Mum and Dad went to a shindig on Friday. The house was safe for a time.
But as twilight merged with darkness, the disquieting duo skipped home from their wayward jamboree. Mother marches into the dining room by way of goose-step, and greets me and my fellow Monopoly-playing miscreants emphatically.
And then suddenly, heaving forth from her coat-pocket a snowball the size of a cantaloupe, she catapults the creature at me like an Olympic javelin. Trailing fire, the cannonball blazes towards my head like a bird possessed. I mightily haul my noggin southward as the arctic asteroid whooshes narrowly by, self-destructing on the wall behind within picoseconds. The ball’s icy entrails ooze slowly down cherished family photos and primeval Scottish dinnerware. I notice as one glacier slides portentously over my face in a family portrait. I breathe deeply…and build another apartment on Rouen.
About me
I'm Jack. Sometimes my hair is untidy, riddled with goblins and smurfs. When I scream into the Grand Canyon, it inspires pained howling in wild dogs and wily coyotes, and compels all leaf-eating mammals to scuttle for higher ground in wait of the great flood. I think Goku is an existential paragon. My life's trajectory is adjusted towards becoming a hermit and dying alone somewhere on top of a golden mountain at sunset. Which is a jolly good innings, all told.
