The C-word

The table wobbled while Harry doodled. He shoved a folded piece of paper under the off-kilter leg but it refused his help. He saw no solution to their homeless situation. An amateur gardener gifted with hoes, and a poet who wrote about flowers was not likely to find work in a world run by Google gods and Zucker-burghers.

Harry’s inner scop evaporated as he watched steam tendrils unfurl around the bathroom door frame, the hot shower now approaching ten minutes in duration. He expected she would emerge puffy-fleshed and pink with decision. In the meantime, his efforts to soothe his nerves by writing a cathartic poem were blocked. A limerick perhaps?

There once was a man named Harry,

Whose lover tended to tarry.

She thought in the shower

Increasing her power

Water her weapon of parry.

Lady Smock leaned against the tiles, staring at the strips of black mold framing each 3 ½ inch soap scummed square in her solitary confinement shower. The scalding water poached all thought. Having run away with Harry, she had no idea what to do next.

Her feet were planted in a deepening puddle. Looking down she saw blond, brown, black, and grey hair reaching up from the drain and grabbing her ankles. They tugged at her and fear liquefied her stomach. Leaning over she poked her index finger into the drain and pulled up the rainbow assortment of hair, a scalp’s quantity coated with grey slime. Lost hairs. Fragments of dozens of other hair-pulling adventures – or misadventures – started, ended, stranded in this worn out B & B.

“I’m not Samson,” she thought. “I have money; I have means; and I have Harry.”

She opened the bathroom door and a warm front of steam erupted from the fumarole, changing the weather in the room.

Harry stared at his naked, rosy, goose-fleshed lover, round in all the right places, mist moistening her better than any body lotion. She marched to him, and he met her navel straight on, not flinching one bit under its wet Cyclops gaze.

Lady Veronica Smock-Speedwell announced – “Harry, pack your bags. We’re moving to Canada.”


11 thoughts on “The C-word

    • Since I’m Canadian, I feel a little more secure bringing their adventures closer to home. But you never know where they could end up, Liz. South Africa maybe?


  1. Fumarole is such a nice word….and so is stop. Like that limerick, too. I wonder which of all those hues graces Lady Smock’s tresses these days. So man;y delectable morsels, here…the scalding water poaching thought…the bellybutton as a cyclops. This one is brilliant, Sue!


    • Whatever colour her hairdresser wishes, Lady Smock is willing to try, except black. Too harsh on her delicate skin tone.

      Fumarole sounds kind of like a smoked taco or something food fadish. I was surprised when I saw the meaning.

      I was sitting on the back deck writing this one. Maybe it was the cardinal’s song that teased all the delectable morsels out of me. Thank you, Cynthia.


  2. I never know what to post after reading Susanne but I always get this very strong feeling. I just read something amazingly visually descriptive and poetic. I am so impressed by the way you write and so glad you are sharing it.


    • I truly appreciate that you take the time to say something, Jean. I’m glad my scribbles tickle your fancy!


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