An experiment of punctuation and form.
Would love your feedback on this. I had a ball writing it.

Clarisse and her boy Charlie are talkin or rather Clarisse is talkin about the groceries she just bought and Charlie’s askin where the Cheez Whiz is and she says she didn’t buy none and he says you did I saw you put it in the cart and she says I don’t want to talk about it and then he sees the Cheez Whiz just sittin there on the side counter and she still doesn’t want to talk about it. That’s the way things are. Clarisse is always right.
Same thing happened at Edna Mae Riley’s except it was about bakin soda in a recipe not baking powder and then Edna Mae finds the recipe and shows it to Clarisse: See? See? And sure enough Clarisse is wrong. You never saw a soul dismiss somethin so fast as she did because like I said, Clarisse is always right. Always. But come that Sunday, no matter how hard she tried there was no way she was gonna be anythin but down right guilty of wrongness.
Now Sunday in Mugs Swallow ain’t like Sunday in most places – everythin’s dead as a morgue. People go to church then home and pretty much stay put. They know they’d better stock up on milk and bread on Saturday, have enough sugar for tea, that sort of thing. But Clarisse didn’t do her normal Saturday shoppin because she never woke up. She weren’t dead or nothin she just slept right through it. Charlie knew better than to wake her up. He tried that once and Clarisse, hating to be woke, put his ear in a twist.
“Come on in, girl,” she yelps at Edna Mae who sneezes into her sleeve. She’s changed from her blue polyester church dress into baggy corduroys and a bulky cable-knit sweater.
“Scuze me.”
“A cold, eh?”
“Monster.”
“Tea’s on, that’ll do ya.”
But like her need to be right, Clarisse just can’t admit that she slept in Saturday and never got to the Variety for more milk so unbeknownst to Edna Mae she’s put white shoe polish in the cow creamer and serves it up with biscuits and jam. Ordinarily Edna Mae would have noticed it right off but this really bad cold has her all clogged up and senseless and she drinks it down like soda pop. Charlie’s the one who notices the opened bottle of shoe polish leanin against the biscuit tin in the pantry. Strange place for it he thinks, it being winter and all. What’s Mama wantin to paint white in February?
“Mama? What ya’ll paintin white?”
Clarisse’s face turns plumb red.
“What you say, Edna Mae?”
“I didn’t say nothin.”
“Well now, ain’t that the best tastin biscuit in Mugs Swallow? Mmm mm, I do bake good biscuits if I do say so myself.”
“You do, Clari, you do all right,” says Edna Mae, crumbs sticking to the shoe polish milk moustache just above her upper lip.
Clarisse’s eyes burn into Charlie.
“Yes, m’am,” Charlie says, “you make the best biscuits in Mugs Swallow. More milk, Edna Mae?”
Edna Mae feels a sneeze risin in her and runs to the corner of the room.
“Aaaahhhh – chooooooooooo! Sorry. I really shoulda stayed home today but I sure didn’t want to miss our Sunday tea. Sure love our time together. Yep. That’s what friends are for. Tea times. You ever try a tea time just you and your dog? It just don’t work. Can’t discuss nothin’. Can’t gossip. But tea time with you, now that’s good, real good. Ooooo, oooooooo.”
She grabs her stomach as her sallow complexion goes totally white.
“Dear Jesus!” she cries, bucklin to her knees. “Dear Mother of Jesus.”
She curls up on the floor and holds her stomach prayin it won’t explode.
Charlie runs to the pantry and grabs the bottle of shoe polish.
“Mama?”
Clarisse turns her back to Charlie coverin up the evidence.
“Edna Mae,” she says, “what’d you eat last night, girl? What poison rat got in yer casserole?”
Edna Mae’s on all fours – she looks like a barrel with stems -- her whole body is one big contraction. Puuuuukkkkeeee!
“Jesus!” Clarisse shouts. “Same color as my linoleum.”
“Mama!”
Another belch of gunk. The stench makes Clarisse’s eyes swirl.
“Charlie, open the goddamn door!”
Another explosion. A small lake of lumps. Now Clarisse is skating in it – her pink fluffy slippers drenched like old cat hair in curdled swamp muck.
“Charlie, get Edna Mae to the washroom and clean her up quick.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Do it! – and gimme that!” She grabs the shoe polish.
Edna Mae’s 170 plus pounds are dead weight in Charlie’s arms.
“Jesus Mama.”
“Clarisse, I’m so sorry,” Edna Mae says screwing her face up from her own sour mouth. “Ohhhh, ohhhhhh.”
“Shit, Charlie. Get her to the goddamn ...”
Too late. The lake is rising.
Clarisse looks at the shoe polish.
“Goddamn label says nothin bout not drinkin’ it.”
“What you say, Clarisse?” Edna Mae sputters.
“Ah, ah said, it sure as hell stinks in here.”
“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” Her voice trails off as Charlie half-drags her out of the kitchen.
Clarisse shakes her head holds her breath runs for the creamer and dumps the culprit down the sink hole.

That night Edna Mae died.
The hospital said it was heart failure no need for an autopsy but Charlie felt different and phoned the police.
“Shoe polish. Mama fed it to her with tea and biscuits. She slept through Saturday and we was outta milk.”
He hated to see his mama taken away in handcuffs and all, but he hated bein grounded even more. He was tired of Clarisse sayin she was right all the time when she wasn’t and insistin she didn’t serve no shoe polish to Edna Mae she’d never do a fool thing like that Edna Mae was her best friend and he was a lying fool and was grounded for a whole month just for thinkin it.
Clarisse still swears she’s right about what happened that day—Edna Mae convulsed on something that up and died in her. It weren’t no shoe polish. That boy’s crazy she tells me every day when I see her and the other inmates lining up for food.