It’s day two hundred and eleven and I’m still waiting for the opportunity to come out in the open. I will ask the first human I encounter to take me to their leader. Conditions are cramped; I long to hear the sound of my own voice. I see a light…
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“It is clear the accused is insane and needs to be institutionalized.”
“But…” She stands. “I’m not insane! I was…”
“Sit down,” says the judge. “You are clearly insane.
“Take her away!”
“But I was framed!”
“Yes,” the prosecution says. “That’s what they all say.”
“Commit her to the asylum!”
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I’m so wicked! I have brought dishonour on my family by letting him put his hands on me and lift my skirt. I was even wanton enough to let him put his thing in me! But I’m secretly pleased with myself, losing my virginity at ninety-one glorious years of age.
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2016 was an extremely good year. The mansion in which I lived included a butler, a maid, three cooks and a gardener. Fortunately they lasted two months each. And every one of them was more delicious than the last.
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William was going to die. Everyone knew it, but most of all, William knew it. While he was still able to get around he decided to go to his lawyer (who was also a close friend) to make his final arrangements. The lawyer promised William he would gather together all of William’s relatives when the time came.
William’s most prized possession was his dachshund. The dog had a mind of its own and William admired it. He called the dog Willie in a vain attempt to be more like the animal. He decided to leave Willie with his eldest son, William the Second. There was, however, a clause which stated that his son would have to actually want the dog. Otherwise Willie was to be placed elsewhere.
Soon after William’s trip to the lawyer, William died. As promised, the lawyer gathered everyone together. This was what he said to the family:
In Will’s will, Will willed Willie, the willful dachshund, to William. Should William be willing, Willie the willful will henceforth reside with William.
William’s will went uncontested and Willie and William the Second lived happily ever after. Except that time William’s wife Winifred sat on Willie because Willie wouldn’t move off the sofa.
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Mr. Strange was the normalest person he himself knew. He shaved every morning and put on his suit and went to work as an accountant in a perfectly normal firm downtown. He drove a Lexus and he lived in a three bedroom bungalow by himself with his dog and his cat and his three fish. The bodies buried in the basement didn’t count as other people. They were corpses.
***
Miss Harper enjoyed the company of Mr. Strange very much. She was a secretary at the firm in which he worked. She lived downtown a few blocks from the company in an apartment on the fifth floor. She didn’t drive, but she had admired Mr. Strange’s Lexus and even said so once. She was hoping he would invite her out to dinner.
***
Mr. Tarvell was Mr. Strange’s boss. He always thought there was something odd about Mr. Strange, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He knew his secretary, Miss Harper, had a “thing” for Mr. Strange and he wanted to say something but he didn’t quite know how.
***
Mr. Strange’s dog wouldn’t stop trying to get into the basement. He thought about giving the dog to Miss Harper, the secretary at work. She seemed lonely. Perhaps he would invite her over.
***
Miss Harper’s first visit to Mr. Strange’s house was an event that surpassed every event that she had ever had in her life. On the outside, Mr. Strange was a kind man. Gentle, it seemed. In fact he was the normalest man she had ever had the pleasure of working with. However, they had barely started into dessert when he swooped everything off the table, the table cloth included, and crawled over to her and kissed her passionately. They never made it to the bedroom. He made love to her under the dining room table, her head banging on one of the chair legs each time he thrust into her. She took a taxi home. She couldn’t wait to see him again.
***
Mr. Tarvell noticed a strange smell on Miss Harper’s clothes the next day. It seemed, somehow, that she had gotten moldy. Like she had spent the night in the refrigerator, cuddled up to a basket of rotting strawberries. He didn’t want to say anything lest it seem rude.
***
Mr. Strange was the normalest person he himself knew. That he would soon require a bigger basement meant that he would also probably need a new job. A better paying job. A job in a town where no one knew him. Leaving his present house to the dog seemed the wisest choice he had made in quite some time.
This post is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday. It’s only late if you insist on changing the clocks at 2am… http://lindaghill.com/2015/10/30/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-oct-3115/
A picture,
the scent on the clothes you left behind,
and a memory
is all I have left.
She places the photograph on the table beside the mirror in her bedroom and stands back to look at it. The frame is guilt and the image is one of profound regret. A ball forms in her chest, a balloon of grief waiting to burst.
But the time is not right. She can’t let it go. Not yet. There are many things to do; arrangements to be made, people to see, hands to shake, and mouths to feed. Explanations to be invented.
And then there was the private eye to take care of. He knows everything.
Her political aspirations can afford no compromise.
badge by Doobster @ Mindful Digressions
This post is part of SoCS! Join in now! http://lindaghill.com/2014/10/31/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-november-114/
“And so, Mr. Lennon,” said the Chairman of the school board’s committee on Bringing Healthy Foods into the Cafeterias, “you need to work on introducing more meats and vegetables into your school. As Chief Cook and Bottle Washer, you are the man in charge of obtaining the groceries, are you not?”
“I am,” said Mr. Lennon. “I am also responsible for making sure I buy groceries the children are likely to eat. You have on the list,” and here Mr. Lennon unfolded a sheet of paper and propped up his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, “pork chops, chicken, carrots, corn, and broccoli.” He looked up from his paper and frowned at the Chairman. “And now there is another thing you’d like me to add to this horrendous list?”
The Chairman cleared his throat and leaned his elbows upon his desk.
“All we are saying, Mr. Lennon, is give peas a chance.”
This post is part of SoCS! Find it here: http://lindaghill.wordpress.com/2014/09/12/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-september-1314/
Badge courtesy of Doobster @ Mindful Digressions
I stand here on the porch in the lowering gloom of dusk and I look upon my creations, pondering on what will become of them when I’m gone. I am the last of my generation. My children have passed, stricken before me by the cancer that now takes my air and presents me with fire in its stead. Fire like that which has recently vanished from the western sky, only blacker – poisoned.
I have one grandchild, too young to understand the ramblings of an old man. My notes and journals – they are part of my creations. They are dinosaurs awaiting an excavation that may never come to pass.
I close my eyes and wonder if they will ever again open. My eyelids are tugged by an uncontrollable weight. It’s all right though. My creations will linger here for me. They will see the light of another day, perhaps without the gentle touch of their creator.
“So, Jones,” said the boss as he seated himself behind his desk. “What do you do for fun when you’re alone?”
“Well, sir, I enjoy fishing…”
“No Jones, I mean when you’re alone.”
“Um… well, I sometimes go down into my basement…”
“Yes,” the boss said eagerly.
“…and work on my train set. It’s a 1:160 scale…”
“Jones?” the boss interrupted.
“Yes, sir?”
The boss leaned across the desk, close enough so Jones could see the pores in the man’s nose. They were deep and dark.
“What I want to know,” he wiped his brow, “is what you do for fun when you’re really alone. I mean, completely and utterly alone. Can you share that with me, Jones?”
“Well sir,” Jones blushed, “it’s rather personal. That’s why I do it when I’m alone.”
The boss sat back in his chair, clasped his hands across the expanse of his belly, and twiddled his thumbs. He smiled like a man satisfied that he was about to receive precisely what he wanted.
“I, um…” Jones swallowed. “I like to, um… dress up in my wife’s clothes, sir.”
A grin spread across the boss’s face, lifting his jowls and creasing his eyes. It wasn’t a malicious smile, nor was it meant to mock. It was merely a smile.
Jones relaxed a little.
“Jones, I have something for you.”
“You do?”
The boss reached under his desk and Jones expected him to come out with a gift bag, perhaps with a nice pair of heels or a frilly dress. Instead, a small device rested in the palm of the boss’s hand that looked like a tiny silver doughnut.
Jones leaned forward to have a closer look. “What’s this, sir?”
“It’s a listening device.”
“And what would you like me to do with it?”
“I would like you to break into Kramer’s house and plant it in his bedroom.”
Jones studied the boss’s face. He didn’t look like he was joking.
“Why should I do that, sir?”
“Well you see, Jones,” the boss placed the item on the desk and sat back again, “this is the very listening device we retrieved from your house this morning. I need it put into the next employee’s house to help us determine what he is doing when he is alone. The next one on the list, alphabetically is Kramer.”
“But… why?”
The boss leaned his elbows on his desk and regarded Jones seriously. “We’ve heard rumours, Jones.” He lowered his voice. “I can’t have you telling anyone this. Can I trust you, Jones?”
“Of course, sir.”
“All right. We have reports that say someone in the organization,” he whispered, “has been masturbating.”
Jones’s bottom jaw dropped. “You’re joking!”
The boss shook his head, as grim as night.
“I don’t need to tell you what that means for our company, do I Jones?”
“Of course not, sir!
“Harry Palmer Sterile Products would never be seen the same again!”
Linda G. Hill 