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The Telltale something (ryhmes with heart)

Insulting Sensibilities

Oh no, there it is again. It torments my soul daily. My waking hours are filled with dread, fear that it will come for me when I least expect it.

Maybe during a meeting of my peers, or at a sporting event in the middle of a crowd or of all horrors, during worship on a Sunday morning. When all that is holy cringes in fear of being exposed to the one who allows evil to invade their sanctuary.

Sometimes it begins with an innocuous "pfft" sound, followed by an increasing odor of something green, dead and rotting.

At other times it roars like thunder with flashes of lightning and gales of unstoppable wind and torrents.

Its attack on me is never ending.

It creeps up from behind while sitting at breakfast, over tea and polite conversation. The opened newspaper can barely disguise the loathing of my countenance at it presence, or the look of disapproval from across the table.

The hounds glance up from their respite near the fire, questioning. They slink away, tails between their legs lest it follow them with a vengeance for canine.

It has over time, infected those poor beasts as well. The blackness most often makes its presence known after they lie at my feet while I recline. Quietly it attacks the sensibilities of all in the room while they, including the animals, glance surreptitiously in my direction.

It most often makes its hateful presence known after ingesting fresh vegetables, with zucchini being the most prolific of the evil. Beets, cauliflower and broccoli especially attack me with their message delivered straight from hell's fury.

Nor does sleep protect me from its vast tentacles of despair, as I am jolted awake by a booming sound in the night. The resulting cloud rises to the ceiling.

Giggles emanate from the other side of the bed.

Nightmares from my youth come crashing into my brain as I try to escape the gaseous clutches of evil.

The first is that of my estranged Uncle Joe, cigarette dangling from his lower lip with yellowing dentures flapping as if he's an actor in an out of sync foreign film, eyes squinting from the irritation of decades of Pall Malls. "Pull my finger boy." he chortles and coughs through the smell of tobacco smoke and an unmistakable odor of stale Pabst Blue Ribbon.

My nights are further tormented by the image of a hapless Mallard duck with an even larger, black as death boot hovering above.

Adolescent youth laughing and pointing fingers at me when I really didn't do it, or did I? At times, even I couldn't be sure.

Evil chants of "The smeller is the feller."

The natural condition of an active colon was lost on the impetuousness of twelve year old girls.

Teachers would simply walk (quickly) to the nearest window and state in their sing-songy, candy voices, "Maybe we could use a little fresh air in here," even though the ambient outside temperature was -20.

I was often quietly and efficiently removed from the class room, chastised for creating what they called an "unnatural disturbance" and sent home.

Mother swooned. Father chuckled. "Pull my finger boy."


© 2018 Lawrence P Wilson

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