Although Ms. Thatwackyperson loved humor, and probably lived by making the world just a little more funny, there were times in life that she felt incredibly sad.
Sorrowful, and conscience stricken she sat in an old rickety rocking chair in her living room. Why did this always happen? Something would come up, and she would crack completely. And she would find herself clutching a large cup of some hot sugary mess, crying pathetically. Old wrinkled scarfs would be piled up in a large wet mass next to her. Empty boxes of cookies piled up on the other side. She felt old. And horribly pathetic.
This time, it had been a memory,she thought, blowing her nose on an old wrinkled scarf.From around a year ago, today.
Ms. Thatwackyperson was hurrying through a crowd. Tall people in dark suits marched passed steadily. Each of them wore shiny black shoes, each had a pinstriped shirt on. They exchanged sounds with one another, faint remarks that were lost in the distant air high up around their faces. There was always a pathway to the side that was left empty, a path that the marchers seemed to avoid. Ms.Thatwackyperson hurriedly stepped into the empty lane, which soon winded into a narrow dusty footpath. Little daisies grew along the path sides, amongst wild tangled weeds. They were scraggly and faded, more whitish grey than yellow. Tiny mimosa leaves shut themselves hurriedly as her shoes brushed past.Sometime later, a few meters off the path, meandering jungle trees rambled suddenly into the sky. The trees stood lethargically in thorny impenetrable tangles. Creepers covered swathes of the undergrowth, changing everything they carpeted, from shrubs to wild ferns, into non-descript faded mounds of leaves. There were probably lizards and perhaps even giant rats around, thought Ms. Thatwackyperson. She sped up slightly. Wacky though her name was, she did not like giant forms of the smallish house animals.
The scene changed. The sudden jungle shifted into large clean edged houses, glittering and glinting in the afternoon sun. The house on her right was painted a shocking pink. A bright and almost blinding shade of a sickeningly sweet candy had been glazed over the house. The roof was tiled in white and buttery caramel colours. Little and big domes of swirled whipped cream had been added on random places of the house. She assumed they were of the hardened concrete variety.
Work was in progress on the house. Little blue tents had been set up in the driveway. A few people with hardhats were drinking out of silvery flasks. They sat under the sprawling spidery trees that lined the driveway. Those trees! They brought back memories.
A few trees had long twisted hair hanging down from their leaves. Some of the brittle strings had reached the soil, and grown back, away, up and out into new trunks of the trees. The trees were a little more gnarled and uglier than they had been in her childhood. A few more trunks were standing shakily on the edges. Stranger than strange. Perhaps these trees had inspired her, in some way, to do the drastic things she’d done later on. But that was, of course, a tale for another day.
She remembered swinging from the hair-like vines, and trying to climb them. Her arms always hurt later, and she was always left wondering how kids in storybook boarding schools did it-well maybe not climb hairy trees- but ropes, at least. She still wondered. AH well, one of those mysteries of life.
There had been someone else in those memories. A little boy a few years older than her. He had been a wild exuberant little thing, the gang leader and mastermind of the things they’d done. Every crazy thing in the book of crazy things had been carefully planned out and executed under his supervision. And then he’d added on to the book, when the book had run out. Perhaps she would find it in a small musty bookstore on the edge of a winding dark alley one day. “The Amended Book of Crazy Things, By…”The old gang, she remembered fondly, had been five of the roughest kids in the neighborhood. And her, of course. The tame younger hanger on, only there because the boy would be scolded if he didn’t bring her along. Ouch. She felt a sudden and rather familiar pang for younger kids everywhere.
Now. There wasn’t time for nostalgic reminisces. She hurried through the mungled up scramble of tents and slow moving hard hatted people. The vast entrance of the sprawling candied house was untouched, unpainted over. Carved panels lined the entrance. The pictures in them had been painstakingly carved, over months by a famous craftsman from one of the isolated mountain villages. Old wooden pieces were placed haphazardly around, forming a walkway in front of the front doors, almost as if by accident. They were fine old planks made from all the fine old trees that seemed to last forever, after they were made into dead things used by people. Perhaps they had once covered the deck of an ancient fighting ship, or had lined the walls of the palace of an infamously dead king.
She hurried up to the entrance, and pressed the little black button next to the doors.
To be continued…(i know-everyone says that- to be continued… :))