Faded Houses Green

The turning door became the hero of the hour after the choir forgot its lines and the audience sat on the signs of rage and toil. Oil.

Maria found the mulling spices and mulled over the incandescent ideas marinating in the pantry door under the gantry crane heaving ho a spiral ham of ridiculousness. Mulling came easy for one who grew up muling, and Maria was no exception, her father’s herd needing food and water at eeking hours of the finicky day. Equally easy came the mewing from the cat that was always getting away in the hour after the choir forgot its lines–but the mulling must go on, and Maria was there to lend a handy hand to keep the boisterous choir in glebbing order. Ancient times were no match for the present seeds of inconvenience which Maria planted firmly in her cheek while she checked the roving gantry crane glowering over her turning pantry door.

Astride the turning door, Astrid told Maria that the howl of the wildebeest left grown men compensating for their own lack of bilious taste.

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