Daily Prompt: What’s the first line of the last song you listened to (on the radio, on your music player, or anywhere else)? Use it as the first sentence of your post.
Aisha, we only just met but I think you ought to know: I’m a murderer.
It started off so simply: my neighbour had a really irritating laugh, and sat outside on his terrace every evening, constantly braying his moronic chuckle. One night, I was really irritated by him so started chucking peanuts out the window at his head, but missed. The nuts fell in his glass of beer, or his food maybe; he swallowed them somehow. I didn’t know he was allergic to nuts, but it seems I didn’t really care. Because as he choked to death on his porch and his housemates ran around in a panic, screaming and crying, I sat in my room, calming watching and eating the rest of the murder weapon. The silence from that house is now blissful.
Daily Prompt: Take a look at your bookcase. If you had enough free time, which book would be the first one you’d like to reread? Why?
The book I want to take off the shelf and reread today is the Little Miss Grumpy book. I seem to have completely forgotten the beginning of the story: what on earth happened to that poor girl to make every other Little Miss and Mr irritate her so much? Where does all that anger and narkiness keep bubbling up from? Why can’t she be more like Little Miss Happy and Little Miss Pretty? Should we blame Big Mr and Mrs Grumpy for bringing her up to be that way?
I’ve also forgotten what happens to her in the end. Does she stay grumpy forever? Do her friends take her to the doctor and have her put on happy pills? Does she have any friends at all with an attitude like hers?
Sometimes I think I mix up her book with the My Little Pony books, and I see Little Miss Grumpy going off to throw some reins around a glossy stallion and jumping up on him for a nice long ride every time she starts feeling grumpy or out of sorts.
Or is that just what society thinks all grumpy women need to be healed?
The neighbour is out sculpting the garden again. The dusk is gathering, but it is still a pleasant evening to be outside. The nights are shortening though, noticeably. I think this is the first summer I have enjoyed: I had an income, I had my freedom, I even had enough confidence to wear skirts and sandals. The one pair of sandals I own.
Our side of the garden looks derelict in comparison. They even dismantled the garden shed and moved it to their side. Will a fence down the middle be next? How else will our slothful natures be shamed? When colour-coordinated flowers sprout along the path, or maybe a water feature gets introduced?
We stare out through the dusty net curtains lethargically and contemplate our garden while waiting for the microwave to heat our dinner. At the sound of the ding, we turn away and all thoughts of prettifying our surroundings are numbed to a lifeless state by the panacea of a flickering TV screen.