(The surreal world of a teenager stuck working at a fast-food joint)
Jenna hated him, the garish tricolored hat, the white powdered curls fat as sausages, the tiny American flag clutched in his wooden hand. Her mother had bought the minuteman jack-in-the-box as a memento of the Bicentennial, placed it next to the miniature spinning wheel on top of the piano.
(A short story inspired by the tragic 1911 Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire)
She is worthless, cloth legs and arms, sooty grey and smudged, grey as newsprint, or a spider, Little Miss Muffit sat on her tuffit, eating her curds and whey. Too poor for a printed face, no high buttoned shoes or jet beads small as gnats. Instead someone stitched her a round open mouth, two spiked lashed eyes and a flattened French knot for a nose…