"Your story is about a construction worker in a mental institution appreciating alliteration."
The place was white, white on white on white. The walls were white, the tables were white, and the
chairs were white. Thomas Thimble was strapped to a chair. The built-in straps were brown, perhaps
the only source of color in the room. Thimble gurgled happily, deep in his throat.
"Buzzing Bees Barf Blueberiessssszzzz!!!" He spouted, unable tlo control his blubbering
lips. A male nurse entered the room, followed by another woman.
"He was hit by a falling hammer," the nurse whispered. The woman nodded, not taking her
eyes off the blubbering Thimble.
"Your Yellow--"
"Thomas Thimble!"
"Thumbs Tailor Tinkering—“
"Does he ever speak coherently?"
"Mr. Thimble, could you please prove that you understand us?"
"Understanding Underwear Undermine Underwire."
"Do you feel any pain?"
“Painful Pennies Perpetrate Pooping Porpoises.”
“Mr. Thomas Thimble, if you truly are unable to communicate with us coherently, raise your
right hand…please, but if you are able to communicate, raise your left hand.”
Thimble paused.
“Right Retarded Ribbons Rant.”
The therapist’s face turned a deep shade of vermillion.
“This Thomas Thimble Torments--”
She slapped a hand to her mouth. Thomas Thimble began to laugh, a sound that
transformed the white of his prison into a beautiful electric blue.
A small hammer lay on an examination counter, the very one that had taken Thomas’s
wits. The male nurse entered the room, closing the door behind him. He picked it up and headed
towards a trash can.
The hammer squiggled, then said at the top of its voice, “I’m not crazy!!!”
