealing with a concussion, her brain having bounced and banged against the skull, sinking Jazzmin Flush into a hypnotic state, like perpetually fed nerve pills from the mouth of a Pez Dispenser, Popeye the Sailor Man spitting the tranquil euphoria experienced by most Millennial Women; plus, they always mixed red wine with them for greater elation.
   And Rascal's wily belly was blooming, pre-birthing a litter of roustabouts ranging wildly in her coydog womb, snacking on baby crackers from the inside, and infused with her cellular structure to be, at least, mildly obedient.  Donald Flush was proud yet poignant, pointing philosophically to the eccentricities of life.
   Thomas, well, always at Jazzmin's golden side as she healed and digested her mild disgust, not wanting to be a nasty, resentful big sister.  That would suck for the little peckers and pansies on the way to Rascal's cupcake cleavage for some dog milk.