Dismal dials of late denials climbed over the vials of Portnoy’s contentments–all nineteen of them.
But where would Ginger be without the garlic and mushrooms to add to her latest concoction of vapid contraptions? George would know, but he was busy defending her honor against suggestive comments that she was not who she claimed to be, although she never claimed to be anything except to be. Ginger tied a golden ribbon around her concocted contraption–neatly this time–and George stopped his nonsense for all to see and hear and smell. The night train to the other side of the world would never be the same, but it had never been the same no matter how hard it had tried–corporations and speculative speculations be gently damned to the outer reaches of the Boötes void whether Ginger liked it or not. George always did.
The vials of Pomeroy’s contentments–all thirty-three of them–were filled in the Boötes void with late dials of dismal denials.
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We don’t use contraption that much anymore, especially as a verb
My mother went into contraptions three days before I was born. Or so they say.
Or so it seems
❤️❤️❤️
Wait, what? 😀 😀
Exactly!
Beautifully narrated
Thank you. 😀
😀😀
“She never claimed to be anything except to be.” Most honorable indeed!
😀
Wonderful!