Let me tell you about Mister Levi. I was as close to him as anyone. You know, he was a genius. Always thinking how to better products or meet people's needs with quality work clothing. But it was the little things, like me, that truly set him apart. Mister Levi gave me my start himself. He said, “Put full-pockets in back, and the front ones should be crescent-shaped from the first belt-loop across to join the top outer seam. And I want a little 'secret pocket' for my watch.” Genius, he was, 'cause I sure seen more than watches.
It's exactly 7:08 in the evening. It's starting to rain and there's a 98% chance of thunder. It's been 25 days since my last victim. However, such a shame that Mrs Peaman is going to miss this delightful storm. She's also never going to hear the birds' morning song outside the window again. Oh well such a shame to let the milk, eggs and bacon go to waste.I'll take her shopping home. As she would say, 'There is starving children.'
Hello Mrs Peaman. Tonight I'm going to try your omelette recipe. It all starts with cracking a good egg. Jess left home at 10.40. At 10.50 she enjoyed refreshments with lonely Mrs Webster and then went the long way to arrive at 13.05 for lunch at The Green Man. Jess left gifts for the landlord.
At 14.05, Jess explored the park and village wood, loving the natural world. Whether it loved her was another matter. At 17.00, Jess was home waiting for her owner. Jess mewed. It was nearly time for the “where have you been, I’m starving” act. All Jess hoped was the landlord wouldn’t tell her owner just how many dead mice Jess brought him. Had she the power of telekinesis she would have chosen a simple band, a melancholy mood ring. Instead, her knuckles are blanched as they cling to their kitchen sink. Her silence is motionless aside from the gentle rustle of her skirt as her waist cinches itself to avoid his insincere hands. He retreats to stand in the doorway. He is a stray note pledging its allegiance to a known piece of music out of fear, ‘I love you so much’. She wonders how much is ‘so much’ and regrets that the plot of their story is impossible to follow.
Once, the doorbell rang in the evening, but when Sid opened the door, there was no one. The doorbell rang again at the dead of night, waking Sid and his wife. His wife tried to prevent him from getting up, but he said, “Maybe someone’s in an emergency. I won’t open till I know who it is.” When he went up and asked, though, no one replied, so he returned to bed.
Intermittently, the doorbell kept ringing. They ignored it. There was a pregnant pause, and then, suddenly, they heard glass crashing on the floor of their adjoining dining room. The road was long and her heart was heavy, but Emilia kept on walking. One foot forward then the next and on it went one step after another. She couldn't remember how long it had been since she last saw someone on the road, it must have been hours, or felt like it. All she had for company now was the rhythmic rasping of her laboured breath and the staccato crunch of frozen ground beneath her feet. The dark began to close inexorably around her, carrying in its wake those familiar spectres of her childhood. She was no longer alone.
Both of us tug as I attempt retreat from the table, his frigid hand wedged in my pocket. I disengage said hand, turn to set dials, then re-approach. Circling the enameled table, I’m stymied once again. I slowly return his hand to his midsection and retrieve the scalpel, my eyes locked on the offender. While focused on the incision, a hand quietly slides downward, grasping my pocket. I startle, pulling away. As his hand flops from my lab coat, I reach over, raising cold elbows on blocks. Then, folding hands together atop his supine form, I’m liberated at last.
The Mistake was lying in his dining room, where he’d left it that afternoon. He had retired to the study after it’d happened, annoyed that the bad voice had made him do something he shouldn’t have. Eventually he’d telephoned her and soon she was at his door. He showed her the Mistake with its staring eyes and the bloody mess it had made of his favourite Persian rug. She stroked his hand, which always soothed him. “Don’t worry, my boy, I will sort this out,” she said. “What else are mothers for, if not to clean up after their children?”
Grandma liked to feed the birds in the winter. She had a special bird feeder with a spring-loaded perch that closed the opening to the seeds if a squirrel stepped on it. Grandma had a long-standing war going on with the squirrels.
"Ha!" Grandma would exclaim triumphantly when a squirrel slid down the cylindrical bird feeder and fell to the ground. One afternoon, I decided on impulse to visit Grandma. There she was standing in her snowy yard tossing peanuts around. Squirrels dashed and skittered to retrieve them. "Squirrelies, peanuts," Grandma called gaily. I guess everyone has secrets. Dark clouds rush across the sky, accompanied by strong wind, lightning and peals of thunder. As it starts raining, the priest nods his head nervously. Someone rings the temple bells.
Ram starts tying the mangal sutra around my neck. The angry roar from the crowd is deafening. Ram’s father leads it towards us menacingly. The hands over my neck quiver. “Stop,” the man shouts. The hands move again. Steady hands tie the knot. “She’s my wife now.” Waiting to see if he would approve a girl from a lesser caste, I tighten my grip over the cyanide tablets. Lifelong friends, they sat comfortably staring ahead.
The bedroom door buckle against the voices escalating in the hallway. “Looks like the rain stopped. Perhaps we’ll take a walk later.” Turning to hide her unease, she looked out the window with a silent scream. Returning, “Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee? A glass of wine? Perhaps you’d like to change into something more comfortable?” Emma leaned over, lifting a caftan from the open suitcase and turned her back to her friend. “Can you help me with the buttons?” she signed. “I loved the crystal buttons on this wedding dress.” It’s daughter’s first solo, and mom repeats her advice:
Look out for the big, heavy ones — they move more slowly and are easy to spot. The leaner ones are usually faster-moving. But they’re often looking down or otherwise distracted and not alert to their surroundings. Dusk and dawn are good hours. Mind how you fly. Swoop down quickly, quietly. No sightseeing or dawdling. Remember, the fat ones are more filling, the skinnier ones crunchier. And any with those popular electronic devices will offer an extra tingle. Earthlings make such great snacks. A group of people entered her room silently with lit candles on a cake to find silence. Not sure of what had happened, some of them went out to find an answer while some waited nervously, gazing at the clock that wouldn't pause.
As the time reached the final five minutes before midnight, the doctor came in and stated that she had peacefully departed an hour ago. With bereft heart, they unlit the candles, left it and went. She had a twin who was born after her after midnight. She lingered, relit the candles and blew them out at midnight. Bill went to space this week—a pre-Halloween, ten-minute round-tripper from rural Texas to a celestial zone known as the Haunted Karman Line.
That was the dimension where aliens lurked. Bill said it was a “profound experience,” and for good reason. As he gazed out the window, he was intrigued to see a three-eye monkey man with the wingspan of a small aircraft. Telepathy was their common language. Monkey Man, “Being on the physical plane is like riding the economy class of consciousness.” Bill, “That’s cosmic, you’re tripping me out, Alien Monkey.” Monkey Man, “Welcome to my haunted dream Bill.” “Thank goodness, home at last!” exclaims Sally-Ann as she kicks off her travelling shoes.
“An eleven-hour flight is a bit of a grind.” agrees Hank. “But it was worth all the extra covid tests and forms. I would do it again once I get over my jet-lag.” “And once our savings account recovers. Maybe we should stay home for a while?” “Well, the house could use some attention, and the garden needs work,” Hank conceded. At breakfast on Sunday two weeks later, Hank inquired, “Sally-Ann, did you see that advertisement on the television about Nile Cruises? What do you think?” The newlyweds stood hand in hand on the edge of the sand.
Having savoured the smoke of the Bong tree and danced by the light of the moon, they put to sea. They woke with water kissing their toes. Puss baled with the runcible spoon while Owl flew to identify a distant ship. The skull and crossbones were reassuring, since their boat was borrowed, the honey stolen, and the fiver forged. They dined on mice and saffron rice with young Puss taken on as ship's cat. And shanties rang when the pirates sang, and Owl played guitar in a hat. I don’t mind dying myself; I’m old and achy and have outlived all my family and friends.
I remember Mildred’s infectious laughter, Irv’s generosity, Molly’s magnificent piano playing. I remember Mom’s voice as she read to me, Dad’s holding my first bike steady. I remember John’s courtship and love through the years. I remember watching our daughter grow up into a lovely young woman whose life was cut short by a drunk driver. All these people and more now live on only in my memories. I don’t mind dying myself, but I don’t want all of them to die again. ‘Cynthia and John negged all through the meeting,’ Carol seethed.
‘That’s disgusting.’ Brian, averted his eyes from his newspaper. ‘At their age!’ ‘They’re worse now they’re older,’ said Carol. ‘The chairman let them know he wasn’t impressed and we all gave them disapproving looks or but it made no difference. They kept on.’ ‘Was John’s wife there, and Carol’s husband?’ Brian lowered the newspaper again. ‘Oh yes, they gave them as many looks as we did.’ ‘Who’ve thought the library committee would become a hot-bed of sex,’ Brian sniggered. ‘Oh Brian! I said negged, not necked. Read your newspaper!’ Tom was in paradise on his vacation to Hawaii. The beaches were sandy, the sun and breeze felt spectacular, and escaping from life was just what he needed. However, he couldn't help thinking he was forgetting something important.
“I took out the trash. I told family where I was. What am I missing?” Then it came to him. “Snap! My writing!” He texted his writing group, begging for forgiveness. They were less than sympathetic. “If you love Hawaii so much, why not publish there?” Tom's stories continued. But it just wasn't the same. He missed his buddies and his hometown. L’Empire de la Mort.
The living queue passes beneath the sign to commence the 1.5 km walk along damp, uneven ground, past walls of glistening bones and grinning skulls. Beneath subdued lighting we gaze in horror at the myriad lives doomed to eternal slumber in these dark, dank underground tombs. “Stay calm and close to the person in front of you,” the Paris Catacombs tour guide yells when the lights snuff out. We hobble along in deathly silence until light is restored. A raggle-tagle procession of reassembled skeletons, bones rattling with mirth, has joined the queue. La Mort sont apparus. There were three of them, two women and a man. They were led out and each tied to a strong post near the wall, with sandbags behind them. As the firing squad lined up, the commanding officer pinned a large letter 'F' to each target's chest.
The charges – all 'top box' offences – were read out: failure to include their name as well as the title; putting capitals in all the wrong places; and, worst of all, failure to insert a comma in the correct place. The condemned were invited to say 100 final words. On the 101st, the rifles fired. Isabel had lungs like a sergeant major. What will she be like when she’s thirteen and what would Super-nanny do, Gary wondered as he knelt in front of his raging three-year-old.
He looked her in the eye, holding her gently but firmly. “Isabel, calm down.” The volume intensified but the only discernible word was ‘NO’. “I’m sorry but we have to go home now...” “No-no-NO!” “Isabel, this behaviour is not acceptable…” BANG! An enraged three-year-old head slammed into his nose, throwing him backwards. “NO-NO-NO-NO-NO!” Through the tears and the nosebleed, Gary smiled. That’s my girl, he thought. He leans back in his chair. What now? he thinks, as if there’s even a choice. Because Lisa has to die. She knows too much. And she’ll spill. He hadn’t expected to be so torn. After all, he knew from the beginning it would come to this. But she’s really grown on him. What if... No...she has to go. Maybe he could make it look like an accident. Or a home break-in gone horribly awry. Or drugs...an overdose. Everyone knows she’s been depressed. Yeah...that’ll work. Smiling, he slides the chair up to the keyboard and types: “Chapter 6 – Lisa’s Demise” Dulcie stared at the upper deck of the luxury cruise, “She is so well-maintained.”
Shirley stared, too. “She is probably well over 40. But you know these filthy rich and their access to the best of trainers...” Mary looked anxiously at the lower deck, hoping the two women did not recognize her. She adjusted her expensive mink coat. She had saved every penny and waited 350 days for these brief moments of joy. Her phone buzzed; it was her employer. “Emergency! Jason has a runny nose and Jemma wakes at midnight. When will you return?” Mary sighed. These filthy rich! Another funeral I am attending with Grandma.
The minister announces that there will be refreshments in the community hall, provided by the wonderful ladies of the church. Grandma brightens up convincing me this is the highlight of the service. We enter the hall, see several proud women with the same permed hairdo, in aprons, busy filling plates. I hear someone ask one of them if there’s any mustard. The lady replied, “No, he loved mustard, so it was buried with him”. Grandma voices her appreciation to the women, and I anticipate a reply of “Come again” but they nod, solemnly. |
"Classic"
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