the last canonical victim of Jack the Ripper
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Who is Mary Jane Kelly really that this author is writing about for the third time? Is she simply mary jane a plant that once was rolled up and smoked? Or, is Mary Jane Kelly all men's passive aggressive passions exploded towards the women in their lives?
start/ repost #3, edited
blue blooded friend, Jack the ripper's last victim; Mary Jane Kelly
Author's note-Did Jack the Ripper know his final victim of five, who he brutally ripped, stabbed and tore apart and strung her about? Mary Jane Kelly was the only ripper victim killed inside. Author surmises yes Jack did know Mary Jane Kelly. Jack the Ripper speaks why he killed Mary Jane Kelly in such a shocking brutal fashion in her small apartment there in White Chapel in 19th century London, England.
When I looked into it, I came to realize that Mary Jane Kelly was just feeling superior to me. I didn't realize why at first, for I still felt the same way about her.
Upon reflection I found Mary Jane to be made up of layer upon layer of blue crumbly sheets of metallic marbling. She wasn't at all like I had come to know her as.
When I took action and took Mary Jane apart there was no heart inside of her only stratified dried out hollow tubes of purport masquerading as flesh and blood. A mess I know; but not a blue blood.
Still, Mary Jane is contagious for a hollow dross sleeps in me because of her. Sometimes I dream of Mary Jane and wish she was still here to provide me comfort and be near when I need her.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
probabilities are not probable today/ draft one
probabilities are not probable today/ draft one
fiction
edward w pritchard
I sat in front of the device and studied it, trying to relax. It was simply constructed for such an important device. Two shiny metal circular thin rods held eighty samples of fine cloth. Most of the cloths were different color and textures. One flipped the cloth samples along the metal rods until one found one to peruse. The cloths represented character flaws a person could be born with. The expression "cut from the same cloth" is a racial memory of the 80 character combinations.
The cloths represented all the possible combinations a persons character could be composed of, but no person's character contained more than twenty character flaws. Eighty possibilities of character combination but only twenty were allotted to each person at birth. From those twenty character combinations a persons nature and potential were cut. The device containing the 80 cloth samples was sitting on a table in front of me in Hell. I was taking a test to see if I stayed in Hell for Eternity or was able to transfer to Heaven. I would flip the cloths four, five, six then seven times and all I had to do was to hit the appropriate number for each numbered test without stopping at a character fault I possessed.
For my first test I had to randomly pick twenty pieces of cloth as my sample group. From the twenty I had to first pick four that represented character faults a person could have. I had to pick four possible character faults, and then most important they had to be character faults I did not have. If I picked four of twenty without a hit I moved on to the next stage of the test.
I had chosen four of twenty with the clerk in section four when I first arrived here in Hell. It's not uncommon to pick four of twenty and I was allowed to choose again in a few minutes in section three. I was choosing to see if I could not be assigned to Hell for eternity.
I was sent to section three next. I have to trust them here in Hell that they don't mess with the original twenty samples of cloth I pick from. The man in section three here in Hell is very officious. He goes through a lot of procedures before he lets me choose five samples. You have to hit five of twenty to survive section three. I did. He was upset with me but now I move to section two.
There are two clerks and a supervisor in section two. A woman supervisor is all business here and she is very strict with the two people working for her. I picked five of the first ten. Although it wasn't until the twentieth pick that I hit the magic number six. Now I sit before the Devil himself in section 1.
It's unlikely that I don't have any of the character flaws in the sample of twenty I selected at random. I just have been very lucky so far.
The Devil tries to bargain with me instead of letting me pick. The devil tries to jinx me when I refuse to bargain. I need to pick seven character flaws out of a random sample of twenty to be able to leave hell and never return. The Devil offers me his final deal, twenty more years of life on Earth before I have to return for Eternity to Hell if I forgo my pick in section 1. Can I pick seven character faults from a sample of twenty that I don't have even one of?
I took the Devil's bargain. Twenty more years of life on Earth and then eternity in Hell. As I was leaving Hell to return to Earth the Devil gave me a free pick. I stopped at the cloth of altruism. Is that a character fault or just not a valuable part of one's nature to be born with? Maybe I find out in my next twenty years on Earth.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I sat in front of the device and studied it, trying to relax. It was simply constructed for such an important device. Two shiny metal circular thin rods held eighty samples of fine cloth. Most of the cloths were different color and textures. One flipped the cloth samples along the metal rods until one found one to peruse. The cloths represented character flaws a person could be born with. The expression "cut from the same cloth" is a racial memory of the 80 character combinations.
The cloths represented all the possible combinations a persons character could be composed of, but no person's character contained more than twenty character flaws. Eighty possibilities of character combination but only twenty were allotted to each person at birth. From those twenty character combinations a persons nature and potential were cut. The device containing the 80 cloth samples was sitting on a table in front of me in Hell. I was taking a test to see if I stayed in Hell for Eternity or was able to transfer to Heaven. I would flip the cloths four, five, six then seven times and all I had to do was to hit the appropriate number for each numbered test without stopping at a character fault I possessed.
For my first test I had to randomly pick twenty pieces of cloth as my sample group. From the twenty I had to first pick four that represented character faults a person could have. I had to pick four possible character faults, and then most important they had to be character faults I did not have. If I picked four of twenty without a hit I moved on to the next stage of the test.
I had chosen four of twenty with the clerk in section four when I first arrived here in Hell. It's not uncommon to pick four of twenty and I was allowed to choose again in a few minutes in section three. I was choosing to see if I could not be assigned to Hell for eternity.
I was sent to section three next. I have to trust them here in Hell that they don't mess with the original twenty samples of cloth I pick from. The man in section three here in Hell is very officious. He goes through a lot of procedures before he lets me choose five samples. You have to hit five of twenty to survive section three. I did. He was upset with me but now I move to section two.
There are two clerks and a supervisor in section two. A woman supervisor is all business here and she is very strict with the two people working for her. I picked five of the first ten. Although it wasn't until the twentieth pick that I hit the magic number six. Now I sit before the Devil himself in section 1.
It's unlikely that I don't have any of the character flaws in the sample of twenty I selected at random. I just have been very lucky so far.
The Devil tries to bargain with me instead of letting me pick. The devil tries to jinx me when I refuse to bargain. I need to pick seven character flaws out of a random sample of twenty to be able to leave hell and never return. The Devil offers me his final deal, twenty more years of life on Earth before I have to return for Eternity to Hell if I forgo my pick in section 1. Can I pick seven character faults from a sample of twenty that I don't have even one of?
I took the Devil's bargain. Twenty more years of life on Earth and then eternity in Hell. As I was leaving Hell to return to Earth the Devil gave me a free pick. I stopped at the cloth of altruism. Is that a character fault or just not a valuable part of one's nature to be born with? Maybe I find out in my next twenty years on Earth.
all things old pass away
all things old pass away
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
I took an old fashion bus tour of the city I grew up in. Down main street at street level.
The bus was surprisingly full, new immigrants were coming in from other States to live here because of the cheap rent and low costs of living. Of course it was very run down. High crime and life was pathetic as it always is for poor people in a place where time has moved on but those who live there don't know it. Everyone living on main street is stuck in the dead Past.
The action is high above. Hundreds and hundreds of hover crafts and Drones of all classes dart over our old Main street at five hundred feet. Air bound comfort stations and even a few flying malls are where the action is in our City. The old Main street where businesses thrived a hundred years ago are stuck in the past. Up at five hundred feet people and machines just passing through our City sometimes stop at one of the comfort station to gamble or have an energy meal.
When you take a bus tour they give you a booklet that lists all the building for sale. For two hundred thousands old script dollars you can buy any one of them. Then you can rent out to two new immigrant families to a room in the stores and business that used to line old main street. If you are a Lawyer and you can do all the paperwork required by zoning and environmental regulations and you can collect rents with a heavy hand you might make a small profit by being a slum landlord on old Main Street.
As you ride on the bus you look up and see hundreds of Real estate for Sale signs. Most of the signs are old fashion bill board type. They fade in a filtered sun light that drifts down from the floating buildings and platforms five hundred feet above. Out of towners, owners living far away, who are of Deed to the dilapidated buildings at street level on Main street pay real estate jobbers a small weekly fee to keep vandals from removing the signs. The chemicals in the paint the old signs are painted with are worth a couple of days wages over at the recycling plant.
The old paint on the signs is valuable too because painted surfaces are protected by restoration laws. New paint is very expensive and old painted words and slogans are grandfathered so humans living below five hundred feet can still read things in the ancient script. All new messages are electronic dash at five hundred feet.
It smells on the old bus. Vagrants ride around on the main street tour because Real Estate companies sometimes provide free food to riders trying desperately to sell the old buildings for their clients. Regulations protect vagrants; they cannot be thrown off the tours just because they obviously are too poor to buy anything.
I still enjoyed the old bus tour of the place I grew up in. It was nice to visit the past. I never feel comfortable being in the digital age where machines and drones control all the commercial activity. All things old pass away but I for one like to see old things sometimes to remind me of when people were at the top of the food chain. Down on main street, before life was lived at five hundred feet above the ground and before all new advertisements were digital.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
I took an old fashion bus tour of the city I grew up in. Down main street at street level.
The bus was surprisingly full, new immigrants were coming in from other States to live here because of the cheap rent and low costs of living. Of course it was very run down. High crime and life was pathetic as it always is for poor people in a place where time has moved on but those who live there don't know it. Everyone living on main street is stuck in the dead Past.
The action is high above. Hundreds and hundreds of hover crafts and Drones of all classes dart over our old Main street at five hundred feet. Air bound comfort stations and even a few flying malls are where the action is in our City. The old Main street where businesses thrived a hundred years ago are stuck in the past. Up at five hundred feet people and machines just passing through our City sometimes stop at one of the comfort station to gamble or have an energy meal.
When you take a bus tour they give you a booklet that lists all the building for sale. For two hundred thousands old script dollars you can buy any one of them. Then you can rent out to two new immigrant families to a room in the stores and business that used to line old main street. If you are a Lawyer and you can do all the paperwork required by zoning and environmental regulations and you can collect rents with a heavy hand you might make a small profit by being a slum landlord on old Main Street.
As you ride on the bus you look up and see hundreds of Real estate for Sale signs. Most of the signs are old fashion bill board type. They fade in a filtered sun light that drifts down from the floating buildings and platforms five hundred feet above. Out of towners, owners living far away, who are of Deed to the dilapidated buildings at street level on Main street pay real estate jobbers a small weekly fee to keep vandals from removing the signs. The chemicals in the paint the old signs are painted with are worth a couple of days wages over at the recycling plant.
The old paint on the signs is valuable too because painted surfaces are protected by restoration laws. New paint is very expensive and old painted words and slogans are grandfathered so humans living below five hundred feet can still read things in the ancient script. All new messages are electronic dash at five hundred feet.
It smells on the old bus. Vagrants ride around on the main street tour because Real Estate companies sometimes provide free food to riders trying desperately to sell the old buildings for their clients. Regulations protect vagrants; they cannot be thrown off the tours just because they obviously are too poor to buy anything.
I still enjoyed the old bus tour of the place I grew up in. It was nice to visit the past. I never feel comfortable being in the digital age where machines and drones control all the commercial activity. All things old pass away but I for one like to see old things sometimes to remind me of when people were at the top of the food chain. Down on main street, before life was lived at five hundred feet above the ground and before all new advertisements were digital.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
another girl in the closet
another girl in the closet
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Melvin awoke hating the thought of recording another music video requiring him to pretend to play his guitar. It was the hardest part of being a famous musician. Looking ecstatic while frantically pretending to strum and play a buzzing throbbing electric guitar usually ended up with Melvin looking foolish, something he hated. Melvin had to record at four this afternoon.
Waking in his old farm house in the Country Melvin knew he had slept late into the morning. That was a nice thing about being rich, he could get up whenever he wanted. He didn't live back in Missouri anymore on the cattle ranch with his parents.
The sun was warm through the east window curtains and for a long while Melvin kept the blankets pulled up to his chin and looked at the blue sky through the sunny window. At length the traffic over on the distant highway began to annoy him and Melvin decided to get up out of his warm bed. The old house was cold this bright winter morning.
Turning his head toward the bedroom door Melvin discovered how bad his morning headache was today. He had been drinking last night but this was no ordinary hangover headache. Looking toward the open closet door Melvin saw why his headache was unusual today.
There was a blond girl laying on the floor of the closet. For a brief moment Melvin hoped she was alive. Then knowing his history and remembering last night he began to plan what to do with the body this cold winter day. He had to record at 4pm today so he had to get busy.
Melvin laid a blanket over the dead girl. He covered the face. It was a pretty face, young with blond hair. She looked peaceful laying folded like that in the closet among his recording costumes. On a whim he put a small pillow under her head to lift her head off the floor. He moved his paired shoes a little to the right to get them out of her face.
It was hard to move about for it was usual for Melvin to have a terrible headache after he had murdered. Marvin searched the entire house. He had killed no other women.
Melvin wrapped the body in the green tarp and used the large wheelbarrow to move the stiffening corpse back to the horse barn. As usual the horses raced to the back pasture. They always knew what he was up to. The green tarp was a little too small, he would have to buy more later, he had been cutting tarp and burying dead girls a lot lately. As he became more famous and in demand Melvin needed to kill more and more girls who came home with him to see his farm.
Finally the burying was done, breakfast was finished, the closet was cleaned up and Melvin had to pick his costume for today's recording session. Melvin hated it when he had to pretend to play his guitar in a music video. He always managed to look stupid jumping about frantically pounding at his electric guitar.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
Melvin awoke hating the thought of recording another music video requiring him to pretend to play his guitar. It was the hardest part of being a famous musician. Looking ecstatic while frantically pretending to strum and play a buzzing throbbing electric guitar usually ended up with Melvin looking foolish, something he hated. Melvin had to record at four this afternoon.
Waking in his old farm house in the Country Melvin knew he had slept late into the morning. That was a nice thing about being rich, he could get up whenever he wanted. He didn't live back in Missouri anymore on the cattle ranch with his parents.
The sun was warm through the east window curtains and for a long while Melvin kept the blankets pulled up to his chin and looked at the blue sky through the sunny window. At length the traffic over on the distant highway began to annoy him and Melvin decided to get up out of his warm bed. The old house was cold this bright winter morning.
Turning his head toward the bedroom door Melvin discovered how bad his morning headache was today. He had been drinking last night but this was no ordinary hangover headache. Looking toward the open closet door Melvin saw why his headache was unusual today.
There was a blond girl laying on the floor of the closet. For a brief moment Melvin hoped she was alive. Then knowing his history and remembering last night he began to plan what to do with the body this cold winter day. He had to record at 4pm today so he had to get busy.
Melvin laid a blanket over the dead girl. He covered the face. It was a pretty face, young with blond hair. She looked peaceful laying folded like that in the closet among his recording costumes. On a whim he put a small pillow under her head to lift her head off the floor. He moved his paired shoes a little to the right to get them out of her face.
It was hard to move about for it was usual for Melvin to have a terrible headache after he had murdered. Marvin searched the entire house. He had killed no other women.
Melvin wrapped the body in the green tarp and used the large wheelbarrow to move the stiffening corpse back to the horse barn. As usual the horses raced to the back pasture. They always knew what he was up to. The green tarp was a little too small, he would have to buy more later, he had been cutting tarp and burying dead girls a lot lately. As he became more famous and in demand Melvin needed to kill more and more girls who came home with him to see his farm.
Finally the burying was done, breakfast was finished, the closet was cleaned up and Melvin had to pick his costume for today's recording session. Melvin hated it when he had to pretend to play his guitar in a music video. He always managed to look stupid jumping about frantically pounding at his electric guitar.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Are there multiple universes?
Are there multiple universes?
repost/ edit
Rolling up the Fabric of Time
fiction
edward w Pritchard
A policeman is doing the part of his job he likes least. There has been a car accident and a little girl of about four has been seriously injured and she well may die on her way to the hospital in the racing ambulance.
As the policeman is measuring the skid marks for his accident report he finds a pink girls tennis shoe near where the skidding and rolling car involved in the accident came to a rest. Carefully picking up the small shoe the policeman notices blood near the ankle opening of the shoe. Solemnly the policeman picks up the pink stained tennis shoe and respectfully places the shoe on the rear mat in the back seat passengers side of his police car; the policeman cannot stomach the thought of traveling back to the station with the lonely shoe on the front passengers seat.
Much, much later and far away God is rolling up the fabric of time. God is rolling up sharp brittle strands of barb wire into large bundles. Sniping the wire with sharp powerful shears, God manipulates the bundles of barb wire, previously the fabric of Time, into slightly unmanageable bundles. God carefully lays the bundles aside for later collection and review.
A large powerful patient horse walks with God as God goes about his Work of rolling up the fabric of Time. The horse sees God pause in his duties and the horse surmises that God has again snagged his fingers on the sharp barbs of the barbed wire. Watching intently the horse notices God pick up a pink girl's tennis shoe entangled in the wire. It is unusual for a material object to remain in the fabric of Time and both God and the horse take note of the pink shoe with a little blood at the ankle.
Generally material things decompose quickly in the fabric of time. Solemnly and respectfully God stops with the rolling of the wire and gently places the shoe in the rear pocket of his faded blue jeans. God's mind races forward to eternity and then simultaneously back to the car accident with the injured four year old girl. God sighs as he feels the policeman pick up the bloody pink shoe far back in the fabric of time and as he sighs God creates a far off universe anew.
In the new universe God has just created the four year old girl with the pink tennis shoe was not traveling in a skidding and rolling car involved in an accident and a policeman did not put a bloody pink size four tennis shoe on the rear seat passengers side floor as he sadly drove to the station.
God places his strong left hand on the white horses powerful shoulder as both smile a little and think of the little girl far away and long ago living a long uneventful life. Both God and the large white horse return to their work of rolling up the fabric of Time and bundling the rolls of Time for later collection and review.
repost/ edit
Rolling up the Fabric of Time
fiction
edward w Pritchard
A policeman is doing the part of his job he likes least. There has been a car accident and a little girl of about four has been seriously injured and she well may die on her way to the hospital in the racing ambulance.
As the policeman is measuring the skid marks for his accident report he finds a pink girls tennis shoe near where the skidding and rolling car involved in the accident came to a rest. Carefully picking up the small shoe the policeman notices blood near the ankle opening of the shoe. Solemnly the policeman picks up the pink stained tennis shoe and respectfully places the shoe on the rear mat in the back seat passengers side of his police car; the policeman cannot stomach the thought of traveling back to the station with the lonely shoe on the front passengers seat.
Much, much later and far away God is rolling up the fabric of time. God is rolling up sharp brittle strands of barb wire into large bundles. Sniping the wire with sharp powerful shears, God manipulates the bundles of barb wire, previously the fabric of Time, into slightly unmanageable bundles. God carefully lays the bundles aside for later collection and review.
A large powerful patient horse walks with God as God goes about his Work of rolling up the fabric of Time. The horse sees God pause in his duties and the horse surmises that God has again snagged his fingers on the sharp barbs of the barbed wire. Watching intently the horse notices God pick up a pink girl's tennis shoe entangled in the wire. It is unusual for a material object to remain in the fabric of Time and both God and the horse take note of the pink shoe with a little blood at the ankle.
Generally material things decompose quickly in the fabric of time. Solemnly and respectfully God stops with the rolling of the wire and gently places the shoe in the rear pocket of his faded blue jeans. God's mind races forward to eternity and then simultaneously back to the car accident with the injured four year old girl. God sighs as he feels the policeman pick up the bloody pink shoe far back in the fabric of time and as he sighs God creates a far off universe anew.
In the new universe God has just created the four year old girl with the pink tennis shoe was not traveling in a skidding and rolling car involved in an accident and a policeman did not put a bloody pink size four tennis shoe on the rear seat passengers side floor as he sadly drove to the station.
God places his strong left hand on the white horses powerful shoulder as both smile a little and think of the little girl far away and long ago living a long uneventful life. Both God and the large white horse return to their work of rolling up the fabric of Time and bundling the rolls of Time for later collection and review.
Don't text me goodbye Molly/ part 2
Don't text me goodbye Molly/ part 2
fiction
edward w Pritchard
Molly, I found a key from the outside key cutting kiosk at Sears on the floor in the garage. You must have dropped it. It's a cheap silver key that says CRL 5 on the top, it's old and overused.
I traced the key to Sears from the Internet. You hate Sears Molly. That key must look awful tacky in your Red Leather purse I bought you last Christmas. The key is used at the Breezeway apartment complex I guess.
I was hoping the key was to a closet at Highland Junior High where you teach or the storage room at the gym where you coach badminton. Nice job with your coaching 7 wins and two losses. I am proud of you Molly.
I took the key to the Breezeway apartments where he lives. I tried the key in the door. It fits but I didn't go inside. I just had to know. I saw your car there last Friday night at 11;30PM.
The tires on your Honda are getting a little worn. I could take the car into to Smith's Tire and have them rotated. Maybe we could trade cars for one day. You could call me.
It's hard for me to get anything done when I keep looking at my cell phone for a text from you Molly. I am afraid things might have went too far and you will be sending me that text you yelled at me about.
Don't text me good-bye Molly.
love
bob
fiction
edward w Pritchard
Molly, I found a key from the outside key cutting kiosk at Sears on the floor in the garage. You must have dropped it. It's a cheap silver key that says CRL 5 on the top, it's old and overused.
I traced the key to Sears from the Internet. You hate Sears Molly. That key must look awful tacky in your Red Leather purse I bought you last Christmas. The key is used at the Breezeway apartment complex I guess.
I was hoping the key was to a closet at Highland Junior High where you teach or the storage room at the gym where you coach badminton. Nice job with your coaching 7 wins and two losses. I am proud of you Molly.
I took the key to the Breezeway apartments where he lives. I tried the key in the door. It fits but I didn't go inside. I just had to know. I saw your car there last Friday night at 11;30PM.
The tires on your Honda are getting a little worn. I could take the car into to Smith's Tire and have them rotated. Maybe we could trade cars for one day. You could call me.
It's hard for me to get anything done when I keep looking at my cell phone for a text from you Molly. I am afraid things might have went too far and you will be sending me that text you yelled at me about.
Don't text me good-bye Molly.
love
bob
Don't text me Molly.
I am afraid if you text me, if you put our breakup in writing Molly it will be reality, permanent. I won't read my texts so don't text me Molly.
I am afraid if you text me, if you put our breakup in writing Molly it will be reality, permanent. I won't read my texts so don't text me Molly.
Listen to my voice mail and call me, it's a short voice mail, but please listen to the whole message.
or, come to the house. Our big house with matching themed furniture in every room.
Be mad at me, slap my shoulder, Molly thump my chest with the back of your hand.
Pour my bottle of French Cognac down the drain again. I promise to not drink anymore.
Talk to me Molly, I want to hear your voice. Use your small voice. Tell me how you feel. I need to taste your smell again. Molly nights are interminable, I drink to stay sane. You don't know what it's like to develop impulsive destructive behavior, or maybe you do.
Lock yourself in the bathroom again and cry. Sit on the floor in the lotus position and bang the back of the bathroom door with your fists again. Sleep all night in the car in a snow storm rather than come to our bed.
Please don't text me Goodbye Molly, I don't want to be one of those guys at the gym spending hours and hours doing crunches to get flat abs that no pretty woman wants to look at anyway.
Don't text me Molly,
Don't text me Molly,
Texting is;
stealthfully premeditated, passionless, words over words, impersonal symbols, guileful phases, hidden feelings, logical darts to the heart. No way to talk to a friend.
stealthfully premeditated, passionless, words over words, impersonal symbols, guileful phases, hidden feelings, logical darts to the heart.
Come back to the house Molly. Lets argue. Throw things, put the baseball card collection on the curb again.
Don't text me good-bye Molly,
Call me,
love Bobbie
happy Holidays
PS I joined 24 hour fitness, I have been working out every night about eleven PM on Ninth street in North Canton if you want to stop by.
happy Holidays
PS I joined 24 hour fitness, I have been working out every night about eleven PM on Ninth street in North Canton if you want to stop by.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
we all have our fears
we all have our fears
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
edit/ repost
fraternal twins
Dad had died and Myron, my fraternal twin was in the army and I went to college about four hundred miles away. That's when Mom must have had the bomb shelter built. It was under the house and the only entrance was through the glass garden niche. We called it the niche because Myron and me use to play and play in there when we were children. The back wall of the garden niche was brick and I was tearing it down last month when I found the hidden door leading to the bomb shelter under the house. The rest of the garden niche was glass and Mom spent a lot of time back there when we were kids working on her flowers.
I was tearing down the old garden building when I found the underground passage to the bomb shelter, a large room down under the large house we grew up in. The only entrance was through the green house which is what the glass garden niche really was.
I had called Myron my Brother to get permission to tear down the green house last month because he is half owner of the house that I have lived in since Mom died five years ago. We are selling the family home. After I graduated from college with my degree I moved back home. I never knew about the bomb shelter and Mom never once mentioned it. I lived in the house for six years with my Mother after she must have had that bomb shelter built; and she never mentioned the bomb shelter to me even once.
The green house was airy and bright when we were kids and Myron and I loved to play in it. That's why I called Myron for permission to tear it down, it was our niche, as we called it, our special place.
Myron isn't upset with Mom for not telling us. I am. Myron was her only son, me her only daughter. What would possess a woman to build an expensive brick and cement room under the house she lived in for twenty six years and not tell any one at all about it? I have asked all my relatives in the last month since I found the entrance to the bomb shelter under the house; and no one knew about it. Mom never mentioned it.
The bomb shelter is too big and elaborate for a bomb shelter and who needs a bomb shelter now a days anyway? It's a throw back to fears and secrecy of the 1950's in America when my parents were born.
I am trying to sell the old house that Myron my fraternal twin and I grew up in, so we can split the money and now I find out that it has a bomb shelter under it that my Mother had built that she never told anyone about. The only entrance to the dark bomb shelter is through the glass green house my brother and I loved to play in when we were kids. I don't under stand my Mother. I feel like she concealed something from me. Myron tells me to let it be.
Myron says we all have our fears and I don't know what it like to lose a spouse. It must have triggered something in our Mother that caused her to need a place where she could be safe and secure from the world at large says Myron.
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
edit/ repost
fraternal twins
Dad had died and Myron, my fraternal twin was in the army and I went to college about four hundred miles away. That's when Mom must have had the bomb shelter built. It was under the house and the only entrance was through the glass garden niche. We called it the niche because Myron and me use to play and play in there when we were children. The back wall of the garden niche was brick and I was tearing it down last month when I found the hidden door leading to the bomb shelter under the house. The rest of the garden niche was glass and Mom spent a lot of time back there when we were kids working on her flowers.
I was tearing down the old garden building when I found the underground passage to the bomb shelter, a large room down under the large house we grew up in. The only entrance was through the green house which is what the glass garden niche really was.
I had called Myron my Brother to get permission to tear down the green house last month because he is half owner of the house that I have lived in since Mom died five years ago. We are selling the family home. After I graduated from college with my degree I moved back home. I never knew about the bomb shelter and Mom never once mentioned it. I lived in the house for six years with my Mother after she must have had that bomb shelter built; and she never mentioned the bomb shelter to me even once.
The green house was airy and bright when we were kids and Myron and I loved to play in it. That's why I called Myron for permission to tear it down, it was our niche, as we called it, our special place.
Myron isn't upset with Mom for not telling us. I am. Myron was her only son, me her only daughter. What would possess a woman to build an expensive brick and cement room under the house she lived in for twenty six years and not tell any one at all about it? I have asked all my relatives in the last month since I found the entrance to the bomb shelter under the house; and no one knew about it. Mom never mentioned it.
The bomb shelter is too big and elaborate for a bomb shelter and who needs a bomb shelter now a days anyway? It's a throw back to fears and secrecy of the 1950's in America when my parents were born.
I am trying to sell the old house that Myron my fraternal twin and I grew up in, so we can split the money and now I find out that it has a bomb shelter under it that my Mother had built that she never told anyone about. The only entrance to the dark bomb shelter is through the glass green house my brother and I loved to play in when we were kids. I don't under stand my Mother. I feel like she concealed something from me. Myron tells me to let it be.
Myron says we all have our fears and I don't know what it like to lose a spouse. It must have triggered something in our Mother that caused her to need a place where she could be safe and secure from the world at large says Myron.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)