Starting from nothing

It was a gray and stormy morning. A fine spray filled in where the thunderstorms had rumbled through. A lone figure fed the birds and then stoked the fire.

Do you ever just start a story just to see where it would go? What happened?

The toenail was never right: too long, too short, too raggedy. It caught on the bedsheets; it scratched his lover. It ached whether it was too long or short; it never let up. It dominated his thoughts and once had him lose it at an interview in a Tourette's Syndrome-like outburst at his toenail after the interviewer had asked him if had any special job requirements. It's not that the toenail didn't have its place in his life. It did protect the toe from hard objects dropped--the owner of the toe being a klutz, but it had gone too far this time. This time, it had overreached its importance.

I don't know. Things just spill out from my fingers.