Smell That Bird: A Thanksgiving Comeuppance

Holidays for us were always a Steven King book. An overly long and sickening affair. My sisters, upon hearing of our brother John’s plan to leave the country for Thanksgiving, called him a traitor and used him as target practice for their eye-daggers. He left in mid-November for four weeks. There was only one problem…

Shoot That Frog: A Christmas Comeuppance

“He’ll come down the chimney tonight,” Father grumbled, his hand caressing the barrel of the Frog Shooter on his lap. Father was sitting in Mother’s little chair in front of the fireplace. His dollar store sunglasses hung crooked on his honker. He was six-foot two, or had been before developing his post-divorce slouch, and 240…