Our Town

"About them Hors de' oueveres, ain't they neat."

Our Town

The Roads to Perdition

I was jogging down the lovely roads of our perfectly quaint little village when suddenly, out of nowhere, popped into my head a catchy little jingle I'd heard quite by accident. It was sung by a group called The Kingston Trio many decades ago, or at least that's what I was told.

I wouldn't know for I wasn't alive at the time.

It was called the Hors d' oueveres Song.

A hysterically silly title, don't you think so?

And the lyrics were just as terribly silly too.

"About them hore doovers

Ain't they neat

Little bit of cheese

And a little bit of meat."

Thinking on it, I laughed and laughed until I nearly fell off the road into a drearily, deep, and dark ditch.

Suddenly, as if by some magical force, popped into my fanciful mind, lyrics of my own.

I began to sing them out loud so that the whole world could hear.

I received some terribly odd looks to say the least, as I jogged along my merry way.

One terribly awful and perfectly unattractive woman called the police.

The lyrics to my little jingle went something like this,

"About them Pot Holes

Ain't they keen

A little concussion

And a ruptured spleen."

It was about this time I began to ponder the terribly, awful, sorry state of affairs in which our roads find themselves.

Here, in this sleepy, quiet, little town of ours, hazards await.

It is an awfully fearful thing really...when one thinks of the roads.

I warn you most terribly sternly, do not venture out onto the streets after the darkness creeps up.

You may come home missing your ankles, or perhaps worse, you may not come home at all.

They are the Roads to Perdition, to be sure, especially after darkness creeps its eerie fingers around you.

It is frightful enough during daylight hours to travel by car on these hazard called roads, not knowing if you might lose a wheel, drop a front axle or, for that matter, lose your rear end too.

Wouldn't that be just the most tragically, tragical thing ever?

It is awfully terrible to think that one cannot so much as ride a bike down these peaceful little roads of ours without fear of being tossed off into a dark and dreary ditch. I fear it would be the end of many a poor soul.

To those whose main source of exercise, during these terribly, awful, pandemic days, is to walk the streets, I warn you again, be ever so careful.

I sometimes find myself walking the middle section of the road. The middle seems to have fewer hazardous obstacles than the side sections, although I'm not quite so sure.

There 's always that teenage boy driver, dead set on setting a landmark speed record, who quite suddenly catches you by surprise.

Fearing your life is in terrible peril, you dive head first into that dark and dreary ditch.

I've been there and it's not a pleasant place to be, and that's to be absolutely sure.

Terribly unknown things, with glowing, awful, evil eyes, and sharp, white, sparkly fangs live down there.

But I suppose, however, in some small way, we should be thankful.

We could have no roads at all, I suppose.

Wouldn't that be the most dreadfully awful thing...not to have roads?

And so yes, if you should ask, we do have roads...of a sort, I suppose.

And yes, should you ask, we should be thankful too...somewhat, I suppose.

And...should you ask, yes, someday, in a galaxy far, far, away, in the very, very distant future, we will have other roads...perhaps, I suppose.

And, also possibly, should you ask of course, we might even be able to walk on them.

It would make life so much more than just perfectly perfect... but it's highly unlikely.

And yes, I do suppose it to be so, as well.

Chris Adams,

A teenage girl who once tried to imagine her hair into becoming a radiant red, like Anne Shirley.

Anne lived at Green Gable on Prince Edward Island, a province of Canada. We are kindred spirits of sorts, separated only by time and distance. You see, she lived well over a hundred years back.

I failed at my endeavor of imagining my hair into becoming a radiant red, most miserably I did.

Currently I am a resident and part time streetwalker.

And yes, my life is most perfectly perfect, I suppose.

Author's Note

Chris suffers from chronic adjectivation

Reviews

[Sami Khalil]

What a story and a snapshot of this little town. I got hooked on the details to know about this town and the condition of its infrastructure. I believe the narrator is sharing a deeper message other than what is on the surface. We all have our perspectives on things, seeing things in a good light or a bad one. Count our blessings is a good way even in the middle of worst things. Wonderful dear poet...

[Sami Khalil]

'I've been there and it's not a pleasant place to be, and that's to be absolutely sure.

Terribly unknown things, with glowing, awful, evil eyes, and sharp, white, sparkly fangs live down there."

[Sami Khalil]

"Here, in this sleepy, quiet, little town of ours, hazards await.

It is an awfully fearful thing really...when one thinks of the roads.


I warn you most terribly sternly, do not venture out onto the streets after the darkness creeps up."