Thursday December 14th, 2017

The exercise:

Write about: the housekeeper.

2 comments:

Greg said...

Glad you liked yesterday's take on the prompt. As I was first I had some freedom, and it just felt like I always take things in a slightly fantastical direction so taking it to something more mundane was a nice change.

The housekeeper
Last night I dreamt I came again to Mandelbrot, that strange house perched on a promontory above the Yeshua Bay. To the East the lights of the casino, the King of Hearts were brilliantly multicoloured and to the West the moon hung in the sky with too many stars around it. The symbolism was hypnotic and when I woke I lay immobilised with sleep paralysis for nearly fifteen minutes before I woke a second time and could move again. Needless to say I was late down to breakfast that morning and Nishween eyed me as though she suspected I'd been masturbating.
"Today," she said, her words slurred as her dentures slipped around her gums, "we will got to Mandelbrot. I must speak with Alan."
This was the purpose of our visit out to the East coast, but after my dream the night before I felt uneasy. When the taxi arrived outside the hotel I was relieved that it looked nothing like the car in my dream that had driven up the long, winding driveway to the front of the house, but I was nonetheless disturbed that I was unable to catch a glimpse of the driver's face. Nishween, of course, was utterly unconcerned, and settled herself in the back seat of the cab like an Indian Princess.
The taxi dropped us at the front doors of that curious domicile: built supposedly one hundred years before the Pilgrim Fathers set foot on the land. It towered above us, five stories of history and intrigue and, in some cases, bloody murder. It was the home of Alan, my foster-father, and alleged wizard, a cat so large it could have been mistaken for a mountain lion, and Mrs. Dandruff, the wizened housekeeper.
I stepped out of the taxi and Mrs. Dandruff was there, her back to me, sweeping the steps of the porch. Rust-coloured dust swirled around her like a miniature sandstorm and I was unable to move for several seconds as I watched her. Then Nishween was at my side and she took my elbow with a firm, bony hand, and the spell was broken. The dust subsided and Mrs. Dandruff turned to face us. Her face was exactly as I remembered: as wrinkled as a raisin, as brown as a chestnut and as bald as a billiard ball. She was barely five feet tall and though her arms and legs were stick thin she had a pot-belly that would have done justice to the eponymous pig. Her teeth were yellow and brown, rotten stumps in blackened gums like dying trees in a peat bog.
"Come in," she said, her voice a papery whisper that threatened to become a death rattle. "Mandelbrot will always be your home." If Nishween's grip has not tightened on my elbow like a vice I would have turned and run at that point.

Marc said...

Greg - it definitely worked :)

The details and descriptions in this one are awesome. Truly, I love how you find ways to bring scenes to life. It's hard to pick a favorite bit, but perhaps the description of Mrs. Dandruff should take top position.