I’m afraid my recording this time is a bit on the weird side, sound-wise. It’s allergy season, my grandson loves to play outside (as does his grandmother), and this one seems especially virulent. Here’s my Carrot Ranch Literary Community 99-word story.

Pizza came to Nebraska in the early 60s. It arrived in a box. Back then, a pizza party did not involve take out or delivery, or even popping a frozen treat in the oven. We mixed the dough, according to directions, inhaling the yeasty aroma. We tried tossing it on our fingers, then we gathered up the mess and pressed it into a pan, crimped the edges and spread the tomato sauce around. Then we scattered cheese over the top. Sometimes I make pizza, but not the bare bones concoctions we giggled over. Nor is it as much fun.