...waking up, opening your eyes lazily, having quite a ruffled hairstyle, much less than a boisterous mood, with a bitter taste of yesterday’s row with a customer still spreading its blotchy shadows over scowled surroundings of the morning, which vaguely, having evaporated the sleepless night, presents you a small, greenish character wearing a scarlet bowler hat and aubergine suspenders fastened to his khaki baggy knickerbockers which prevents them from falling down.
Sniffing grumpily he is staring at you with either sulky or glowering expression.
“Can I help you?” you ask timidly.
The silence keeps lurking in the air, making your hair stand on end.
You curtly leave the space of your bed, trying not to make a fuss about abnormal presence in front of you, skate over the greenish obstacle and leave the room pronto, with a panic vaguely disappear around the borders of the kitchen;
you pinch yourself to make sure you haven’t been dreaming, take an English book lying on the refrigerator, titled “Lurking Ghosts Who Don’t Pay The Rent And How To Deal With Them” and hastily continue perusing the pages on the subject of increased extraterrestrial activity; screw up your face in a fierce concentration, feeling like overly excited pupil of swotty parentage the day right before the exam, who makes it a priority to find the right spell that works with greenish, midget-like, ungrateful, ruddy fairies who flatly refuse to chip in and heal the moral wounds of the scandalous rent.
(from Stories From a Shabby Sea Chest or What I Scribbled In Between English Classes)
Artwork: Karen B. Jones
The Magic Of Writing 2006 - 2023 Doggedly Extracted From The Adventurous Midst Of Turquoise Imagination Via Sergey Denisov
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