Blue Ships Publishing

Splat. One word. One syllable. Five letters. And they change everything. It means so many things. It’s what you hear when pasta hits the wall. Or when a raw slice of potato falls to the floor. It’s the word that shows on-screen in cartoons, like when Road Runner has bested Wiley for the umpteenth time and he falls to the bottom of the canyon in a puff of smoke.

It’s also what it sounds like when a person lands on the concrete after a 54-story drop to the sidewalk. Splat. It’s how we all feel when we get the news. And at the funeral. No dancing. No singing. No crying. Just splat.