Saturday's Storyteller: "Don't go near there!"

by Belinda Roddie

"Don't go near there!"

Jeremy stiffened. He raised his hand slightly from where he was going to turn the knob of the closet. He stared at his friend with a questioning look glued to his eyebrows.

"Um...why?"

His friend twitched a little. "There are some...things in there that I don't like people seeing."

"O...kay..." Jeremy drew out the word slowly, separating the syllables with wispy strands of air. "So whatcha got to hide? Cheap booze? Cigarettes? Bad porn?"
"It's not that...kind of thing."

"C'mon, Roger, what kind of skeletons do you have in your closet, huh?"
The high-pitched shriek that seemed to rupture Roger's throat was certainly alarming in Jeremy's ears, almost forcing him to clap his hands over his lobes. The dilating pupils radiating from his friend's bulging eyes told one story - and it all seemed like a very, very bad joke.

"Roger..." Jeremy pointed at the closet. "Do you have real skeletons in your closet?"

The words that spilled from Roger's mouth did not sound human at first. It was as if he were defecating verbally, the language spewing like deep, liquid shit, staining the air as each slurring sentence hit the air. After a while, it became more coherent, with half-jumbled phrases as follows:

"They were there when I got here...no idea what they wanted...I had no money...my aunt was very ill..."

Not able to take it, Jeremy seized the knob of the closet door and yanked the thing open. Sure enough - basking in the faint light of his buddy's bedroom, almost a pearl white rather than a tarnished ivory in the tinny light - were three skeletons. Full-sized, human skeletons, held up by contraptions that appeared to have started as coat hangars and simply were modified to add further support.

He was tempted to touch the skeletons. Feel the raw bone, the smooth cartilage. Jeremy was used to handling cadavers at his job, so he knew every human bone by heart. He let his finger dance in the air, very close to tracing the outline of the ulna leading up to the humerus (not that there was anything humorous about the display). He was just about to nudge the clavicle when Roger started screaming again.

"Don't touch them don't touch them don't touch them DON'T TOUCH THEM..."

His voice slowly morphed into a primal roar, and Roger launched himself up the bed, practically snarling, like a wily pubescent wolf rearing up on its hind legs. Jeremy turned to look at him, blinked, scratched his head just behind his left ear, and sighed.

"So," he exhaled. "Either your father killed three people when he was young, explaining why they so beautifully decomposed to just bone - or you stole from the science lab down the street again."

"Neither," squeaked Roger. "They've...been there for a very long time."

"Oh, really?" Jeremy couldn't help laughing, a throttled sort of sound - it was that ridiculous. "And I suppose they have a history and names?"

"George, Larry, and Frankie Hammer," Roger rattled off almost immediately after Jeremy had spat out the question at hand. "Triplets. There was some incest involved. They drank arsenic together. Hence no battle wounds."

Jeremy let his mouth hang open somewhat. He blinked again. He scratched that same part of his head again.

"That...seemed very well rehearsed," he said. "Triplets, eh? Incest? Nasty. Arsenic? Makes for a good mystery. But it still reeks of bullshit. You telling me the truth, Roger?"

"Why would I lie to my best friend in the whole world?" stuttered Roger. "We survived junior year together, man! I could have literally died if it weren't for you!"

"Dude...you would've failed chem."

"Exactly!" exclaimed his friend. "I would have. Literally. Died. Like, my father would not have allowed me to live past the summer solstice."

"Fair enough," Jeremy groaned. "It's already bizarre enough that your family keeps literal skeletons in your closet...so I'll entertain it somewhat. I'll believe you."

"Thank you!"

"Because you really aren't kidding, are you?"

"Nope!" Roger shook his head furiously as Jeremy wondered whether or not he'd need therapy now. "No bones about it!"

Today's OneWord: Signed

The letter was not signed. The envelope was not stamped. Yet it had arrived at the house without the assistance of the United States Postal Service. It had been sneaked through the mail slot, as it were, dropped into the cluster of gathered dog hair reassembling into into a strange silhouette against the hallway carpet.

As the recipient stooped down to retrieve the mail, the unsigned letter poked upward, its red sheen most alarming. It was not a Valentine's Day message. It was something much worse.

Tonight's Poet Corner: Introspection

This week certainly started with a bang and ended with a whimper.

Right now, there are fewer than twenty days left in the elementary school year. My students are totally checked. I'm almost checking out. I'm becoming more and more stressed in my work and find myself becoming sloppier. This first part of the week was no exception to the culmination of mental anxiety and exhaustion that took hold of me.

Ultimately, mental compromise lends itself to physical problems. In short, I got very, very tired. So I took a day and a half off of work.

And honestly, I wish there was more I can say. I thought about reviewing The Great Gatsby since I just saw it in theaters with a friend (she just turned twenty-four, so I gave her candy. Yay), but no energy. I've been able to work on my miniseries project pretty aptly and would like to go into detail on it, but no energy. I even have a lot to look forward to next week, when I get to celebrate my two-year anniversary with my girlfriend during Memorial Day Weekend. I'd talk about our plans and my blatant lovey-dovey feelings for mo chuisle, but - surprise, surprise! No energy.

So I will be sleeping. Tomorrow is another day. So is Sunday. By Monday, I hope I will have been rejuvenated somewhat. I despise missing work, especially when I severely need the hours. So I'm going to relax for a bit, then crack my knuckles and jump in again. It's the most I can do as I prepare for the ultimate changes to my routine after my job commitment ends, my girlfriend graduates and looks for work, and I try to find a way to move forward in my life.

Wish me all the luck.

Writer's Quotation of the Night:

For me, writing a novel is like having a dream. Writing a novel lets me intentionally dream while I'm still awake. I can continue yesterday's dream today, something you can't normally do in everyday life.
- Haruki Murakami

Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.