Marco…Polo…The large cloud drifting over the cemetery reminded her of meringue. It seemed she’d been obsessed with food lately. More specifically, her father’s crappy diet. She was convinced it was the main reason for the disintegration of his health. Meat every night. Four drinks a day. Those pickled sausage things from that disgusting jar he was always dipping his hands into. Oh, those sausage things! He had told her when she was a child that they were the chopped-off fingers of giants that lived on the other side of the hill. And that a thunderstorm meant that an army of them was marching into town to reclaim them. How Sheila hated that story.
…in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shal
