This is a short story I wrote in about a half hour. I used the word “cross” and words that start with the letter “p” for no real reason, it’s just what came to my mind when I sat down.

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The Peach Pit

He and I sat cross-legged across from each other, looking cross with our arms crossed. It crossed my mind that we were at a crossroads, one I was cross to recross. Something was across, and our eyes crisscrossed between the others crossed arms and the pit of a peach perched in a pile of perished peonies. My interest was piqued at his perennial placidity, and I pondered the possibility that we were recrossing a reposed crossfire, and I pretended to present him a phantasmic peace offering. Perhaps too much cross recrossing of a crisscrossed crossroads had precluded us from peering across to each others cross predisposition pertaining to the perpetrator; the peach pit perched across us in a pile of perished peonies. It crossed my recrossed psyche that I was proficiently displeased with the pit, and upon my prompt departure, I pressed the pit into the pile of peonies that had presented the crossest crossroads I had ever had to cross and recross in my entire life. I was placated, but not permanently.