There once was a fellow named Hannah,
Who wanted to own a cabana.
She lost in a bet,
And went into debt,
So now she just owns a banana.
About the Creator
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Sins of the Father
“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.” Hedwig, Violet’s great-grandfather, shifted in his seat, obviously uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the youngest of his son’s line. He had never known how to speak to her properly after her mother had died under his watch. “Our people did not live here either, back then; we were outcasts, always traveling from land to land, city to city, for we could not live anywhere for long. We were cursed, you see, to never find a land of our own.” “How can we live here, then?” Violet cut in, her serpent coiled around her arm. “Curses can’t be broken so easily; I’ve never even heard a story that would suggest something so ludicrous. Our neighbors have one on their household, and they’re fairly lucky that it’s so mild. Even so, their kid can barely breathe sometimes because he broke a promise they made on his behalf! Once! It’s almost insulting that…” She trailed off slowly. The old man was watching her, patiently waiting for her to stop speaking so he could resume his story. From the darkness behind him, another pair of eyes stared, amused, at the exchange, and the long, tapered tail that formed the body attached to them wound tighter around Hedwig’s chair. Glints of multicolored light shimmered as they caught the feathers around the dragon’s head, as it leaned down to hear the discussion more clearly. Shrinking back into her seat, Violet’s dragon looked back and followed her cue, slithering back up her arm and hiding inside her hair, with only its head left poking out. “Objection withdrawn. Sorry. That was out of turn.” “It’s alright,” the old man said, “it’s an unbelievable claim, I know. But you and I both know that none of your cousins who left the Valley of Serpents and settled beyond it have lasted very long. It was only last week, I believe, that Darion and his wife moved out, no? Martha?” “Yes, sir.” The maid in the corner answered as if the conversation had been scripted beforehand. “And how are they settling in?” “According to their last letter, Darion has been having anxiety attacks since they reached their new house, and their baby has fallen ill.”
Write Here, Write Now: The Kneeler by George Murray
Gambling, debt, and the sounds of Sinatra swirl with cigarette smoke in George Murray’s quiet action story “The Kneeler.” Follow one man’s journey in a casino bar from opera to loan sharks to deadly trouble.
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