Friday, August 17, 2007
The Flamingo at the Door
Well, the RBR is back a little earlier than expected. To start things off we are presenting Chapter One of an incredibly bad novel by Mr. Fithian Rankin of the headquarters staff. More chapters will be published as they become available....
The Flamingo At The Door
It was dusk and Misty Moon sat alone, brooding in her small house just outside the town limits, hard against the woods. It was a lonely house and had been that way for years since he left.
A tear ran ever so lightly down her cheek. This was not a tear of pain or agony, like when you walk into a room in the morning and find that one of your two gerbils died overnight. Those are really sad tears, but these tears were more like walking into the same room three days later and finding the other gerbil licking itself because it’s life-mate was now fertilizing the flowers in the garden just to the right of the back door, and the remaining gerbil was sad because there was no other gerbil to lick - thus it was licking itself. Even gerbils seem to be able to love.
It had been a long day and Misty was just sad that the house was so empty. Even her cat had decided that she liked the folks down the road better and had taken up residence there. Every time Misty retrieved her the cat used the window boxes outside the bedroom as a litter box and then sauntered back down the road to resume her life.
There was a knock at the door. Actually it wasn’t really a knock, but it was a definite sound at the door. It wasn’t a rapping or banging, but it was none-the-less a rhythmic sound, almost a pecking at the door.
“Roger?” she said hopefully.
Roger was her long departed love who had left many years ago to kayak down the Yukon River. The last she heard of him was when he sent her a package from Nome after completing the trip. Ever since then she had hopefully uttered his name each time there had been a sound at her door. It wasn’t really a problem except at Halloween when the most of the local kids came trick or treating. By the time those days were over she was usually hoarse from saying, “Roger?”
She never knew why Roger didn’t come back. Maybe it was that her weight gradually crept up - Roger had always loved her when she was thin. Perhaps it was because she was addicted to the cheese curds he had so thoughtfully brought her from a trip to Wisconsin. They really were tasty and her weight had edged up a little. Even after Roger was gone she had continued to order the cheese curds from Wisconsin, not because she had to, but more because the UPS man who delivered them reminded her so much of Roger, especially because of the strawberry birthmark both had on their left ear lobes. She would order the cheese curds twice monthly and without fail the strawberry marked deliveryman would be at her door. She always asked that a signature be required because if she didn’t they would just leave them at the front door and she wouldn’t get to hear his lovely voice barking out, “Package for Ms. Moon.”
Cheese curds are such strange things. Misty smiled every time she watched the evening news and heard the reports from the Iraqi region of Kurdistan. She could just picture a bunch of cheese curds, perhaps stuck together to resemble little Michelin men in orange and decked out in Islamic robes, with little beards attached to their small chins. It was the only thing about the war she liked. The image always brightened her evening.
She had finally cured her addiction, partly because the doctor warned her that her cholesterol was creeping into the danger zone, but mostly because UPS changed drivers on her route and the young girl that now delivered the route didn’t remind her of Roger at all. She reminded Misty more of her fickle cat.
Again she heard a pecking at the door.
“It’s Roger,” she said as she rose from her chair and walked to the door.
After unbolting the three locks she slowly opened the door to find a rather large flamingo standing on her front stoop.
“Oh,” she said. “May I help you?”
The flamingo cocked his head and said, “I was looking for Misty Moon.” Misty was taken aback since she wasn’t used to seeing flamingos on her front stoop.
“We don’t get many flamingos in this area,” she said.
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” the bird replied.
Then a thought struck her. Thoughts always seemed to strike Misty, like the one time she ventured to New England to attend her Uncle Warren’s funeral on a frosty morning. Uncle Warren had lived a long life, but had finally became tired of all the hired men showing up at his farm to die so he decided to die himself. The hired men just showed up, went into the barn and went permanently to sleep. Uncle Warren always had to call the undertaker to remove them. As she stood staring into the casket looking at Uncle Warren the thought struck her that she had never tasted a rutabaga. It was strange, because to her knowledge Uncle Warren never grew rutabagas on his farm. For several years Misty wondered why she thought of rutabagas when looking at Uncle Warren, but she finally decided that it was just one of those things that happen from time to time. It was the only time she had ever thought of rutabagas. Strange indeed.
No, this wasn’t that kind of unconnected thought when she looked and listened to the flamingo on her stoop. This was a definite thought connected to the moment.
“I didn’t know flamingos could talk,” she said flatly.
“Only the best of us can,” the bird replied.
Then the thought hit Misty.
“Say, how do I know you’re not a man dressed up in a flamingo suit?” she asked.
Without batting an eye the bird replied, “You don’t. But by the same token how do I know you aren’t really a flamingo dressed up in woman suit?”
Misty was puzzled..
To be continued.
The Flamingo At The Door
It was dusk and Misty Moon sat alone, brooding in her small house just outside the town limits, hard against the woods. It was a lonely house and had been that way for years since he left.
A tear ran ever so lightly down her cheek. This was not a tear of pain or agony, like when you walk into a room in the morning and find that one of your two gerbils died overnight. Those are really sad tears, but these tears were more like walking into the same room three days later and finding the other gerbil licking itself because it’s life-mate was now fertilizing the flowers in the garden just to the right of the back door, and the remaining gerbil was sad because there was no other gerbil to lick - thus it was licking itself. Even gerbils seem to be able to love.
It had been a long day and Misty was just sad that the house was so empty. Even her cat had decided that she liked the folks down the road better and had taken up residence there. Every time Misty retrieved her the cat used the window boxes outside the bedroom as a litter box and then sauntered back down the road to resume her life.
There was a knock at the door. Actually it wasn’t really a knock, but it was a definite sound at the door. It wasn’t a rapping or banging, but it was none-the-less a rhythmic sound, almost a pecking at the door.
“Roger?” she said hopefully.
Roger was her long departed love who had left many years ago to kayak down the Yukon River. The last she heard of him was when he sent her a package from Nome after completing the trip. Ever since then she had hopefully uttered his name each time there had been a sound at her door. It wasn’t really a problem except at Halloween when the most of the local kids came trick or treating. By the time those days were over she was usually hoarse from saying, “Roger?”
She never knew why Roger didn’t come back. Maybe it was that her weight gradually crept up - Roger had always loved her when she was thin. Perhaps it was because she was addicted to the cheese curds he had so thoughtfully brought her from a trip to Wisconsin. They really were tasty and her weight had edged up a little. Even after Roger was gone she had continued to order the cheese curds from Wisconsin, not because she had to, but more because the UPS man who delivered them reminded her so much of Roger, especially because of the strawberry birthmark both had on their left ear lobes. She would order the cheese curds twice monthly and without fail the strawberry marked deliveryman would be at her door. She always asked that a signature be required because if she didn’t they would just leave them at the front door and she wouldn’t get to hear his lovely voice barking out, “Package for Ms. Moon.”
Cheese curds are such strange things. Misty smiled every time she watched the evening news and heard the reports from the Iraqi region of Kurdistan. She could just picture a bunch of cheese curds, perhaps stuck together to resemble little Michelin men in orange and decked out in Islamic robes, with little beards attached to their small chins. It was the only thing about the war she liked. The image always brightened her evening.
She had finally cured her addiction, partly because the doctor warned her that her cholesterol was creeping into the danger zone, but mostly because UPS changed drivers on her route and the young girl that now delivered the route didn’t remind her of Roger at all. She reminded Misty more of her fickle cat.
Again she heard a pecking at the door.
“It’s Roger,” she said as she rose from her chair and walked to the door.
After unbolting the three locks she slowly opened the door to find a rather large flamingo standing on her front stoop.
“Oh,” she said. “May I help you?”
The flamingo cocked his head and said, “I was looking for Misty Moon.” Misty was taken aback since she wasn’t used to seeing flamingos on her front stoop.
“We don’t get many flamingos in this area,” she said.
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” the bird replied.
Then a thought struck her. Thoughts always seemed to strike Misty, like the one time she ventured to New England to attend her Uncle Warren’s funeral on a frosty morning. Uncle Warren had lived a long life, but had finally became tired of all the hired men showing up at his farm to die so he decided to die himself. The hired men just showed up, went into the barn and went permanently to sleep. Uncle Warren always had to call the undertaker to remove them. As she stood staring into the casket looking at Uncle Warren the thought struck her that she had never tasted a rutabaga. It was strange, because to her knowledge Uncle Warren never grew rutabagas on his farm. For several years Misty wondered why she thought of rutabagas when looking at Uncle Warren, but she finally decided that it was just one of those things that happen from time to time. It was the only time she had ever thought of rutabagas. Strange indeed.
No, this wasn’t that kind of unconnected thought when she looked and listened to the flamingo on her stoop. This was a definite thought connected to the moment.
“I didn’t know flamingos could talk,” she said flatly.
“Only the best of us can,” the bird replied.
Then the thought hit Misty.
“Say, how do I know you’re not a man dressed up in a flamingo suit?” she asked.
Without batting an eye the bird replied, “You don’t. But by the same token how do I know you aren’t really a flamingo dressed up in woman suit?”
Misty was puzzled..
To be continued.
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