Faded Houses Green

Fibs in the forecast proved too daunting for Darlene to carry through the back door while carrying three bags of groceries, smothered in southern gravy.

Navies of Davies shipped the whorled peas into seas of infinite regress without redress to the commander in leaves of grassy knolls, John having been sequestered in questions of fruit of parlays since the incident of the tree branch and broken legs. Separate peas were all the rage with pages of pages requesting higher wages in ages gone by when sages corrupted the cages of gold upon stones untold when Vegas was but a train stop on the highway to greater destinies.

The matinee was over before Darlene had discovered John hadn’t written about Ginger and George since the bridge over the Moyie Gorge had assembled into a fraud of a million little pieces, all told.