Faded Houses Green

Reading Ulysses in Montana #430

Her poetry was like the skies of the dinosaur age: full of terrible dactyls.

But without a nuance or two to share with the neighbors down the road, Ginger could get no closer to a solution to the problem of what to get George for his birthday. Not that his birthday was pending, but it was wending its way through the corridors of time and place and would arrive as frivolously late as though unexpected–and she would certainly not be prepared.

Egg on her face was the most likely outcome, although game theory and albumen masks were not in the habit of joining in shared existence in anyone’s mind, let alone Ginger’s, who had a deep antipathy for doing such things since her mother had collapsed the three-meter souffle her father had constructed three days before that fateful New Year’s party.

Ginger collapsed into a heap of scrambled potatoes and wrote three more meters of over hard, terrible dactyls.