Sunday Scribblings, "Absurd"
The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is absurd. That pretty much describes a lot of my short fiction efforts.
Parasite
I go downstairs and discover a rather huge and grotesque parasite has attached itself to the base of my father’s skull.
It squirms in some unholy cadence, its blue-black body wriggles on my father’s skin like a nightcrawler marooned on hot pavement.
It’s left my father glassy-eyed, hinky in his movements.
I reach for the handset of the telephone, determined to call the authorities.
“Hold on there, Tiger,” mother says from her sunny seat in the breakfast nook. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Before her is the most amazing display of baked-good decadence.
“Don’t you think we ought to call 911, the Centers for Disease Control?” I ask, holding the handset to my chest, and waving a frantic palm across my father’s line of vision.
He doesn’t respond. He just continues to whisk something in a large bowl, mother’s prized first edition of Julia Childs’ “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” open across a package of celery root, which acts as an easel.
“We’ve got to do something,” I say, panicked.
“Let’s not be in such a rush,” mother says. “At least not until we sample the cassoulet he’s preparing for dinner. I mean, look at this lovely pear tart he’s paired to go with it.”
Parasite
I go downstairs and discover a rather huge and grotesque parasite has attached itself to the base of my father’s skull.
It squirms in some unholy cadence, its blue-black body wriggles on my father’s skin like a nightcrawler marooned on hot pavement.
It’s left my father glassy-eyed, hinky in his movements.
I reach for the handset of the telephone, determined to call the authorities.
“Hold on there, Tiger,” mother says from her sunny seat in the breakfast nook. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Before her is the most amazing display of baked-good decadence.
“Don’t you think we ought to call 911, the Centers for Disease Control?” I ask, holding the handset to my chest, and waving a frantic palm across my father’s line of vision.
He doesn’t respond. He just continues to whisk something in a large bowl, mother’s prized first edition of Julia Childs’ “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” open across a package of celery root, which acts as an easel.
“We’ve got to do something,” I say, panicked.
“Let’s not be in such a rush,” mother says. “At least not until we sample the cassoulet he’s preparing for dinner. I mean, look at this lovely pear tart he’s paired to go with it.”
Comments
One very minor thing--Center for Disease Control, unless you meant "Centers" which kind of glares as everything else is so edited yet descriptive
:D
filigreed walls
Looked up Hinky because I started wondering what the difference was between it and wonky and according to the "urban dictionary" Hinky is defined as "Something as yet undefinable is wrong, out of place; not quite right." while Wonky is "weird, whacked out, messed up, not working for no definable reason. Usually applied to technology"
Also "Centers" is correct. I didn't know that either so this was not only very entertaining but I learned some new things as well :) Hope you are enjoying the road!
I loved this piece. You take us from "a rather huge and grotesque parasite" to "Julia Childs’ “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” open across a package of celery root, which acts as an easel." (LOVE that!) and end with a "lovely pear tart."
Fabulous. My kind of humor, Thom!