I’ve always disliked things that were titled “Untitled” mostly because that is a title in and of itself. If it were me, I would just leave it blank. Of course, here, on this blog, it is me — just me — and I’ve used the Untitled title. I suppose because I thought it really should have a title, but when you start something that you don’t really know what it’s going to be, you have to go with Untitled.
I had in my mind to do an allegory, but I was rather afraid it would turn out whiny, narcissistic, self-wallowing poo. I think I’m coming down off the high of a long weekend and crashing in a funk that may or may not be turkey-induced. I’ve spent a lot of time with family which, while wonderful, has led me to need some quiet time alone to think, brood, or otherwise self-indulge. Truly, I sort of feel that my next day or two needs a soundtrack of The Cure or The Smiths and possibly a tumbler or two of an absinthe-splashed drink. Aside: I do enjoy a good brooding. It does wonders for those who can realize it for its curative properties, not the least of which is to bring me out of the residual funk. All in all, I might just need a decent nights’ sleep.
Still, you’ve come for many days now, twenty-eight to be exact, and for most of those you’ve received something decent in the way of a blog post. I will admit to having phoned in a couple of posts simply because the nature of this blog is not thematic and, therefore, does not lend itself easily to posts. Rather, it suffers from the will of my increasingly incoherent synaptic firings and, while I do not necessarily apologize for that, I do deign to agree that it’s not very consistent. And, I do appreciate the traffic for this month. It has brought the numbers up to a more respectable level and I’m fairly certain that there are at least twenty faithful readers who come for the rants and enjoy the craziness. With that in mind, I have been letting some fiction ramble around in my noggin for a bit, let me know what you think.
Rose sat glumly at the typewriter. Her cigarette dangled limply between the chipped nails of her cheap manicure as she gazed through the window. The old clock radio on the shelf buzzed just loudly enough to be heard, but the softness of the static was a sort of lullaby in the afternoon sun. The smoke from the cigarette caressed her frosted hair as she tracked the sun via the stenciled letters on the glass. A lazy fly circled near the door begging to be freed from the prison and Rose sympathized but made no move to ease either of their plights. She could hear her boss laughing in his hacking way behind his office door which made Rose slightly sick to her stomach. She knew that he was on the phone with that little piece of tail from down at the sandwich shop where he always had lunch. If she had an ounce of gumption, she’d ring his wife and let her know, but, truly, what business of it was hers. Mr. Adams was a decent boss, always paid well even with a Christmas bonus, and was not even opposed to a long lunch hour. So, she continued to let the cigarette ash float gently to the desk as she watched traffic pass outside. Rose was transfixed on a small black sports car sitting idly at the stoplight when Mrs. Adams came strolling in, matching handbag clutched tightly to her rounded body. She smiled softly, but thinly, at Rose and proceeded directly to the back of the office. Mrs. Adams burst through her husband’s office door, startling him mid-laugh on the phone and Rose could only sit open-mouthed at the scene.
“Arnold, you two-timing horse’s ass. I hope you rot,” said Mrs. Adams and swiftly pulled a small handgun from her pocketbook and plugged her husband right in the heart. Then, she lay the gun on his desk and walked back out to Rose’s desk.
“Rose, my dear, thank you so much for being such a good secretary all these years. I’m afraid, though, that today we’ll have to let you go. We’re going to need to close the office. But, before you go, could you be a darling and call the police and tell them that Claudeen Adams has shot and killed her husband and is waiting for them at this address.”
Rose Atwater stared blankly at Mrs. Adams, not daring to blink, desperately trying to swallow at the scene she’d just witnessed. Mrs. Adams sat silently at that point, placing her handbag on the desk. Rose crushed out her cigarette and, not taking her eyes off the offended widow, dialed the police. And, to think, just minutes earlier she had been silently hoping for some excitement in her life.
See you in the funny papers!