Mrs. Henderson

   Mrs. Henderson lives just down the street from God under a nilla yellow cracker tile roof.  Every night just after her blanket clutch T.V. time she whispers to her cats about how much she hates words like “spat,” and “F**k,” and “c**t.”  No need for them there on the cluttered carpet with it‘s magazine stack parapets and recliner drawbridge.  Those who live in ginger bread houses shouldn’t throw curses.   
   There’s a funeral service every day.  Monday she wears the black blouse, black brooch on Tuesday, black brochure that lists them all, every time.  Swear she’s worn a groove straight through the marble steps to the marble caskets with sharp black heels clattering in the most deserted marble hall of a priests mind.  Got a foul rottenegg smile-grimace on his face when she panders by, ponderous parsimony in her ancient dress dragging dust cross the floor.  Crosses her chest with tailor pins, prick.  Giggles somberly at all the dead faced suits, tells the children the sins of their fathers, whispers, scatters. 

Author's Note

Hope this is sufficiently strange.

Reviews

[faryn wolff]

surpasses sufficiency. surely it is exceptionally strange and a delight to read.