THE MOUSE, THE BAT AND THE NOTE ~ By Absolutely*Kate of Harbinger*33 ~ #FlashFiction

Not a game! Not a game!   pic by unloveablesteve

THE MOUSE, THE BAT

AND THE NOTE

By ~

Absolutely*Kate

Russell rustled the lady in bed awake at quarter past 8. The rustle of Russell was loud and she thought her man was back in the house. It was the sound of a rustle he might hustle up.

Alas. The comely lass awoke with the awakening that even with the VICTORY sign painted on mouse traps, a better one is not built until it catches the critter causing the consternation. This was evidently ~ rustle, rustle ~ not the closed case it coulda shoulda been.

The rustling grew louder. A bold varmint it be. The lady out of bed in a deep green coloured tee made it quietly (much more quietly than the muscle of Russell's rustle). She armed herself. You read it coming in the title. A baseball bat conveniently tucked in the corner behind the table where the rolled up towels lingered peacefully. No rustle there. It was coming from the bottom of the stairs. She was headed there.

The Louisville Slugger meant business. Would she use it? If she had to. A gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do. Defense stops for no squeamishness, no yelps, no fear. She stomped the bat hard on the next to the last stair when her soft footed barefeet silently got her there.

Russell rustled. Big time. He gave up his hidey-hole and she took that hole and the bag that came with it and the ripped piercings' piecings within it and the larger popcorn bag with the hole Russell had rustled himself into and she carried it -- quickly, mind you quickly -- outside. Where to put it? Was she carrying Russell about to rustle again or had he crunched outta lunch? This was Smart Popcorn after all.

She made it to the porch. Well, let's call this lady Kate. It's not to late in our tale of the tailed tail to tell it to you this way. Kate looked to the right and to the left and further down the porch and -- quickly, mind you quickly -- made up her mind. She raised the lid of the kettle grill, (she had to put down her Slugger weapon to do so - but within reach -- Kate needs no popcorn to keep her smarts up) and bagged the bag within. Yes, 'grillin' takes on a whole new dimension now. Russell is either happy in his man of a mouse cave or he's - - - - - -

Yep. He's rustling still. Kate heard him. Kate made coffee and swore at him. Kate swore big time. She scorned him, she did. Not that that did anything. So Kate did what she's never done in her life before. (Kate's life before has had a Dad and numerous brothers and a husband and a son and numerous menfolk to do such a thing. Kate makes fun of sexism but not when it comes to touching a mousetrap.) After moving the unvictorious V-trap gingerly with the Louisville maple swisher, she picked up the death-contraption by the outside edges for the very first time she's ever touched a deathtrap. She placed it up on the pantry shelf where the bag that held the rustle of the Russell had previously been. Change of venue? Kate thought she'd outfox a mouse, she did. Returning to the food-source scene is what every good criminal mouse should do. Kate's a writer. I mention that or did you figure it out for yourself?

    

 

The note that was on the blue placemat on the white hutch in the kitchen found during the coffee making routines of usual great joy bade Kate to "Enjoy the creative wonder of your writing and the pleasure of doing what you love and dream to accomplish." She recognized the scrawl of his charm, or is that the charm of his scrawl? No! Not Russell's, Matthew's.

It's no dream. My accomplishment list includes the reality-desire of killing ... the mouse that's in my house.

Back to creative wonder and wondering if a note should be taken at face value or if it has multi-layers of meaning. Irony that.

   

"SNAP!"

The noise was loud. The noise was sudden. Out of the reverie writing implores, Kate snapped. "Ah, that stupid mouse is rustling again clear across 3 rooms."

"WAIT! Clear across 3 rooms!??? That was no rustle. THAT WAS A SNAP!" A most definite SNAP! Not even a Harry B Sanderford tale of a SNAP that got away was keepin the curiosity of this Kat away.

Well the more curiosity wrestled against grossness, the more Kate had a concern with really ~ should she look? But what if she had to go upstairs - to change clothes or use the bathroom or get to her garret and think or something? What would she do then? She had to be braver than the grossness of the splat of a rat in a deathtrap marked Victory.

So -- still with the constant companion Louisville in her clean clutches, she made it (soft as sandals could foot it) across the old gold carpet of the living room/study, across the Modrian rug design of the dining room/library/gallery, realizing once again how many slash/rooms it takes to make a peaceful home from the 1860's do all the jobs that rooms should do in such a place of peace and inspiration. They just shouldn't have a mouse in 'em. That's not peaceful at all.

She's in the kitchen now. Blue beckons on the white floor. This is such a cheery place. The classic Van Gogh irises framed above the sink make all things seem above any suspicions, any time. Yet, she creeps slower now. Past the hutch and the coffee pot (almost empty). Past the frig with the multi-magnets. Ooh Oh - she's at the corner now. Will she do it? Will Kate be courageous? Will she look Victory's death in the eye -- or at least a peek at a dead tail to end this tale?

She did.

She looked.

But from afar. Kate's not that courageous. Hell, what if Russell the rat rustler was only half dead or ten-percent dead? What would that do her? She'd get bit and there'd be a disease that took her out of commission when she has been trying so valiantly to get back on track ... That just wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all. Besides, gettin' bit would hurt. Not as much as what the unsaintly Saints did to Brett's bruised places which now match in uniformity his purpled uniform colours but . . .

Kate's procrastinating.
Kate's deliberating.

But Kate had to know. Was he dead? Was she the one who got the dread to go?

She leaned 'round the side of the frig, she did. She saw the trap. The trap had gone snap. There was no cheese. There was no mouse.

Russell the rustler was still the louse of a mouse loose in her house. There was no VICTORY in Derbytowne.

Mighty Katie had struck out.

 E'MAIL EPILOGUE:

Honeypie,
 

The mouse story is terrific.  It is entertaining in all the best ways:  witty, pithy, subtly suspenseful, and simply a pleasure to read.  You should consider putting it on AT THE BIJOU when you return for those readers and  those Friday Flash people you are really enjoying.  Others should have the chance to read it.  You should also consider having it published as a short story in a magazine. 

Love,

Matthew

PS  I'll try to set up a better trap.

THE MOUSE, THE CAT, AND THE CANARY. ~ By Hazar Worth

The Mouse, the Cat, and the Canary.

By ~ Hazar Worth

The bunch of bananas she was staring at, had occupied her table for five days over their prime ....

Her fingers felt achy and almost not there. The heat from her fingers was the type of heat that would be experienced if someone were to sit too close to a fireplace, made gluttonous by a woodsman's overactive axe.

In her mind, she could hear the sounds of the woodsman. That brief pause in this ritual, as his strong arms carried the axe to an apex over his head, hovering like a bird of terror and purpose, before plunging down into that union of wedge and wood. The sounds of wood bits and pieces splintering like the tight crack of the sniper's rifle seeking an inevitable target....

The image made her spread her legs some. Her fingers stroking the inside of her thighs as she was approaching that familiar cusp.

Against her window, she heard the small significant sounds of rain wanting to seek her attention ....

Her nipples felt thick and alive underneath the fabrics of his robe, that smelled vivid and disorienting against her senses. She recalled how his hands were eager to open his robe that she would always want to wear the following mornings. Her full body offered to his well-known whims, and subtle recommendations.

In her mind, she was listening to the sounds he enjoyed making.....

Her fingers wanted to do something right now. Anything right now. She didn't know how long she had been sitting at the table staring into the browning pattern of those bananas. She could easily smell the scent of the bananas skating across the weights and winds of her senses.

She remembered the banana bread they had when her Mother had paid an unannounced visit to her apartment. Over banana bread and cheap wine, he joked how the two of them were like 'hot college roommates..' he always wanted to fuck but alas, he had come to lack either the courage or willing participants required for such uncharted explorations into the frenzy. 

But at the moment, she was unsure about this and everythingelse....

She didn't know what day it had become. For some reason, she wasn't able to properly read the digital clocks that were placed in key areas of viewing throughout her apartment. She couldn't tell anyone how long she had been wearing his robe, with nothing underneath his robe but the bare qualities of her firm rounded breasts, and her wide hips that had had three miscarriages too many in the last four years.

Her fingers departed her inner thighs to stroke the well kept substance and fabrics of his robe. Whatever article of clothes he had purchased was kept to a maxium quality.

'If I put time into buying my clothes, then I will put in the time to keep my clothes lasting.', he once remarked while he admired how his robe made her firm and rounded breasts that much more sexier.

In her mind, the sound of his voice was telling her a million times over how much he wanted her, whenever he would enter her with a blending of thirst and power....

A biting, drunken electronic chirp-chirp-chirp intruded on her recollections. For a moment, she felt too dazed to locate the source of annoyance until her hand automatically sunk into his robe pocket and retrieved the chirp-chirp-chirping assailant.

'...hello...'

Before his voice spoke up, she could feel his emotions crawling through the black cellphone, so eager with need to find her.

'........why......why.....?'

For the first time in what felt like such a very long time ago, a pure smile was standing on her face, while her fingers continued to stroke the fabrics of his robe.

'...My Mother was a very good storyteller. She could remember these stories, and she would tell me so many of them so easily that I can't remember most of them. Maybe not having any children made knowing her stories ...unnecessary for me to remember. But I do remember one story that my Mother always enjoyed telling me....'

His sobs were trembling in some undisclosed area of his throat. She could hear how sharp, ragged, needy his breathing had become.

'There was a beautiful bright yellow canary who had an admirer in a house cat. Now this cat was, of course, an admirer because he wanted to eat the bright yellow canary but this didn't bother the bright yellow canary at all. She had grown quite fond of the house cat who would spend hours each day staring at her in her perfect cage, that kept her far from harm's ways....'

His voice grew insufferably small now. His words were easily lost in the small background noises shared by them as her voice grew lithe and agile...

'But one day... but one day came a rather cute field mouse from outside. This field mouse was so cute, as a matter of fact... that the cat couldn't pay anymore attention to the bright yellow canary in her perfect cage that kept her far from harm's ways. Now, it seemed, the house cat would spend his hours running through the house seeking the cute little field mouse....'

Like a defeated beach ball, his sharp ragged and needy breathing grew restless.

'Shhh shhh shhhhh. Please let me finish my Mother's story. ...Now the bright yellow canary felt lost without her admirer's undying attention. Those morning hours between them no one could stand between, and the time came when the bright yellow canary was allowed the right opportunity ....'

His sobs became a pipe-burst, pouring forth the strong currents of loss...and fear.

Listening to his sobs, the smile on her face had become a pure dance of joy.

'....why did you.... why ......oh god........'

'I am almost done with my story..... And so, with great diligence the bright yellow canary located the cute little field mouse in the most likely places, the very large kitchen nibbling a discarded piece of cracker left over from a party her owner had the previous night...'.

His sobs grew more and more impatient, and soon became a storm front of tears and anguish..... his face felt tight and hot as his tears wouldn't stop now....

'....but....she was your Mother....how could you... how could ---?'

Her smile couldn't hold itself back. Like food poison, she heard herself laughing at last ...

'Because it's like what the canary told the cute little field mouse before she killed her: “No one pulls my tail-feathers out and gets away with it...”. No ONE...'

Somewhere in her mind, she couldn't hear his voice anymore. Her laughter brought tears to her eyes as she watched her fingers and hand squeeze the dying dead goo from the bananas that had sat five days past their prime on her kitchen table....

Outside of her window, the small significant sounds of the rains lost the battle against the harsh cold winds. And snow fell from everywhere now, as she felt the bananas' dying dead goo drip over her fingers like the muted words that flowed from her Mother's dead gaze that looked past and through the ceiling of his house as she strangled her dead.

(c) 2010 . . .  Author Hazar Worth . . .

 Yes, of course you'll want to know more about this worth of a writer, who made a preeminent scream on the writers-circuit scene what seems almost in my dreams a portion of a year ago. But Hazar knew another before he came to stand up for what was right over on the streets of 6*City and then go into orbit at Sphere, amongst a myriad of haunts he zings with low-burning spark alive, alive.

Hazar Worth was introduced to the wonders of Grant Morrison's landmark graphic novel 'Arkham Asylum: A Serious House On Serious Earth' over twenty years ago. Since that point of significance, Hazar has followed the creed of his mentor almost to the letter: 

'Fake it til you Make it.'

Hazar's own masterwork, the experimental meta-parable 'Hosting', can be found every Saturday morning at Metazen.ca in serial form, as well as some of his other works and invocations at Fictionaut.com. Hazar resides quietly in a place where the waters and winds brings him further messages from the alchemical dimensions of his dreamings ... some call it Cleveland, some a state of worthy mind.

~ THANK*YOU HAZAR for your signature genre of deep-seated thrilling! 

~ Absolutely*Kate and our edge-of-the-theatre-seats fine staff of renown,   ~ AT THE BIJOU