Michael Malone - Weebly

"Up yours, you'd love it."
"Up yours, you've done it." And so on and on until
sleep silenced them.
Joy did not know how centrally she figured in the
nightly débats of Academy Hall, but the news would
not have surprised her. The pleasant discovery that she
was unusually beautiful had been verified in the past
year beyond the need for further testimonials. She knew
she was gifted. Now she had only to give the gift away.
Had only like pollen plume of the spring-blooming birch
to float. To float until wind, fate, choice, swept her
down to where, of all possibilities, earth was rightest
and ripest for her.
And, tapping time to "Let It Go All Over," by the
Stabbo-Massacrism Band, his UMass ring clickclacking
on the steering wheel of his Jaguar, Lance
Abernathy was riding into town. Up the pike he tooled
in his birthday present from his mother, Beanie. Every
few miles he tossed a quarter into the state's collection
plates with the flip unpremeditation of a cardinal
throwing pennies at Parisian peasants in June 1789. For