Greg Santos was born and raised in
Out of the blue
A man on a train was sitting quietly by his favorite window when a yellow davenport zoomed through the sky.
“Wow,” he said. “A flying sofa!” The old woman knitting mittens across from him was unfazed. “Peh,” she said. “Happens all the time. Nothing to get yourself worked up over.”
The man sunk into his seat. “Oh,” he said. “I suppose you’re right.” A lime green ottoman soon fluttered by. The man stood up, knocking his head against the metal racks.
“Keep it down sonnee,” the old woman said, her knitting needles clicking angrily. “Sorry, but an ottoman just flew by.”
“Well,” the old woman said gruffly. “That’s no reason to make such a racket.”
The man sat down again and said nothing as the train passed a flock of oxblood leather chesterfields perched on telephone wires.
“Good heavens,” the old woman exclaimed. “Antique chesterfields! Now there’s something you don’t see everyday…”