Ten Days Later by Gabriella Garofalo

. . .when we were all real little again, there appeared what we later learned through various newspaper articles and a bag of fortune cookies was an ingrained gender neutral facet of our time; nor the demise of false idolatry that we struggle with times, in the form of sock color choices and bubble bath scent, but a return to when the establishment of roles meant something to the 233% of people surveyed.

Beyond the work that is the inside connection and the daily straightening of things gone astray were the Sundays stacking wood and the misplacing of the oil can we used to keep the mower in order. No way out of it, the grass grew too high and obscured the path to the mail box, but we managed to sheer aside the blades of indifference and raise the flag of outgoing correspondence.

Naturally, there are parts of town and time that we’ve never been to. . .we’ve been kept out and pushed aside and forcibly removed. . .However the rattling of items, the incoherent cauldron, breeding of mass confusion, relentless forging of irons and eradication of wrinkles by high watt bulbs and government subsidized irradiation would undoubtedly yield yet another generation beset by tuba music, green hats, and strange mitten combinations seen only in contraband films from the former Yugoslavia.

It wasn’t perfect but it was feasible and embraceable by everyone: the leaf rakers, the bear sighters, the cookie burners and the poop scoopers. It was an exercise in unity and shared hate; it kept us from pushing old women into puddles on rainy Tuesdays. . .It was flammable and it was deleterious. . .nosocomial and inviting and we were to blame. . .but we accepted and threw aside what was imposed upon us by the times. And eventually, we got better hats, fantastic gloves and music loud enough to wash away everything left behind.

. . .and then we were little again.


Somewhere in the depths of societal discontent and finger paintings for the fridge we find Gabriella Garofalo. She’s no Navan Johnson, but her sense of entrepreneurship remains largely intact and her number wholly unlisted.



Despite recent issues with rusty hinges and forlorn neighborhood watch people, she is currently working on her second Masters degree in Clinical Toxicology. Upon completion, it is likely she will disappear into the depths of the Congo where she will make valid yet vain attempts to introduce the natives to the wonders of solar cooking and the Tupperware air tight food preservation system. Likely, yet doubtful. Meanwhile, she shills away the hours with clever ruminations of life and the molecular sorts it comprises and the relentless quest for the perfect pair of socks. Should you find that these matters disturb or perplex you and you wish to go into greater detail and discover the tribulations that lie within you, please feel free to send her some sort of rant at: chickenofdoompress@gmail.com.