Faded Houses Green

“If it’s Alabama Street, it must be Butte,” Ginger implored the three state police officers huffing on their motorcycles.

Earlier that day, when the copper stairway to not quite heaven opened for business, a host of birches joined the walk on Evergreen to protest the empty containers contained between the juxtaposition of the sky’s the limit. Ginger had a premonition that the cohort of horticultural enigmas would finagle their way out of Finnegan’s wake and the three-year collective bargaining agreement they had collectively bargained for two years prior.

Askance, the freelance photographer photographed the phonograph from the balcony of the effervescent funicular–chariots of ice be damned to the ninth circle of where the sun don’t shine. Privy to such goings on, Olaf asked Ginger if she would care to bide her time for an hour or two before entering the frayed fray. Ginger said she was unafraid but would gladly spend an hour or two with Olaf for the pleasure of it.

Ginger tried to think about Olaf as the shortest of the state police officer chastised her, making her squirm like Olaf squirmed whenever Ginger arrived for a date in a very similar costume of a state police officer.