Faded Houses Green

Ginger stood and lifted the stifled rifle to the top of the Eiffel Tower’s lowest setting to the right of the neighborhood watch party.

George said he didn’t mind as long as the fleet of empty dignitaries fluttered a fortune of mints into the storm drain of restraint. Faint streaks of deliberate light enlivened the proceedings of the fleeting miscues of Ginger’s first three cats, bats being a little too considerate for such purposes. Along and until the repaid plains of Spain emptied their Georges into the gulf of Ginger’s fried potatoes, nothing could trespass that would lead to a more fortuitous conclusion–Ginger’s driveway notwithstanding.

George stood up and helped Ginger grind the rifle against the top of the Eiffel Tower, but the snow started to fall, and the French snow globe had shattered into a number of poems that refrained from all the mornings of the world catching up with them by breakfast in light of all tomorrow’s parties.