G R A P H O L O G Y. G R A P H O L O G Y. G R A P H O L O G Y.

New Soapbox: Commands My Dog Hasn't Yet Learned by Amy Shearn.

T H E   G R E A T   G O B I N   T H E   S K Y BY JOSH ABRAHAM Nobody knew for certain what the great gob in the sky was. The town’s elders, advised by a think tank of scientists, declared it a mass of jelly; the pundits, typically critical, argued it was jam. The general populace more or less agreed it was preserves -- except for isolated crackpots shouting “marmalade” or even “vegemite.” We, the children, had our own speculation: Jell-O, or, at least, a generic brand of gelatin. But none could agree what flavor its ruby-red color indicated: Strawberry? Raspberry? Cherry, grape, cranberry? Only one thing was assured: whatever it was, it was heading straight for us. Many fled, but the stupidly brave and the terminally inquisitive alike stuck around to see just what the hell the big glob could be. When it struck, we were all proved wrong: it was a fig-flavored fruit spread, and now we are all stuck in it up to our necks, forever suspended in this gummy, gluey, gooey mess until we eat our way out, which will be a long, long time indeed. *submission..* *archive.*