It all went downhill from there. The butcher when belly-up, the green-grocer was chased from town for being a commie sympathizer, and the newspaper (only one in town) was deep in the red.
Soon our little village was a wreck, and everyone treated everyone else with suspicion and little whispered threats under their breath.
The Winterbottomsmythes loomed bitterly over the whole shebang, unaware of the many ghosts that were on their way to haunt the joint.
* * *
From his point of vantage above the lonely village, Gerald tossed another paper airplane into a gust of wind. The wind picked it up and hurled it clumsily back over Gerald's head and over behind him somewhere. Gerald took spoonful of soup and began folding another.
* * *
Underneath the ocean, Poseidon puffed on a bubble pipe, and scratched his beard.
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