Curdle

Curdle

I like nothing better at night or on languid afternoons

than to curl up on the couch with Tessa Hadley

reading me one of her tales,

familiar yet fresh, cozy yet curdling at the core

like a Victorian murder mystery

What Happens in the Hedges ….

The problem was I wasn’t getting any and I was pissed off by those who were —- and the timing was dreadful, 6a.m. after a heavy night.

It wouldn’t have been so bad — in fact I probably wouldn’t have heard it at all —-if I hadn’t opened the house up before hitting the sack but the bureau had predicted gully breezes during the night, just the thing to cool the house down after the heatwave. So I heard it loudly and clearly. But what was it?

I had to get up and find out. Of course, soon as I go outside, the noise stops.

So I stand still. It starts again. Meek little noises and a furious flapping . It comes from the hedge. High up.

Hey! I call out. Hey?

Just then a head pops out, glaring at me as if I am the intruder and not it.

What the fuck are you staring at? He asks.

Now I’m not in the habit of speaking to pigeons even ones that speak to me first but this one clearly has an attitude.

I get the leaf blower. It isn’t a 44 magnum but it blows them right away.

That afternoon they’re at it again, he and his paramour, on the clothes line humping amongst all the clean washing.

Hey! I say. Hey!

He looks down , glaring at me. Don’t even think about it! He says.

You’re over the top, mate, way over the top. You need taking down a peg or two.

He groans. She groans. Even I groan at the gratuitousness of such a pun.

Ahh well, pigeons will be pigeons I say and head inside for a snooze.

The Ninth Crypt

 

I am about to read a book called ‘The Ninth Crypt’,

A novel I acquired for twenty dollars at the supermarket

But fear I may have made a grave mistake:

Browsing through the blurb I see mention of only

The ninth crypt, all well and good, but what about

The other eight? Perhaps the author is planning prequels

Based on the success of this volume but seeing he is

Now a septuagenarian who came to writing late,

This is most unlikely; perhaps if I dig zealously

Through the text I shall disinter enough cryptic clues

To keep me happy — but at 400 pages !!! I await

Clarification; in the meantime this tombstone of a novel

Shall stand on my shelf of great unread books.

 

Will You Stop Laughing Please!

 

 

He laughed loudly.

 

A door closed behind him.

 

He laughed more loudly still.

 

Another door closed behind him. Slammed!

 

He continued. He chortled. He guffawed. He split his sides.

 

A text message came through.

 

“Will you STOP laughing, please? You’re annoying me.”

 

No, he said to himself. No. It’s my house and I’ll laugh if I want to.

 

And he laughed even more loudly.

 

The walls laughed with him. They too were beginning to split their sides.

 

A door opened quietly behind him.

 

The man was too busy laughing to notice.

 

He stifled his laughter as the cord tightened around his throat.

 

This was no laughing matter.