Monday May 30th, 2016

The exercise:

Write about: the memorial.

Got the strawberry harvest for local orders started this evening with Adam and Kat`s parents. Approximately 81 pounds in the cooler so far, which is not a bad start on the 190 or so pounds needed to fill all the requests we have received this week.

Yeesh.

In other news, Max fell asleep at the dinner table this evening, shortly after finishing his last bite. He`s still asleep now and I`m not at all sure what to do or expect. If he makes it all the way through to morning that would be a pretty incredible night`s sleep for him.

I`m just worried he`ll wake up at 4 and insist on getting on with the day...

Mine:

"So... this is it, huh?"

"Yeah! What do you think?"

"It's... quite something."

"You don't sound especially enthusiastic."

"You don't say."

"What's the matter? Don't you think this is a fitting tribute to your late brother?"

"Oh, it's a fine statue, certainly. Only..."

"Yes?"

"I'm just wondering where all the knives are."

"The what, sir?"

"The knives he used to stab everyone in the back."

"Oh... those knives."

2 Comments:

Greg said...

It sounds like you're still working on Max's sleeping routines then. It can't be too long before he's on a slightly more adult friendly routine though!
Well, I like the sound of the memorial, and I am a little surprised that the knives weren't in the back of the statue, both as a reminder and a putative punishment :) But it's certainly a lovely idea for a memorial and I'm sure the dead person appreciated it!

The memorial
"I got dripped on." Cyril's mournful voice drifted across the quiet gravestones, and the two mourners that were kneeling miserably by fresh graves looked up, momentarily distracted from their thoughts of mortality.
"You're walking under the trees." Catto's voice was lighter, probably because she hadn't just been dripped on by a wet tree, and vanished quickly in the chill morning air.
"It's not like I have a choice."
The Partners in Rhyme were making their way along a cobbled path in the Frère Malpaise cemetary. All the paths were shaded at intervals by ancient trees with broad branches and thick leaf cover, though the one they'd chosen had the greatest density of trees. Cyril, being both taller and wider than Catto, was constantly brushing against the leaves and they were retaliating by dumping their reservoirs of water on him and down the back of his neck.
"Well... I guess that's true. I'm sorry Cyril, but the instructions are quite clear: this cemetary, at this time, on this day of the year. I don't want to have to wait a year to see if it's a bit drier before we complete the next step."
"Who performs a comedy act in a cemetary anyway?"
"Marco Kwan."
There was silence between them for a minute. Marco Kwan was the legendary body poet who'd allegedly found the secret to perfect comedy and a lot of riches and then hidden a way for someone else to discover them. The Partners in Rhyme had hired a couple of gentlemen burglars to steal an artwork that had been created by Marco, and from that had uncovered the six steps that needed to be taken. Two were already complete, the third was ahead of them.
"There we go," said Catto, pointing. Cyril looked up and a branch dumped water into his eyes. "That's the Mnemosyne marmoreal Memorial, that's where we need to be. We have," and she checked her watch, stolen the previous evening from an unsuspecting audience member in the deuxiéme quartier, "twenty minutes. We've made good time!"
"I got dripped on," said Cyril, mournfully.

Marc said...

Greg - a more adult friendly routine would be lovely. Not quite there yet, it would seem.

Yeah, the knives really ought to be in the back of the statue, huh? I think his surviving brother would have approved of that.

I love how you manage to tie so many things together in this piece. Still not quite sure what to think of this Marco Kwan character, but I'm intrigued to see where things go from here :)