Benjamin turned, walked away from the headlights and carnage.
Recent memories of the violence; cycloned around his head, reflections seeking repose.
Finally he filed them away.
All except the one:
the final one.
He bided his time and at the bridge, numbly hurled the tire iron in the Schuylkill and walked on.
Eradicated now, but I found the genome online
A recipe for Armageddon.
Michael sat the sepia toned tintype carefully on his desk.
It depicted two formally dressed, bearded and dusty men in front of a clapboard building.
Above the building’s door a sign read, “Strand” & “Field”, below that, “Law Offices”.
“The law is in your blood,” His father had said. “Make us proud.”
Roger had the balloon tied to his wrist.
This was gonna be so cool,
the winds would push him where they may.
He expected to see the whole world as he drifted.
Smiling, he stepped out, committed.
Mark and Marion!
Once attempted to unite their bubbles
each one born from an entire bag of Bazooka Joes.
The explosion was spectacular!
Image courtesy of The Grammar Ghoul Press
Grandma, an observer, murmured the spell.
Melinda, on stage; grinned, “chrysanthemum,
Are we being a bit lenient with Joe this week?
He’s a fine writer, a talented wordsmith. Most deserving of praise, but…
He’s an Irishman, a Dubliner, no less.
Might this be unfair?
St James Gate, Dublin is the birthplace of Stout.
I suspect, in his youth, he worked summers for Guinness.
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special attention to the writings of Joe2stories for putting up with my blather this week.