The Colonel and the Fly

Colonel Archibald Roddick was a tough old man. He’d been the veteran of many a war, and had fought in many a country. He was past his prime however, and felt that sooner or later he could no longer be useful to his nation in the event of a war. Now that the Great War had just come to an end, and he had led his men to triumph on the battlefield, he saw it fitting to take his leave from the military spotlight on a high note. And so he hung up his uniform, polished his medals one last time, and had his service revolver sealed in a glass case and proudly put on display atop his cabinet. His transition to civilian life however, was a matter far less simple than stowing or saving his belongings. Having been a high-ranking official he demanded order, civility and above all else, respect. All these requirements made life in his niece’s home quite laborious and strenuous for him. His niece had a tendency to birth loud, obnoxious and ill-mannered offspring. With her husband having recently passed on in a terrible accident that needs little description suffisive to say it involved a tapestry, there was a severe lack of discipline in the house. So she was left alone to tend to a terrible trio of hellions, hell bent on misbehaving. Her three young boys, William, Donald and Filmore were the bane of the colonel’s existence, as they did whatever they pleased, and what they pleased was always contrary to his wishes.

Colonel Roddick had the second story of the townhouse all to himself, but there was little peace, privacy or silence there for him. The flight of creaky stairs with the locking door at the top proved to be a highly ineffective barrier against three rambunctious youths. If anything it was seen more as a challenge to them than a deterrent, and they made it their business to evade detection, until they breached his living quarters that is, then they would make their presence very well known. If they couldn’t get in through the door, then they’d promptly climb the laburnum tree in the back yard, and come in through the window. Their intrusions into the colonel’s space grew in frequency and vociferous inconvenience with every request, order or shout to the antipode. The incorrigible incongruous behavior of the boys was contradictory to everything the colonel had known and loved about the army, and it pained him each time they breached his second story sanctuary. The boys’ propensity to pry into the affairs and possessions of their great uncle was so intense and well honed, that he had to lock his medals and pistol away in his armoire, out of their reach, and sadly out of his proud sight. The armoire was the one secure place of solitude he had from the menacing ways of William, Donald, and especially Filmore, who as the youngest misbehaved the most, to prove his valor to his sibling compatriots. The colonel would often boom from atop the staircase his great dislike of the children’s insubordination and disregard for his privacy.

This hectic and stressful lifestyle for the colonel made Sunday evenings extra special, for every Sunday from precisely three o’clock to eight o’clock pm he had the house to himself. At that time, on that night of each week, his niece and her brood of unscrupulous brigands would be off to town to visit her brother and have a quaint family dinner. Ironically this very same time was the least favorite for her brother, who shared the colonel’s distaste for the children’s nature, especially Filmore, who insisted on mishandling his cat. So, every Sunday evening colonel Archibald Roddick could relax to his paper, his pipe, and a glass of vermouth before bed. It came to be ritualistic for him, and he’d count down with delight, the minutes until his niece and the boys would trot off to the bus stop to take the number 10 across town. Then alone at last, he could sit comfortably in his worn leather chair, and reflect with great fondness his years spent serving his country. Happily at rest he’d lean back and dream as wafts of smoke rose from his Peterson Dublin, perched in his mouth.

On one Sunday in particular, the colonel’s tranquility was riven with the presence of a persistent and annoying fly. He was adamant on Sunday evenings being his sabbatical from an otherwise unbearable week. It started out as a petty irritation as the fly would circle around the room, buzzing loudly and flying within the parameters of the colonel’s personal relaxation space. But with each passing minute it grew more and more frustrating for him, and the petty irritation quickly grew to an all consuming vexation. The colonel had gone from perturbed to enraged as the loud low buzzing grew within his ears. No the colonel being a man who required a hush ataraxia to get through his week, was not about to let some miniscule insect ruin his furlough , so he took after the fly as if it were the Kaiser himself. Calling upon the repository of his accumulated years of military training, he hunted the fly, employing a number of strategies and techniques that would inflict pain and fear on any rival army. But this was no ordinary fly; it was cunning and calculating, the volume of its buzzing surpassed only by its failure to die. Frantically the colonel executed a campaign of leaps and swipes, attempting with all his valor and military prestige to destroy his unrelenting foe. The fly would careen around the room, swerving with acrobatic grace, to avert every newspaper swing of the colonel’s offensive. To Mrs. Fenniman across the way squinting through her spectacles, the colonel’s leaps through the air, looked like some sort of spastic interpretive dance, as he flailed about trying to smite the elusive fly.

The colonel was certain that the fly had an evil agenda and was out to get him. He figured that this fly was in no doubt a tool of his sinisterly obstreperous nephews, whose primary target was to inflict chaos on his leisure time during their absence. The constant unignorable hindrance of the fly, bothered the colonel so greatly that he referred to it as Filmore, while he chased it about in an attempt to end its existence. Then, the fly did the unthinkable and flew into his locked armoire through the small keyhole. It had entered into his last line of defense, his one sanctuary, where his thoughts and possessions could be protected, had been trespassed by a small, hairy dung-feeding menace. In a fit the colonel fumbled to unlock the armoire, eager to stop the intense buzzing echoing through his thoughts that had been amplified through the acoustics of the armoire.

When eight o’clock came around, colonel Roddick’s niece expected to find a content old man sitting quietly in his chair, reliving his glorious days of military prestige. What she saw was quite the opposite. Colonel Archibald Roddick sat in his chair with a mighty scowl on his face, discharged service revolver in his hand, having taken his own life in an attempt to maintain his Sunday night ritual of peace and quiet.

Claypot

Mrs. Brindsley enjoyed fine things. She was much accustomed to collecting nicks and knacks that she would find about. And on one day such as any she stumbled across the newest addition to her ever expanding collection. At the annual Felpsborough market, she ascertained the most “fetching” clay pot. Despite the drastic expense for the clay piece she bought it, for she felt that no amount of money was too much for such a humble and cute creation. It was truly the finest antiquity she had acquired to date. So, to her house the master craft went, up on the mantle and out of reach of her inquisitive young son Arthur Gordon Brindsley. The clay pot sat amid a plethora of ceramics, sculptures and other collectibles. It seemed the only item not on display in the parlor was her sons art project, one poorly made, yellow clay dragon she promptly hid in her closet, and insisted she lost. Now her son, a clod in her mind, would break the pot whether inadvertently or intentionally, so she found it best not to tell him about its existence to prevent the second of the two possibilities. Now as irrational as the notion of Arthur destroying the pot on purpose may have seemed, her fear of that potential outcome wasn’t entirely unfounded. She recollected with a great deal of displeasure an occasion on which he lifted a newly acquired vase she had gone to great lengths to procure, up over his head, then without warning flung against the wall. This for her was the first and final straw, making her collectibles from that day on, forbidden from Arthur’s hands. Although he had grown several notches in height and maturity since that most scandalous of affairs, she still would not allow him near her possessions. Clearly her love for her memorabilia far greater outweighed her trust for her son. With the shattering of that vase fell all the pieces of respect she once held for him, and no amount of glue could repair the damage of one young boy’s miscalculation of a fine piece of porcelain for an idle play thing.

Arthur inevitably found the pot, but it wasn’t upon the mantle when he did. Noticing the slightest spot of dirt, his mother had taken it into the kitchen for a thoroughly intensive dusting. For reasons as insignificant as a quick run to the market to fetch that evening’s bread, she had left the pot unattended. Alone upon the counter it sat, a beacon of mystery to his curious eyes. There wasn’t much sense in Mrs. Brindsley running off to the market for bread after all, for when she came back she found Arthur sans appetite. His face was a mess, and he sat on the kitchen floor, the pot at his feet. Unlike the aforementioned vase however, it remained intact, say for the lid which had been wrenched off. He sat there looking ill, with the insistence that the preserved goods were no good at all. Where the lid to the pot once rested was a mound of powder heaped at the mouth of the overturned clay vessel. With a look of rage Mrs. Brindsley spat about how he wasn’t to fill her quaint little clay pot with his sweets, to which his reply was an accusation that she had been the one to have purchased it.

She seized the pot from him, and raised it to her eyes now aware of its lack of weight compared to before, when she had initially bought it for that hefty sum. She deduced that it had been filled prior to her incrementing it. She realized that she’d been swindled, and what was thought to be a rare collectors artifact was nothing more than a clay jar of powdered candy. With a repulsive look of utter illness oh his face, Arthur attested to the putrid nature of the confectionary. For the first time, Mrs. Brindsley turned the pot upside down, spilling the rest of its contents in the process, revealing a passage on the base. In small letters on the bottom of the pot was engraved “Arnold Bandis in loving memoriam, cremated July 1st 1802”

Gerald's Advisor

Gerald had come to terms with his illness. He had accepted the fact that Joseph was not real, and was all in his head, but that didn’t matter. Despite Joseph’s existence merely being a figment of his imagination, he still relied on him for advice and help. Joseph was smart, and Gerald counted on him during his day-to-day life. Gerald would return home from work and stand-alone in his kitchen, only to himself, he wasn’t alone, he was with Joseph, and they would talk. Joseph didn’t go to the plant with Gerald, because Gerald didn’t want people to see him talking to himself, Gerald didn’t want people to know he was crazy. Gerald had once been referred to a psychiatrist. Joseph told him not to go, Joseph said it was a trick, he said they wanted to destroy him; he said they wanted to lock Gerald away. After Gerald had explained his life and everything to the doctor, that’s when he realized Joseph was right. They said Joseph wasn’t real, but Gerald could see him. Joseph was right, it was a trick, the doctors wanted to put him away, they wanted to remove Joseph from Gerald, and Gerald couldn’t allow that. Gerald decided not to take the medication he was prescribed, and so he lived with guidance from Joseph, who was vastly wise, and could tell Gerald things.

Gerald had had problems the month before, when a colleague had accused Gerald of stealing things from the plant, nothing of significance, but the notion of employee theft itself was something the plant wouldn’t tolerate. Gerald knew he hadn’t taken anything and Joseph helped him prove his innocence. Joseph was there for Gerald, and in return Gerald insured Joseph’s existence, by acknowledging him. Gerald saw great advantage with Joseph, because there was a perception there, where Joseph could pick up on things Gerald missed. Joseph was thorough, he was Gerald’s subconscious radar, scanning the thoughts Gerald would pass by, and screening them for any significance. Gerald knew this, and that was why he was adamant about keeping his confidant around. He could tell Joseph anything, whether the inconsequential happenings of a slow day at the plant, or Gerald’s deepest fantasies, either way, there would be no criticisms or judgment, only analysis and positive reinforcement. Perhaps telling Joseph things was redundant, because Gerald wasn’t sure if Joseph was an isolated part of his mind, or whether he knew everything Gerald knew. Frankly that wasn’t really important, since Gerald had made a habit of telling him everything partly for Joseph’s input, but mostly for the interaction and company.

Then one day a rift was driven into what seemed to be a happy and inseparable relationship between man and mirage. It started when Gerald became well acquainted with a woman from work named Wendy. From the start Joseph knew Wendy was trouble, but Gerald dismissed Joseph’s complaints as jealousy and paranoia, ironic since Gerald was the one fabricating friends. Joseph saw that Wendy was jeopardizing the stability of Gerald’s unstable life, his concerns were warranted, since she’d be a little suspicious if she saw Gerald interacting with thin air. So, whenever Wendy came around, Joseph would vanish, receding to what Gerald could only presume was the depths of his mind. This displeased Gerald since he usually relied on Joseph to help him communicate well with others. Without any advice or guidance from Joseph, Gerald was awkward and nervous around Wendy, but she found it cute, progressing their relationship to a more serious level.

Eventually, Gerald asked Wendy to move in, and since they worked together, they were nearly inseparable, causing Joseph to practically vanish from Gerald’s life. Gerald wasn’t so sad; he gave up trying to integrate his two worlds by convincing Joseph to let Wendy know about his presence in Gerald’s mind. He knew Joseph would always refuse, and he wasn’t so lonely with Wendy around, so he accepted the distance between himself and his imaginary companion. Soon Joseph wasn’t important to Gerald, and Wendy had replaced him as council and confidant. Then finally, Joseph was gone. Gerald had a sick day from work, and while alone at home he called to Joseph, and his calls went unanswered. It was that day that Gerald knew, staring into his bathroom mirror, that Joseph was gone for good. He figured love had saved him, and now without his loneliness, he was sane, free of any imaginary friend. Later that month Gerald decided to marry Wendy, and they went on an evening stroll through the park, but his plans to propose were postponed as they were waylaid by coworkers who had taken to the park for a game of volleyball. Wendy not knowing Gerald was to propose decided they should join the group’s festivities, causing Gerald to lose the time alone he needed with her to muster the courage and set the mood to pop the question. After the park the gaggle of coworkers agreed to go for drinks, not knowing Gerald’s intentions to wed and preference for them to be alone together Wendy said they’d join suite. Gerald being a slightly timid guy, not used to public engagements went along for the ride, and kept the ring for another day, and another scenario. They were having a good time at the bar, and the company was weeding itself out as many coworkers had family and friends to return to.

Soon Gerald and Wendy were nearly alone, the only thing standing between him and till death do you part was Ricky Trapps from accounting. Things were looking up and Gerald was feeling fairly comfortable for a man of his shy nature, and then he hit a brick wall. Across the bar he saw a man shooting pool at a table by himself, it was Joseph. Gerald looked in horror, he knew full well that despite the joy he’d shared with Joseph, he couldn’t see him again, for a marriage was in no way possible with an imaginary third wheel. Gerald then was drowned in a wave of paranoia, what if the others in his life weren’t real either, what if Wendy, and even chubby Ricky Trapps were all just figments of his mind, wild creations caused by his subconscious. Gerald sank back into his shell, as grief and fear swept over him. Suddenly the bar was stuffy and he found it hard to breath, he felt dizzy, alone and scared. Then his panic was interrupted as Ricky called out to Joseph, “Hey Joe! How are ya? I haven’t seen you since college.”
Joseph looked over at Ricky, and not recognizing Gerald in the dark atmosphere of the bar called out jokingly “Hey, not much, living the dream I always said I would Ricky.” Ricky gave a hearty half drunken chuckle and turned to Wendy and said “haha, man that guy is hilarious, he comes up with the funniest things. Back in college he always said that one day he’d find some loaner, pretend to be his fantasy and just live in his house. Who comes up with that stuff?”
As Joseph began to laugh, his eyes met Gerald’s, and without warning he dashed from the bar and out into the streets.

Yesterday's Mirror

In the St. Dobson’s Boarding Home of Pogsley Bay, Linus was a bit of an outcast. He found himself to possess a dissociative comportment in regards to the other members of the lodging. Unlike most of the other children, he had a dislike for playing and games, to the extent that one could say he was hideously unfond of them. Now, on any average day in St. Dobson’s, let alone any boarding house for the youth of the world, the children would be out playing in the yard, too busy with the cares of who’s it, or hopscotch to bother with the whims and woes of society. It was on these very same average days that young Linus would find an excuse to remain indoors. He would sit alone in the attic of the boarding house, watching the other children though a small, cracked, circular window that was in desperate need of a proper cleaning and defogging. This bizarre and somewhat frightening tendency of his to sit there unblinking, regarding the other children from above was commonly known. When ever a member of the town would walk by on their way to market they would mutter to themselves “there’s that Linus boy again…just sitting there staring.” His routine was very unsettling for the town’s people who found his ever fixed mark by the attic window to be quite unhealthy. What the other people didn’t seem to understand was what went through small dear Linus’ head whilst he sat there watching the other children. He didn’t simply mope and pout, or wish them ill. His sentiments were quite the contrary, and infact were of a joyous nature. For despite not enjoying running about in the yard, Linus still had a great deal of imagination floating around inside his skull. He would sit there and play games of his own, watching silently as animals, pirates, and trolls ran about chasing each other. Infact, Linus’ fascination with the outside world became so great that he ceased going outside all together. He would rarely stray from his small, jagged window, sitting there watching the world and gazing into how he perceived things to be. On many occasions the head of the boarding house attempted to lure him outside, but after a five month vigil at the window, it was apparent that Linus wouldn’t move, so they just let him be, and pretended he wasn’t there. Pretending he didn’t exist however became more and more difficult as attention is easily drawn to a small boy sitting, unmoving peering out at one through beady eyes behind an eerie window. Eventually the towns people came to regard the boarding house as taboo, afraid of the small unshifting form they saw piercing them as they walked pass. So it came to be that Tubdun street became a empty place, many citizens adding an extra twenty minutes to their foot route to avoid coming across Linus, or the shadow child, as he came to be known. Even eighty seven year old Agatha Bittlestew would carve an enormous three mile wake around the place, straining her shot hip, just to avoid the Linus’ lurking gaze.

Finally after almost three years of solitude amongst the embrace of the attic, the townspeople merely forgot all about Linus, and tended to go about their own way. True, he remained in the window every spare moment of his life, but ignoring the lad had become second nature for every resident of Pogsley Bay. The street saw traffic again, but it was minimal at best, as most people had been so accustomed to avoiding it, they didn’t stop. Some forgot why they never passed down Tubdun street, and frankly the though never crossed their minds as they merrily went about their lives, now oblivious to Linus’ constant birds eye presence. Eventually, the children found play in the front yard tedious, as the cobble street was now second to the patch of turf added around back of the boarding house. Soon Linus lost the pleasures of looking out into the world, as there was hardly anyone about, and the fact that his view had receded due to the hindrance of ever branching Alder Buckthorn trees.

Then, on one fine November day, through a slight breeze Linus got up from his seat and went downstairs. Silently he opened the front door of St. Dobson’s Boarding Home, and proceeded to step outside. He had grown quite unfond, infact, one could go as far as saying hideously unfond, of sitting about all day watching an ever shrinking near emptiness. So, he decided to go outside for the first time in eight years. From the second his feet touched the cobbled steps outside of the boarding home he felt free. Linus inhaled some sweet Tubdun street air, and smelt the distinct scent of Celandines, which unbeknownst to him had been planted the season before by Mrs. Bittlestew. He enjoyed the fresh smell of these previously unknown flowers, and gaze about him, enjoying the cool breeze blowing against his face. He took in the beauties of the once forgotten outdoors, seeing no longer what he invented, but something much broader and more beautiful than the capabilities of his mind, he saw life for the first time as it truly was. He turned to see the small window in the top of the boarding house attic, curious as to what had been the allure to have trapped him there all those years. Linus winced at the filthy cracking window pane, wonder why he had been so entranced to sit in the dark attic for nearly a decade. That was when he noticed a set of eyes looking back, he stared in disbelief. In the window sat a small, pale boy, gazing at Linus through deep brown eyes, in a manner he found most unsettling and creepy. Surely Linus thought he was seeing a younger version of himself, sitting there silently, watching. He wonder how this might be, and what the boy was thinking, was he imagining Linus as an animal or a pirate? Linus stood there gazing back, as again curious thoughts danced in his imagination, and then he was abruptly hit by a car.

The Ballad of Brad

There once was a boy named Bradley,
And instead of counting sheep,
He spent every night sadly,
Crying himself to sleep.
His life was a cycle of follies,
Filled with many great sorrows,
A strand of melancholies,
That flood his todays and tomorrows.
He wanted a life to enjoy,
Something that’d give him delight,
The wanton dream of a boy,
But alas, he’d cry every night.
Then on one night of mystery,
Bradley broke free of his ways,
Gone was his sad old history,
When a man spoke of better days.
You see, on that night in question,
Bradley was approached by a king,
A fine dashing lord named Cheston,
Who said quite a wonderful thing.
Cheston was rich you see,
He possessed great wealth and splendor,
Not average like you or me,
Truly he was a big spender.
Bradley was invited to live with grace,
Which wiped away all of his grief,
Faster than the tears on his face,
Were wiped by the king’s handkerchief.
“Come live on my vast estate,”
Boomed the king in an elegant voice
“The decision is yours, I’ll wait”
“Yes!” of course was Bradley’s choice
“But wait,” Bradley suddenly inquired,
He was cautious of potential dangers,
For by his teacher he was inspired,
To talk not to complete strangers.
“Ah yes,” was the kings proclamation,
“An explanation is needed”
For he understood Brad’s hesitation,
“Here’s the thing,” he then proceeded.

“In the crusades I was in the East,
Fighting for the holy land,
For my father had be deceased,
Untimely by Saracen hand.
In a quest to avenge my dad,
I needed men for a battle,
So I enlisted many a lad,
Whether blacksmith or herder of cattle.
Now revenge is a bitter drink,
Especially when served with fruit,
That will cause you to act before you think,
So we did pillage, rape, and loot.
After me and my band,
Took revenge against the Sheik,
We burned all his crops and land,
And tortured him for a week.
We stole his wives and possessions,
We did whatever we wilt,
And then I sought confessions,
So that I could admit my guilt.
For I’d gotten carried away,
And preformed such terrible malice,
As setting his children astray,
And misusing his wonderful palace.
So after a bountiful feast,
I ran off to find his lost spawn,
Also to confess to a priest,
For clouding my brains with brawn.
But alas his children did stumble,
Into a group of marauders,
Who mistook them for knights in a bumble,
And led the kids to the slaughters.
I came across their camp,
And found a pike bearing a head,
I also found a gold lamp,
Where all the children lay dead.
The marauder’s miscalculation,
Had led to a mighty assault,
And for soldiers the kids were mistaken,
This tragedy was all my fault.
The marauders were nowhere in sight,
Ran off yet again to be menaces,
And all that was left of the fight,
Was the sad sight of infant carcasses.
Tearfully upon that lamp I swore,
To never again cause such harm,
I rubbed it until my hands were sore,
Out emerged a genie to my alarm.
He said unto me, three wishes he’d give,
And I knew what I had to say,
I wished to eternally live,
To right the wrongs I started that day.

“So there you have it Bradley,
Since then I’ve made sad kids happy,
And I’d take you on gladly,
Since your life is in a word, crappy.”
“Geewhiz! “ cried Bradley with much joy,
He had never been so glad,
He looked like a happy boy,
And at that moment forgot he was sad.
“Oh what a wonderful thing,”
He said with a joyous smile,
“You really are a king,
Not just some mincing pedophile”
At the king’s estate Bradley played,
Finally he was content,
With all the memories he made,
Created with money Cheston spent.
Bradley starred in reflection,
At a pond full of bright colored fish,
Suddenly he had a question,
“Cheston, for what else did you wish?”
The king answered loud,
“Why for riches of course,”
He said looking very proud,
“To give the kids out of remorse.”
Great wealth upon Brad he lavished,
Giving him tons of cash,
So that he could buy what he ravished,
And keep a hefty stash.
“This is too good to be true!”
Squealed Brad in a high girly voice,
“Well, its all just for you,”
Said lord Cheston to much rejoice.
Happily the king spoke,
“Take it, its yours to keep,”
Then with a choke, Bradley awoke,
And cried himself back to sleep.