– No Miss, been quite a slow day, Mr Doyle responded in a typical tone.
– Mrs now remember, your charm isn ' t going to be getting you out of this now, she blew out in an almost trumpet like manner
– Of course, Mrs, I ' ll sure try not to forget from now on.
– Goodlad. How’ s your mother? I called the home phone the other week and there was no answer but then I heard she had left for a few days. What happened son? Probing deep into the head like a drill, passing the faint raises in my forehead, buildups of keratin. Nails, hair, bumps.
My mother was a charmful woman: model, actress, photographylady. Simply a pretty face. Locketface, the type found within one ' s locket they wear around their neck. A stream of failed romances with unintelligible men, one of whom leading to the creation of me, she lost her reputation within the town, rather unfairly I say. Blotted little spec deep within her figure grows and grows until bursting from within her fleshy shell. Birth, caring, skinonskin, document flying through the windows and down the chimneys asking for details. Legalise me, Oh Mother! Priam, within his great city, calls to thee asking for myself. I hope the curtains to this conversation finally close, she ' s too close to see the stage magic that she doesn ' t deserve to see. For what more can he take? Another reeling metaphor that makes somewhat sense. Strawberry jam, lard, a collection of lilies, a small, unusual order. She slips her measly coins across the counter in a way that feels almost passive-aggressive, she was digging for information. No longer fond, shall not be torn and tattered for mere adult conversation. I am the noblest of Knights.
What will ghastly Gradley do with the rest of her day? Her footprints mimic the winding paths of a once icy chilled Copenhagen, with dustbins lined up along each road awaiting their empty, occupied by the sons of thieves; children lost in lullabies, stolen lines from men who wear sunglasses indoors. Her quests grow larger than her and she will soon go home and rest, lie down on her sheets, close her sunken eyes and exhale. Seemingly a puff of dust flies from her mouth, the soul has left her, she has died in her field of bows. Her little ballet shoes clacking along the cobbled bridge over the river. Clickclickclack, a frozen cigarette filter snapping under her fragile foot, idiotic
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