2623. Potted plants

Gillian was an enthusiastic, and successful, propagator of potted plants.

The last thing her now ex-husband did before permanently leaving the house was to spray all her plants with weed killer.

Gillian cottoned on about a week later as to why her plants were dying. She thought of revenge and dismissed the thought immediately. It can’t be construed as revenge if the wheels had been set in motion prior to the deed demanding revenge.

Yes, she would leave things exactly as they had been arranged. Not only would he be wiped off the face of the earth, but the Hells Angels Gang had paid her good money for information that would lead to his whereabouts. She’d use some of the money to get more plants.

2291. Midnight mystery

Every time the clock strikes midnight, the entire house goes dark for 15 minutes. It doesn’t just go dark; everything switches off. I don’t find it scary, but it’s a nuisance. My girlfriend, who lives with me, finds it a bit scary however. I have to reset my alarm clock. I have to reset the oven clock, and the microwave clock, and the coffee machine clock. The night light above the garage door turns on when the power returns, only to not go off until it is reset. But the biggest hassle of all is that unless I thought to set it earlier, the bread-maker turns off in the middle of its cycle and there is no bread in the morning.

Needless to say, I called an electrician. He checked everything and said there was nothing wrong with anything and it shouldn’t happen. I got the feeling he didn’t believe me. He left, saying the only possible explanation was that things were being turned off by the supply company. Why don’t I phone them?

So I phoned them and all they said was don’t be silly. There’s no reason in the world why they would cut the electricity to my house for 15 minutes every midnight.  It was a bit of a relief because my ex-wife works at the supply company and I was afraid I might have struck her on the phone. She despises me and we’d be incapable of having a civil conversation. So luckily I didn’t get her when I called the power company. But it still doesn’t solve my problem as to why the entire house goes dark for 15 minutes every midnight.

2247. A visit to Yellowstone

Tamzin was sure of one thing: her husband Trevor had been unfaithful. She had hired a detective. The detective was very expensive but in the long run it paid off. Trevor had a number of alliances with a good number of women.

Tamzin said nothing. She bided her time.

She arranged their annual vacation. “I’ve never been to Yellowstone National Park,” she said. “It would be terrible if it exploded in a gigantic volcanic eruption and we hadn’t seen it!”

These little jokes were precisely the things that Trevor had grown to despise. Off they went to Yellowstone National Park.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, Trevor got too close to a roaring vent. He wanted to take a close-up photograph on his phone. Tamzin gave him a push and down he went. It wasn’t Old Faithful but it was fatally scalding nonetheless.

Which goes to show that revenge can come in many geysers*.

*Footnote: I’ve suddenly got this suspicion that regional dialects in English might differ on this word. In New Zealand geysers is pronounced exactly the same as guises!

2226. Revenge is sweet

The Canasta Club was a thriving retired persons’ venture in the town. Every Thursday evening about sixty people would gather to play canasta and socialize.

As with every such group there is always a head gossiper. Cushla was such. Not a snippet of intrigue escaped her attention. This week it was about Damarius. Damarius was over in the corner with his group playing canasta, and Cushla was on the other side of the room with her group.

“Did you know,” said Cushla, “that Damarius’ old truck was parked outside the only pub in town for several hours? I believe that can be interpreted only one way; he has a problem with drink. He clearly needs to seek help. There’s a club somewhere in town for alcoholics that meets regularly. With his truck parked outside the pub for so long it definitely points to his alcoholic tendencies.”

This juicy piece of gossip was quietly spread from card table to card table. “Damarius is an alcoholic. His truck was parked outside the pub for hours, and everyone in town knows that truck.”

Word reached Damarius’ table. He didn’t say a word but went on quietly playing canasta.

Later, he parked his truck on Cushla’s driveway, took the keys, and left the truck there all night.

2179. New identity

Alfie and Connie had been together for just over a month. Both had been married before. Connie was a local person, but Alfie hailed from another part of the country altogether. One day they were walking along the street when a stranger approached Alfie and said, “Gus! I haven’t seen you for ages! How are things going?” Alfie looked flustered and uncomfortable. “I’m not Gus,” he stuttered.

Connie noted that this had happened several times before during their month together.  Once someone even called out “Gus!” from across the road, and Alfie had turned suddenly as one does when responding to having ones name called out.

Then a letter arrived in the mail address to Mr. Augustine Cladworthy. Usually Alfie was all too keen to check the mail box, but on this day he was feeling a little poorly so Connie did the checking.

“Who exactly is Mr. Augustine Cladworthy?” asked Connie. “This getting called Gus has happened far too often for it to be a coincidence. It’s time you came clean.”

Alfie realized he was trapped. There was no way out. He had tried to dream up an escape story he could use should his real identity be discovered. He’d been unsuccessful at imagining something cogent, and now he was against the wall.

“Well,” he admitted, “I was the whistle blower that spilt the beans on the McPherson case just over a year ago. The government gave me a new identity. I was Gus, and now I’m Alfie.”

“We suspected so,” said Connie, “but just wanted to make sure.” She pulled out her pistol and wreaked her revenge.

1734. A misplaced apostrophe

(The other day someone pointed out that I had a misplaced apostrophe. This story is to express my gratitude.)

A change is as good as a holiday said Arnie. He was a hitman and was sick to death of poisoning people. This new assignment should provide a bit of variety. Not that he wasn’t good at poisoning; it was his speciality. It was why he received most of his jobs. He had a reputation for poisoning.

But this new assignment not only paid well, but provided a welcome change.

Extremely rich parents of a spoilt teen – in this case a boy – had sent him to an exclusive private school. The boy – whose name was Constantine – was a star sportsman. He was the brightest baseball hope the school had had in years. He was headed for professionalism and the Baseball Hall of Fame. How proud could parents be?

The trouble was that Constantine’s English teacher was a crabby old bag. She was a stickler for correct punctuation no matter what. Misplaced apostrophes were her greatest hate. The over use of the exclamation mark was another error to be condemned. (Not that Constantine, being a sportsman, bothered to use the exclamation mark!) A dash was not a comma; a semicolon was not the same as a colon. Constantine would mess up his punctuation just to annoy the living daylights out of her. It worked too well.

When Constantine was due to attend a Baseball Summer Camp, Ms Virginia Funk – for that was the teacher’s name – wrote to the Summer Camp and said, “Constantine’s outstanding contribution to schoolboy baseball is in inverse proportion to his application to his studies. I would recommend he not be accepted into the Summer Baseball Camp.”

The Baseball Summer Camp, having too many applicants, denied Constantine’s application. And that is why Arnie was hired as a hitman. Ms Virginia Funk was dead meat. She would have no reason to prepare classes for the following academic year. Arnie’s problem was that – Ms Virginia Funk being an English teacher – he wanted to get rid of her in creative a fashion as possible; for variety is the spice of life.

First, he would make her stew a bit. He sent her a handwritten note that said “Its you’re last day.” Virginia was outraged. There should be an apostrophe in “It’s”, she declared. That’s when Arnie saw red. His creativity could wait for another day. He took his bag of poisonous chemicals, knocked on her door, changed his mind, and shot her point blank.

He was well paid. And although some might think that Constantine’s parents and Arnie were a bit over the top, at least Ms Virginia Funk didn’t suffer needlessly.

1657. The man-eater

(Thanks to Uma for the opening sentence).

In his dream he was a man-eater, hungry and dying. He was a tiger in the Indian state of Maharashtra. Already he had killed and eaten fourteen humans. Now he was ready for another. But he was sick. He had drunk salty water and this had made him violent and unpredictable.

He went on an all-day killing spree. He gave no care for his safety. He slaughtered fourteen children coming home from school. Eight adults were dead. He would eat one, he didn’t care which, for his meal. Humans were cruel animals. He could be crueller.

Life was hard. In the beginning he had hunted with his mother. She was a master man-eater. Then she was shot by humans coming from the village. Her son took on a life of revenge. It wasn’t simply food; it was a game. It was an all-consuming desire. Humans hunted animals for pleasure. Why couldn’t he hunt humans for the same gratification?

He stirred in his afternoon snooze. It was so boring being gawked at every day through metal bars by countless humans at the zoo.

1470. Revenge of the mint

Harvey grew mint in an attractive pot on his garden path. We all know how mint can spread and take over an entire garden. It is best that it be contained. Harvey liked to have mint. It made a refreshing tea on a hot summer’s day. He liked to boil his potatoes and peas with a sprig of mint. And he loved mint sauce with roast lamb.

It was early spring, and Harvey knew that if he cut the mint back, it would flourish so much thicker and vigorous in the pot. He cut it back almost to the level of the soil.

Later he noticed that he could smell the mint, presumably on his hands. But then, even after he’d had a shower, he could still smell mint. The smell became stronger and stronger. It would not go away. It began to affect his taste buds. If he ate an orange it would be like chewing mint. Corned beef tasted like mint. Everything tasted of mint. He could smell and taste mint everywhere and all the time, and could smell and taste nothing else.

And then Harvey began to see green. Everything was turning green. Walls were green, windows we green, drapes were green, his car, his concrete steps. He used to think that mint green was a lovely colour. Not anymore.

Harvey was starting to go crazy. He’d had enough of mint. He picked up his potted mint and smashed the container onto his concrete path. It broke into a thousand bits. The container, soil and dirt lay an eyesore on his garden path. Harvey vehemently kicked everything into the garden.

The mint was free at last. It was what it had wanted all along. It could spread throughout the garden. And Harvey could see, taste, and smell once again as normal.

Poem 19: Fall fire

(By way of explanation: I have decided to post on the first of each month a poem in a specific form. Throughout that month, if further poems are created and posted, they will all use that form. The poetic form chosen for March 2016 is the Sextilla. The Sextilla is a poem with stanzas of six lines, usually each line being 8 syllables. It rhymes aabccb or ababcc.)

There’s not too much that’s left to say
About this golden autumn day.
The fallen leaves that fell last year
Have rotted now and turned to mush.
The trees again grew green and lush
But now stand naked, grey and bare.

I’ve raked the leaves and piled high
Some sticks and things for autumn fire,
And once the breeze blows all the time
I’ll light the leaves and watch them burn
And hope the wind won’t ever turn
Away from next door’s washing line.

You see, at six o’clock this morn
They began to mow their lawn,
And then began to prune their trees
With chainsaws blasting on full choke;
So I’m sending autumn smoke
To stink their house and make them wheeze.

There’s little worse than smoke-filled clothes,
And smoky drapes and runny nose,
And laundry smelling in a heap;
I’m even stinking out their car
With stench of ash and sticky tar.
In future may they let me sleep.

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.