He isn’t my type. I’m a mover, a shaker, a rocker, a punk. He’s a brainiac, a nerd, a techie, a geek. I live for the crowd, the chaos, the smoke, the applause. He lives for the scholarships, the level ups, the test scores, the hacks. He trips over my amplifier cord, opens his mouth, and music pours out:
“Awkward to a fault- Contents of a graceless life Spewed across the floor.”
As he sprinted toward the crack in the wall, his thoughts, a virtual ticker tape of endless possibilities, clicked off the methods in which he could employ this most clever tool. It took him less than a quarter mile to conclude, nothing would remain out of his reach if the crack’s gifts were properly harnessed- and exploited correctly.
If his unrehearsed subliminal suggestions were sufficient to entice a natural spring to become a fountain of warm milk, why shouldn’t he at least try to get the wall to produce something of real value. Like money..
A gifted litigator by profession, words were the tools of his trade. If anyone could craft a request, formidable enough to produce the desired end result, it was Tam Rogan.
First and foremost, he understood that if his plan was going to work, every thought he allowed to pass through his mind in the presence of the crack was crucial. Therefore, preparation was paramount.
The sun had long reached its zenith by the time he deemed his argument polished enough to present it to the crack. Taking three deep cleansing breaths, he cleared his mind of all divergent influences, stepped into the flow of spring water bubbling from the crack in wall, and launched into his premeditated recitation.
No sooner had he concluded his expertly crafted opening statement, when from somewhere out on the footpath, an insufferably irritating nasal voice intruded upon his brilliantly crafted narration of thought.
Always quick with a rebuttal, Tam’s brain sprung into immediate action and before he could sensor it, “Would you stick a cork in it!” burst onto the horizon of his cerebrum overtaking the elaborate scheme of thought he had so expertly orchestrated.
The crack in the wall, followed his cerebral direction to a T.
When Margaret closed her eyes, Harold was no longer the comely shoe salesman, sitting at the foot of the angled fitting stool on which she presently rested her scantily bootied size 11.
Much to her delight, he was now reclining seductively on a studded leather incline bench, muscles rippling, skin glistening with the well wrought glow of an intense workout. Her delicately placed, perfectly painted toes serving as resistance while he, groaning with primordial pleasure, lifted his too taut core- closer, closer.
So close she could smell the virility of his testosterone laden sweat, when he intimately indulged himself on her delectable digits; devouring with them-any desire she may have had of remaining virtuous to her virginity.
Her titillating toes still languishing on his luscious lips- Harold spoke.
“Sorry Ma’am, but you’re gonna to have to uncurl your toes if I’m ever gonna fit you with this oxford.”
Dickens wrote, “he’d make a lovely corpse.” and I misconstrued it.. I imbued it with all the pent up passions of a woman lost, alone far from a home she never had. Unfulfilled, unloved. Unable to make a life for herself, to ever be anything more than she was when she defined herself by her love for you..
Dickens wrote, “he’d make a lovely corpse.” and what I twisted it round to, was that I should remember you as someone you never were… That I should chop you up in little pieces, savoring the pretty ones carrying them around in my pocket fingering them when I was feeling old, or lonely, or used up. That I should ingest them in small portions until dream sodden memories, became my Eucharist. The body and the blood of the life, I sucked out of you…
Dickens wrote, “he’d make a lovely corpse.” But it was I that chose to make true…..
If ye’ll just take a seat, in the sun there, ya see, I’ll tell ye a wee tale, of how I came ta be. You may think it a fib But I’ve no reason ta lie It’s the god’s honest truth Cross me heart, hope ta die.
’twas me mother who told it and she wouldn’t lie she would rather cut out her heart – or an eye than spread a non truth and so i decree i meself am the spawn, of the screamin’ banshee!
as me sweet mother told it twas a quiet, dark night the candles was lit and the fire was bright they was havin’ a sip of the irish whiskey, when outta the mist come the screamin’ banshee!
they heard her a comin’ but no one did run as they was tippin’ a bit and havin’ great fun, not one was about to abandon the bottle yet there she was- comin’ at ’em full throttle!
the menfolk they cowered behind the women’s full skirts not a brass ball among ’em the no good irish flirts! and as she approached, it became clear to see she had a wee babe in her arms- and that babby was me!
“quit yer whinin’ ye wankers you’ve nothin’ to fear i am here to give, not to take you got lucky this year! i can’t find a sitter me old mans on a drunk and there’s no one to mind this, my wee little punk!”
then she handed me off and fled into the wood not screamin’ at all rather laughin’- but good! they stood there all quite each not quite believin’ the rare piece of luck they’d been blessed with this ev’nin.
that luck quick gave out it went straight to ye midden as they lifted the blanket to see what they’d been given. twas the face of an angel all pink skinned and red haired “a little piece of irish heaven!” me auntie rosie declared.
and just at that moment for no reason at all me face wrinkled up and i started to bawl. i let out a scream heard from here to the sea and erased any doubt- that i meself am the spawn -of the screamin’ banshee!