we make a Frisbee', Maise said. It was the Sunday drought and only morally uplifting activities such as cooking were parent approved. 
t he could hit flies a mile away once cocked up. Gasping hard, they jumped over the hedge ripping modesty away as bullets thundered past. 
ackson, folks. Put your hands together for the professor.’
Only her face shone in the stage lights, the moon to the audience's stars as recording lenses sparkled back. Her note broke the silence of death to summon hope. Out of the darkness came the answer, a deep despair to her joy—both voices merging in a hymn to life.
'What did dad do,' asked Jack smiling up at her.
She dreaded the innocent questions. How do you explain, a drunkard fumble with neither party remembering what was loosened until one of them suddenly knew what was tighten.
He felt her lie long before he knew how to forgive her.
The stone stood, a relic marking where once the slaughter of the innocents took place. Who now cares for the truth- they were bait for enemy lured to defeat or the myth- a nation born out of struggle. Only songs remember why—the bodies, with the nation, long since dust.
