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Weekly Contest #323
Dad danced around the kitchen while my dinner slowly burned in the pan. ‘Jack Sprat could eat no fat. His wife could eat no lean. And so between them both, you see, they licked the platter clean,’ he whispered, banging his spoon on the plate in time to the rhythm. There was no wife, of course, just Dad and me, and we were both as skinny as greyhounds. But when it was his night to eat, he left me the plate to lick. Dad always insisted we took turns with everything. It seemed fairest. We couldn’t live together otherwise. So I wore his old bro...
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