A journal of narrative writing.
Parts of Nowhere

The best part was how the moon never quite got full, so one of them made a blueberry pie to help them feel fuller, and each blueberry was bigger than the pie itself. The blue itself was the next best part, each berry's blue bigger than its berry, a blue that was, the narrator said, part color and part action, part filling up parts of their bodies that had forgotten how to taste blue. Just before the moon part, all the characters who were still awake sort of flowed like water down to the dock, trying to hold on to their own body parts. Then the part about them just talking, as if nothing were going to happen, the part when something would happen still out there in the mild air. None of them had lost their body parts yet, nor did the pie even exist. It was summer, and although summer had already passed into the part when something would happen, the narrator suggested, their discussion had not really gone anywhere. Actually, there was some debate about whether the moon had in fact already become full, but then one of them remembered how one of them had said earlier that she doesn't like when people just "drop in." That was just after the part where someone just dropped in to their part of the lake, the same part where later the moonlight would just drop in and form a circle that was measurably bigger than the moon itself. The part that seemed out of place in a well-placed way was the if-Jupiter-was-a-pie part, when a whole lot of blueberry-sized Earths just dropped in, and it took 915 of them to fill it up. The one character who had no opinion about all of this was the carp in hell, the part of hell in all their body parts, the carp moving through them, deep down in the holy murk of their lungs. In theory, there should have been a last part, but that wasn't the last part they remember, because when they woke up the next morning, there was nowhere to go and nothing to run into but blue and blue and blue and blue.