|
In the Apple Orchard
A small chirping sound could be heard coming from behind the pile of newspapers in the corner of the room, which understandably, at this point, made him not a little nervous.
The stains of black bean sauce and green peppers made a horrifying note across the far wall, frozen in the middle of dribbling down to the floor, and he hoped to whatever it was he was going to wind up believing in, in the end, that the talking blackbean wasn't around, or, best case, that it might be part of the smear across the walls.
Not that the thought cause him much comfort, and he felt marginally bad, and not bad in such a way that he'd cringe, wring his hands, and pronounce, with some modulation in his voice for the benefit of the crowd of vague acquaintances he was about to address regarding how bad he felt about his thoughts, but a real and genuine feeling bad about it. Because if he'd met him in different circumstances and was a vegetable sort of guy there was a chance he might have liked the blackbean whose presumed Fate he was currently pondering.
And it certainly wasn't comforting if that poor little tough bastard of a bean was smeared across the wall, because it meant someone a lot worse than he'd been thinking was behind the whole thing, not that being in the habit of delivering exploding takeaway ever registered as a thing a friendly sort of person would do. Pretty antisocial, actually.
Contributing to his fear of the chirping sound, which had stopped for the most part, was the content of the note.
In reasonably large letters, and all capitals (until it hit towards the bottom of the wall, where the letters scrunched together where the note writer presumably realised he or she (to be fair) was going to run out of space and tried to illegibly squeeze as much and s/he could in before they had to start on the floor, which, to be honest, didn't stand much of a chance of being read) it read:
WE TOLD YOU TO STAY AWAY. WHY COULDN'T YOU STAY AWAY?
YOU MAY THINK YOU'RE BEING CLEVER, BUT WE KNOW YOU'RE NOT. WHICH MIGHT NOT SOUND LIKE A TERRIBLY GROWN UP THING TO SAY, BUT IT'S TRUE. YOU'RE NOT. LIKE THAT INCIDENT WITH YOU TYING YOUR SHOE ON THE STREET, NOT BRIGHT AT ALL. AND WE KNOW THAT YOU'RE NOW PROBABLY THINKING, "HOW DID THEY KNOW, WHERE WERE THEY HIDING?"
WE WERE HIDING IN THE SHOPPE ACROSS THE ROAD, WHICH WASN'T INTENTIONAL AT THE TIME, BUT WHEN WE SAW YOU WE REALISED WE'D PROBABLY BETTER PUT SOMEONE ON YOUR TRAIL, AND YOU STOPPING TO TIE YOUR SHOE HELPED US FIND SOMEBODY, ANYWAY. BUT NOW WE KNOW YOUR EVERY MOVE. NOT SO CLEVER NOW, ARE YOU? HOW'S HELEN? HAVE YOU CHECKED UP ON HER LATELY? MEEt us at the old factory on pleasant street at eleven p.m. tomorrow night or you'll be getting your final delivery.
He'd heard about things like that.
The stuff dripping down the walls at a glacial pace also reminded him he needed to clean his flat, or he was never going to hear from Helen again. Whom he probably should have called earlier today, now that he thought about it, if only to make sure they were still seeing each other.
disclaimer:
The preceding is an excerpt from Curious, a novel, by the emminent William Murphy and adapted kindly by himself and a few interns for this week's issue.
This, of course, is the one that's "out there," as they say, and which is a phrase that looks to be applied somewhere before the next end of the century rolls around for his follow-up novel, Sleep(s) on Chickens.
The Head Editor, in response to the infinite patience people have shown with him pissing off somewhere for the entire summer, is publishing, digitally, one of the short stories that is rumoured to be going into the rumoured short story collection tentatively titled by most involved, it's supposed, A Virtuous Horse, it's the enigmatically titled "A Short Story".
Enjoy.
|
Yer Weekly Horoscopes.