Monday, September 03, 2007
The Flamingo.....
Fithian Rankin unexpectedly sent us the second chapter of his new, and horridly bad, novel The Flamingo at the Door.
We'll have some other updates from the world headquarters this week, but for now here's Chapter Two.
Chapter Two
Misty’s first inclination was to excuse herself from the conversation for a minute or two and quickly run to her bathroom, disrobe somewhat, and check to see if there was a zipper running up her back. She had always liked the color pink, but the thought that she was actually a flamingo was eerie and had never occurred to her. Still, she owned a couple of pink dresses, a pink pair of shoes, and there was a pink rim around the edges of her favorite dishes. When she was a small girl the first crayon totally used up in the deluxe Crayola set, the one that included a sharpener, was always the pink crayon. She colored people pink, the sky, lots of buildings, and even a bird or two. Misty hated it when they actually introduced the flesh colored crayon because it took all the fun out of coloring people pink and then lightly glossing them with red or brown to create correct skin tones. She had once picked up a purple crayon instead of red and she always remembered that being a very strange looking person. Her third grade teacher had remarked that the purple hazed person looked strange yet somehow relaxed and far off, but Misty mostly ignored that critique until years later when she saw Tinky Winky on TV. That was odd, but of course to Misty the British were always a little eccentric.
Misty admired the pink cars Mary Kay gave to her better sales ladies, and she had at one time owned a pink comforter that was only replaced because her fickle cat threw up on it several times after she dragged her back from the neighbors and before the cat defecated in the window box and disappeared again. She was never ever to get the smell out so she disposed of the comforter. Although not a heavy drinker she did adore a rose’ champagne with its delicate pink color, small, tight bubbles and the subtle taste of strawberries. That, of course, always reminded her of the birthmark on Roger’s earlobe - and the same mark on the UPS man’s ear lobe. She only drank champagne a couple of times a year and it was always rose’.
Finally, she had always loved the thought of Florida, though she had only been there courtesy of the Travel Channel. In her mind all this sounded very “flamingoesque.”
“Could it be?” she thought. She immediately dismissed this thought because she could not remember ever having any inclination to lay an egg or sit on a nest. And while her skin would occasionally peel if she spent too much time in the sun without the proper use of sun-block she had no memory of molting. It’s just not something she ever did.
No, if there was an imposter between the two of them it had to be the handsome, pink bird standing on the stoop in front of her.
Back at the door the bird continued to speak to her as a car sped up to her house and stopped quickly on the street just to the far side of the hedge that Roger insisted that she plant. She had dutifully planted the hedge, though it made mowing the grass more difficult. The flamingo saw the car too.
“I’ll be back soon’” he said. “Please be careful and don’t tell anyone I was here.”
Misty quickly nodded and the bird disappeared around the corner of the house. She knew that she wasn’t going to tell anyone that the flamingo had been there. If she did mention that there had been a flamingo on her stoop she was certain that the folks from the local Audubon Society would overwhelm her little place with their cameras, notebooks and binoculars like the time she thought she had seen an extinct passenger pigeon sitting in her woods. Those people had descended upon her home like Bill Clinton on a White House intern. They only left after determining that the bird in question was just a directionally challenged homing pigeon. It took her a week to clean up the mess they made. Now that she thought about it, that was about the same time her cat decided to move down the road.
After ducking around the corner of the house and heading toward the woods the flamingo bumped into a garden gnome sitting in the yard. He quickly uprighted himself and ducked into the bushes on the edge of the woods in an attempt to conceal himself. It’s very difficult to conceal oneself if one is a flamingo.
“What a strange looking garden gnome,” the flamingo thought. “I’ve never seen one wearing a fur coat.”
Misty heard the noise from around the corner of the house and knew that bird had tripped over her gnome. It had been part of the package that Roger had sent her from Nome before he disappeared. She had placed it between the wood’s edge and her bedroom window so it could protect her. The gnome had faithfully stood guard in that spot ever since. Another part of that last package from Roger was a gold handled ulu with an inscription carved into the blade. Misty had never been able to decipher the pictographs or whatever they were so she never understood what the message meant. She had always meant to take the ulu to the local college to see if they could help, but before she did so they closed their Department of Innuit Studies for lack of students majoring in that field and because the professor took up ceramics instead. The last piece of the package was a ten pound bag of potatoes. Misty planted them. They never came up.
The car sat idling just beyond the hedge but no one got out of the car. Misty slowly closed the door and peered through the pane of glass. The setting sun cast a pink glow on the curtains covering to glass in the door.
After several minutes Misty was about to abandon her observation through the glass when a rear door to the car finally opened. A very strange looking woman stepped out of the car, brushed herself off, plumped her hair and walked through the gap in the hedge and headed up the sidewalk toward the front stoop where the flamingo had been just a minute or so before. For some strange reason Misty sensed that she was about to experience and adventure. It had been sometime since she had and adventure. It was always Roger who had the adventures and obviously his last one had not ended on a particularly high note.
The woman knocked on the door and Misty waited just a few seconds before opening it.
“Hello,” the woman said, “my name is Lydia Odor and I’m looking for Misty Moon.”
“Yes,” Misty thought, “I’ve landed in an adventure.”
We'll have some other updates from the world headquarters this week, but for now here's Chapter Two.
Chapter Two
Misty’s first inclination was to excuse herself from the conversation for a minute or two and quickly run to her bathroom, disrobe somewhat, and check to see if there was a zipper running up her back. She had always liked the color pink, but the thought that she was actually a flamingo was eerie and had never occurred to her. Still, she owned a couple of pink dresses, a pink pair of shoes, and there was a pink rim around the edges of her favorite dishes. When she was a small girl the first crayon totally used up in the deluxe Crayola set, the one that included a sharpener, was always the pink crayon. She colored people pink, the sky, lots of buildings, and even a bird or two. Misty hated it when they actually introduced the flesh colored crayon because it took all the fun out of coloring people pink and then lightly glossing them with red or brown to create correct skin tones. She had once picked up a purple crayon instead of red and she always remembered that being a very strange looking person. Her third grade teacher had remarked that the purple hazed person looked strange yet somehow relaxed and far off, but Misty mostly ignored that critique until years later when she saw Tinky Winky on TV. That was odd, but of course to Misty the British were always a little eccentric.
Misty admired the pink cars Mary Kay gave to her better sales ladies, and she had at one time owned a pink comforter that was only replaced because her fickle cat threw up on it several times after she dragged her back from the neighbors and before the cat defecated in the window box and disappeared again. She was never ever to get the smell out so she disposed of the comforter. Although not a heavy drinker she did adore a rose’ champagne with its delicate pink color, small, tight bubbles and the subtle taste of strawberries. That, of course, always reminded her of the birthmark on Roger’s earlobe - and the same mark on the UPS man’s ear lobe. She only drank champagne a couple of times a year and it was always rose’.
Finally, she had always loved the thought of Florida, though she had only been there courtesy of the Travel Channel. In her mind all this sounded very “flamingoesque.”
“Could it be?” she thought. She immediately dismissed this thought because she could not remember ever having any inclination to lay an egg or sit on a nest. And while her skin would occasionally peel if she spent too much time in the sun without the proper use of sun-block she had no memory of molting. It’s just not something she ever did.
No, if there was an imposter between the two of them it had to be the handsome, pink bird standing on the stoop in front of her.
Back at the door the bird continued to speak to her as a car sped up to her house and stopped quickly on the street just to the far side of the hedge that Roger insisted that she plant. She had dutifully planted the hedge, though it made mowing the grass more difficult. The flamingo saw the car too.
“I’ll be back soon’” he said. “Please be careful and don’t tell anyone I was here.”
Misty quickly nodded and the bird disappeared around the corner of the house. She knew that she wasn’t going to tell anyone that the flamingo had been there. If she did mention that there had been a flamingo on her stoop she was certain that the folks from the local Audubon Society would overwhelm her little place with their cameras, notebooks and binoculars like the time she thought she had seen an extinct passenger pigeon sitting in her woods. Those people had descended upon her home like Bill Clinton on a White House intern. They only left after determining that the bird in question was just a directionally challenged homing pigeon. It took her a week to clean up the mess they made. Now that she thought about it, that was about the same time her cat decided to move down the road.
After ducking around the corner of the house and heading toward the woods the flamingo bumped into a garden gnome sitting in the yard. He quickly uprighted himself and ducked into the bushes on the edge of the woods in an attempt to conceal himself. It’s very difficult to conceal oneself if one is a flamingo.
“What a strange looking garden gnome,” the flamingo thought. “I’ve never seen one wearing a fur coat.”
Misty heard the noise from around the corner of the house and knew that bird had tripped over her gnome. It had been part of the package that Roger had sent her from Nome before he disappeared. She had placed it between the wood’s edge and her bedroom window so it could protect her. The gnome had faithfully stood guard in that spot ever since. Another part of that last package from Roger was a gold handled ulu with an inscription carved into the blade. Misty had never been able to decipher the pictographs or whatever they were so she never understood what the message meant. She had always meant to take the ulu to the local college to see if they could help, but before she did so they closed their Department of Innuit Studies for lack of students majoring in that field and because the professor took up ceramics instead. The last piece of the package was a ten pound bag of potatoes. Misty planted them. They never came up.
The car sat idling just beyond the hedge but no one got out of the car. Misty slowly closed the door and peered through the pane of glass. The setting sun cast a pink glow on the curtains covering to glass in the door.
After several minutes Misty was about to abandon her observation through the glass when a rear door to the car finally opened. A very strange looking woman stepped out of the car, brushed herself off, plumped her hair and walked through the gap in the hedge and headed up the sidewalk toward the front stoop where the flamingo had been just a minute or so before. For some strange reason Misty sensed that she was about to experience and adventure. It had been sometime since she had and adventure. It was always Roger who had the adventures and obviously his last one had not ended on a particularly high note.
The woman knocked on the door and Misty waited just a few seconds before opening it.
“Hello,” the woman said, “my name is Lydia Odor and I’m looking for Misty Moon.”
“Yes,” Misty thought, “I’ve landed in an adventure.”
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