He’d learned that there was no Santa Claus early on, precociously reading gift labels marked “from Santa” on packages Grandma had brought in from her ancient Buick.
Now the same sick feeling emerged as he witnessed a magnificent bald eagle, prince of the skies, dining crow-like, shameless, on roadside carrion.
Phil Huffy writes at a Cheerio-stained kitchen table in Rochester, New York.
Three guys stood in an alley around a flaming dumpster.
More of symbol than substance was their ceremony.
An object was flashed and passed around. The tallest of the three threw the old cuckoo clock into the blaze. It let out one last “coo”, and died.
They all laughed, maniacally.
Michael Tildsley finds it moderately frustrating and occasionally rewarding to teach inmates within a correctional setting. At least for now, his flavor of wit and humor has found a captive audience. Michael reads and writes when the muse nudges onward.