1st Person Plural, Subjective
an excerpt

Ronald Davis didn’t notice as the straps of his briefs impressioned themselves into the flabby, “well rested” muscle of his gluteus maximums, that Thursday night. He didn’t notice as a cheese doodle slipped between his fingers as he crunched down on a handful as the Bears scored on the Chargers, bringing them ahead, seven to three. He didn’t even notice when a stray sugar ant, shiny black and camouflaged in the stripped pattern of the coffee table’s checkerboard tiles, achieved its co-op mission and nibbled on a disregarded crumb of a hoagie.
In fact, the first thing that Ronald Davis noticed that hinted to him that he would remember forever November twenty-third, 1980, as the worst day of his life, was the piercing shriek of his wife from the kitchen, loud and shrill enough to drown out the sound of thirty thousand Chicago fans. While Ronald hadn’t had any musical training since those glory days of the triangle back in the first grade winter wonderland, he knew the note that Wendy just released was the most chilling and mournful he’d ever heard.
He jumped up, overturning what was left of the cheese doodles, and creating a neon orange stain that he instinctively knew would never be cleaned up later. His boots thundered with surprising force across the dull charcoal shrug carpet, propelling him across the living room, barreling into the dining room, and finally tumbling frantically across the newly-remodeled kitchen’s linoleum.
Before he could even steady himself, he felt his knees go out at the sight.