“Abigail, liebchen, don’t mess mommy around now. We got two days to sort our Thanksgiving shopping, and now papa is a executive we gotta make an impression. You ain’t gonna see the parade if you don’t toe the line, missy!”
“Momma: I don’t want to go down that street by daddy’s store. I don’t like to see all those sad people.”
“Now you stop right away! I told you there ain’t no people like you said.”
“There are, mommy; they rain down on the sidewalk and on the automobiles.”
“Child, stop that talk I said. There are no people fallin’ out of the sky. ’Himmel: you got such dreaming of bad dreams in you I’m outa my mind.”
Greta grabs her daughter and drags her round the block towards Macy’s.
“Tribune!” calls the vendor. “Stock crashes. Billions lost”
Greta screams as a sack of tomatoes explodes on the avenue in front of her. A sack with arms and legs awry.
“Mommy; it’s started,” sobs Abigail.
No comments:
Post a Comment