Saturday's Storyteller: "Sheila never knew what hit her until it was too late."
by Belinda Roddie Sheila never knew what hit her until it was too late. Specifically, it was a chunk of cold ham, pulled from the refrigerator by her drunk and giggling friend Gerald, and it landed beautifully against the curve of her jawbone. Surprisingly, the impact left a stinging sensation on her skin. She glowered. "Very funny, asshole," she grumbled, before returning to her can of cheap beer. It was growing lukewarmer by the second. Midwest summers did that to alcohol. This made the consumption of alcohol less appealing, and therefore Sheila became somewhat of a prude cuisine-wise until the cold autumn whirled back around. The rest of the gang was outside by now, screwing around on their instruments of choice - a remarkable range of guitars, mandolins, bongos, and even didgeridoos. Hannah in particular growled on a harmonica that she had bought at, of all places, a bookstore. Bookstores had to have novelty items these days to stay afloat. Because who would wan