Thursday, June 16, 2011

Old Stuffs

Whilst browsing through my notebooks, I found something that I wrote earlier this year.


"Mr. Mingo, there's a call for you."
"What line, Martha?"
"No line, a personal call. They say that they have news for you about the recent downturn in interest in our company."
"Send them in, then," muttered the slightly pudgy Mr. Mingo, readjusting his tie with a slightly nervous air.

A few seconds later, the door to his office opened and a young girl walked in, an animal draped over her shoulders like a living scarf. Walking to the space just before Mr. Mingo's mahogany desk, she stood straight and tall, chin barely above the edge of the desk. Slowly, the creature unwound from her neck, revealing itself to be a long cat-like creature with fur the color of dark chocolate. Yawning, it stretched languidly, then sat next to the girl, its tail curled around its feet.

Pressing a button on his desk, Mr. Mingo glanced at the girl. She was still standing there, dressed in a little blue dress that came just above the floor, her bare feet digging into the thick rug.

"Send them in, please," he said, eyes still watching the girl as she stood, perfectly motionless, on the thick carpet.

"That is them," came the receptionist's voice, crackling through hidden speakers.

"I see." Removing his finger from the button, he interlocked his fingers and looked expectantly at the little girl and her strange animal. The longer he stared, the more the pair unnerved him, their silence uncanny. It wasn't helping that the girl's eyes met his, fixing him in eyes the color of a winter storm.

"Well?" asked Mr. Mingo, beads of sweat forming on his brow as the girl's eyes bored into his skull. They were dangerous eyes, twin chips of ice embedded in the round white face of a child, framed by obsidian hair.

Suddenly, the creature sprang at Mr. Mingo's throat, sharp white fangs bared as the silent girl drew a long and slender blade from the sash of her dress. Mr. Mingo didn't even have a chance to scream before the pair lept onto his desk, then finished him with lightning-fast slashes and tears.

Faster than it had begun, it was over. The girl and the creature stood back as blood seeped from the wounds they had inflicted onto the desk. Dipping three of her fingers into the scarlet liquid, the girl lifted her fingers to her cheek, painting three stripes of crimson lifeblood there. Dipping her fingers again, she repeated the process on the other cheek, then wiped fingers and blade clean on Mr. Mingo's shirt.

"That was for killing the last redwoods to build power plants. That was for poisoning the last whale with your fish farms. That was for the Earth, Mr. Mingo," she hissed to the dead man. Turning away from the corpse of the World's Almighty Ruler, she walked calmly from the office, the demon-creature once again wound around her shoulders.

1 comment:

  1. Her vorpal blade went snicker snack...

    Hey grand daughter. Found this link thru your dad. Nice to visit with you this way - see your thoughts - your talent.

    When I was your age .... blah blah (a mere wisp of a lad..) - 1963 - 12 yrs old - I wrote to amuse myself. Flights of fantasy - just like you. They gave me an end-of-year award for it. They didn't have a catagory for it, so they dummied up a "creativity" award. Sheesh. (discovered I can't post an image here, so I'll put it on your father's FB wall).

    Looking at the date on this piece of paper makes me realize that this was a few months before the Kennedy assassination. Strange times.

    You're not alone. You have Rosenberg blood in your veins. You're doing the same thing your ancestors did before you (you're just doing it better). Love from your Florida grandpa.