It all started last October. She was sitting at her computer reading galleycat. She didn't hear a thing, but suddenly she saw a bright light, so she looked out her window. Bentley, her main squeeze, was standing in the midst of an ethereal fog, screaming like a fool. But before she could get there, he was sucked into the will of the wisp and disappeared.

She said it was a UFO. But no one believed her. We all figured that she beat him to death with that cast iron pan she hangs over her stove and buried him in the back yard. But we couldn't prove it.

Nothing was the same after that. She wasted a lot of time on the Internet throwing back antidepressants like Halloween candy. In between bottles of Bali Hai, she sent email messages to UFO sites asking if anyone had seen Bentley.

Like anyone believed his body would ever turn up.

The next couple of months were a muddle. Everyone in town talked about her. Some said she'd become addicted to Miss Snark and that this had driven her crazy. Others said it was the pet terrapin in the koi pond with whom she was known to converse. Someone even said that it could be that the bunion on her right foot had finally driven her mad because what woman in her right mind could live without a pair of Steve Madden? But really, no one knew for sure.

There were whispers that she had gone over the edge, like when you stand on the precipice of a cliff and consider what it might feel like to hit the bottom after falling about five hundred feet. She had contemplated it, I'm sure. But there weren't any cliffs in E-Ville, so it wasn't likely that she'd jump.

It wasn't until the pharmacy clerk, some dimwitted half-brain said, "Your mother wears Army boots," as he handed her the bottle of Prozac that she lost it. She stormed out of that store, drove to the local pound, picked up a few strays and sported those damned promenading poodles in public, like she was telling us all to stick it you know where.

As she stood in the town square, you could hear the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd, which was something akin to fresh blood if you're into that kind of thing. Everyone packed in around her but she held them back with her vicious dogs, and made the sign of the cross with her arms. We were all scared. And then out of the blue she yelled, ‘Drop everything and give me ten ... books.’”

Well, what happened next was more horrifying than Bat Segundo show number 28, I'll tell you that. I never liked her. I hated her. And that's why I was the one who broke through the crowd. I was the one who took her on. I was the one who finally did something about it. I was the one who

ohhh...heartbreaker: Disqualified for word count; 501!!!!


Anonymous said...

Me thinks me shall go cry for being disqualified. I'm going to shoot Word in the back of the head for giving me a wrong word count.

McKoala said...

Take out the 'and' at the start of the sentence in that last para and it makes it... What a shame, I really liked this one.

Anonymous said...

Well, I would of had I known it was over the word count. My Word program said "500 words" in my word count and I believed it. In fact, I wrote the ending to end on the 500th word. But Word lied. Alas, I am doomed.

Ah, well. Such is life. The race is not always to the swift. Or the swifty. Or the shifty. Or even the nitwit.