The squirrels fled from Lloyd O’Banyon on sight, though they were the same squirrels that ate from the neighbor’s hands.
Lloyd’s hands hurt from penning yet another lengthy letter to the editor of the Courier, this one complaining about the decline of city services.
Every three years–the date magneted to the refrigerator–he treated himself to a new, shiny No Soliciting sign for the front door, the older ones faded from the sun that he didn’t much enjoy either.
There was no sun today, the clouds so dark they were purple, and the wind was of the velocity that had no regard for humans.
Lloyd stood on the porch, his audible permagrumble drowned by the wind.
Janelle had disobeyed him, and had a sign installed on his lawn.
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