Considering the proven danger of caffeinated thinking, adding the wake-up walk right after coffee puts me out of reach to act on the caffeinated thinking ideas when they kick in. whew. After a few wake-up walks, I began noticing something new- something that doesn't greet me during Sahara lunch walks, or even during after -work melted asphalt walks.
I think it is called something like nature, Mother Nature, maybe? She says good morning with a gentle breeze and that same breeze helps me up hills and hurries me back down. The movement of air is so gentle, I imagine butterflies surfing along with me in the cool morning serenity. The same squirrels I fuss at when they raid my neighbor's bird feeder daily look cuter, harmless. The bunnies who snack on new leaves in my neighbor's garden scamper soundlessly in the grass as I pass by. Sometimes they freeze and I pretend I don't see them. It's a pleasant way to start the day.
Another new tidbit I've noticed is the creepy looking, hidden, and covered sporty car off of the alley, but that story can wait-
This morning I found myself exploring a crime. A made-up crime.
THE RECLUSE'S MYSTERY HOUSE- This is a house that is a little pushed back from the street on a bigger lot than most along my morning trek. The front of the house has a lot of floor to ceiling windows so you can see the piles of boxes and papers and possibly decayed bodies in plain sight.
This morning I found myself exploring a crime. A made-up crime.
THE RECLUSE'S MYSTERY HOUSE- This is a house that is a little pushed back from the street on a bigger lot than most along my morning trek. The front of the house has a lot of floor to ceiling windows so you can see the piles of boxes and papers and possibly decayed bodies in plain sight.
His car, that stays parked on the street over a time- old oil drip, hasn't been washed since the murder many years ago that we still don't know about, or rather, that I still haven't seen in the news.
This morning as I walked past the gunk covered car, I decided that he could not get all of the blood off of it, so for years, he's not washed it and he's made a point of parking under trees that drop sap, and branches that house birds with intestinal issues- great cover!
Mr. Recluse took all measures to keep his wife from noticing the bazaar stranger. He put in a new driveway on the back of the house that exited the street behind them so there was no reason to pass by the front of their own house, ever. He moved the mailbox out back, had the paper delivered out back and the trash was already back there, so.... He hired a (Speedy-R-Us) construction team to completely gut the inside and move all functional spaces to the back of the house as well until only the full front windows remained unchanged. He placed solar panels in front of them that blocked any view of the front yard and street. He was thorough. He didn't want to worry his beloved and he wanted to find out who this persistently peculiar guy was.
The day came when he could not stand the sight of the #11 guy another minute. Mr. Recluse stormed across the street carrying an empty black trash bag. "Who the heck are you and clean up your disgusting soda bottles, will you? Don't you know that shit will kill ya?" He socked the stranger in the gut with the trash bag.
"OOPH!"The stranger began picking up the bottles, filling the bag fairly quickly. "Or Keshay su su mow gral" He mumbled under his breath. "A Agaynobu, eeka zoolar!!" his agitated voice screamed.
Lucky for Mr. Recluse, his reclusive years had given him much time to learn new languages and he spoke Conversational Alien fluently. "She is NOT who you say and You better stay away!"
The stranger stood up, held the full bag of bottles over his head, then slammed it to the pavement before turning and walking his #11 legs away.
"Hmph, Well, that oughta take care of him!" Mr. Recluse said to himself as he headed back home. He entered the back door that was now the front door, he felt the weighted gaze of his wife's eyes on him. "What did he say, that man?"
"What man, lovey?" he looked into her eyes, solid.
She waited. He realized. She knew.
Mr. Recluse surrendered, "He wants his money back. He called you Keshay. I told him he was wrong, that we've been together for many years. I told him he was mistaken."
She stood looking at her best part of life and felt the tears tumbling over and down her face.
He held her. "It doesn't matter who you were or what you did, I know your heart. If what he thinks is true, you had some good reason and that is all behind you now. We are all that matters. Your kindness and acts of good have helped so many people, places, and things! It doesn't matter."
"He will kill me, as he tried to so many years ago, he is ugly with hate, and he hates the sun."
She wilted in his arms. "He came to this planet and stole my father's body. He pretended he was my papa and built a fortune selling a soda the color of the world he came from. He called it Orange Crushp and over time he forgot he was but borrowing a human form, he became bound to it, so I stole his money and hoped he would return to wherever -.
They carried each other to the back porch swing and spent the afternoon, reminiscing about happier times. They ate hot dogs for dinner and went to bed early, both knowing that even their love could not keep vile and evil away.
In the morning, Mr. Recluse awoke to find the mattress imprint where his wife had slept. He leapt up and searched the house for her, but she was nowhere inside. He put his slippers on and headed outside.
There. There in the VW lay her lifeless body. On the ground beside her door were 6 empty Orange Crushp bottles.
Like a maniac he ran around the yard screaming "Marge! Marge! my Marge! NO!" In his panic running, he came upon more empty bottles. They led him to a sewer drain. The rageful Mr. Recluse caught sight of two white sticks slowly going down the hole. #11! He lunged for the legs and pulled out the stranger who was screaming mad, alien language. Mr. Recluse's frantic panic deafened the sounds. He dragged the man to his car, pushed him up against it and started pummeling him with angry fists. With each pummel, the man cried out in alien language and then suddenly he went silent.
He slumped down the side of the car leaving a huge crimsonorange swath.
Mr. Recluse stepped back. The dead man was bleeding out from every pocket in his jacket, shirt, pants, and boots. He had clearly been carrying. Carrying many bottles of Orange Crushp. All that was left were shards. He had died,(In addition to the pummeling), by the very thing he made his gazillions from.-borrowed body gazillions that is. Mr. Recluse stuffed the body into the back seat. The fabric soaked up the blood. (He thought he had paid for Scotchguard treatment when he bought the car, but clearly, they had scammed him on that at the dealership.) He got in the car and drove to the quarry. He dragged the body out and slung it over the edge. Once he heard the landing body- thump, he looked down and saw thousands of slivers of glass reflecting the hot summer sun like crystals, bouncing off of the glassy rocks that surrounded the quarry lake.
Mr. Recluse walked back to his car. It wasn't until then that he noticed the splatters and sugary splashes of orange and red all over the sides, dripping down the windows, hood and trunk.He drove home and parked under the mulberry tree in the back yard that was now the front yard.
This morning as I walked past the gunk covered car, I decided that he could not get all of the blood off of it, so for years, he's not washed it and he's made a point of parking under trees that drop sap, and branches that house birds with intestinal issues- great cover!
Mr. Recluse also has a VW bug pushed to the side of his yard into the overhanging trees. It too, is covered, but unlike the suspicious sporty car that is not in today's story, this hidden item is but a memory he can't let go of. This car belonged to his dead wife. They put many miles and laughter on and in this car over the years.
In the middle of a long and mostly blissful married life, Mr. Recluse discovered Mrs. Recluse was really a fugitive on the run. When he first met her and her VW, she said she had just slipped into this country. She had stuffed 540,000,000$ under the wheel wells, inside the spare tire, behind the headlights and inside the seats. He didn't question her story of being an heiress fleeing a constrictive family. In fact, Mr. Recluse, who had been an unsuccessful reporter (reporter jobs are not so great or successful for reclusive types) began writing her story, calling it fiction- and it became a best-seller such that he never had to write another, and together they lived simple and fulfilling days, many of them. Not a care. No worries. and then-
A stranger began appearing about. Sometimes he would walk past the house or simply stand across the street and stare at their yard. He took notes, glared through opera glasses, and guzzled bottle after bottle of sickening Orange Crushp, but the most suspect thing he did, the thing that set off Mr. Recluse's inner fire alarm was this- In the middle of a North Carolina summer, with temps in the triple digits, and humidity dripping like hot rain, the stranger, who had a full and thick black beard wore long-sleeved black shirts, a black fur jacket, and black boots along with black gloves, a black ski cap, black aviator sunglasses and - black shorts that were very short. It was obvious this man's body was unfamiliar with the powerful (albeit vitamin D laden)NC summer sun's rays. From a distance, with his two boney legs sticking out of his dark overlays, he looked like... an eleven.
In the middle of a long and mostly blissful married life, Mr. Recluse discovered Mrs. Recluse was really a fugitive on the run. When he first met her and her VW, she said she had just slipped into this country. She had stuffed 540,000,000$ under the wheel wells, inside the spare tire, behind the headlights and inside the seats. He didn't question her story of being an heiress fleeing a constrictive family. In fact, Mr. Recluse, who had been an unsuccessful reporter (reporter jobs are not so great or successful for reclusive types) began writing her story, calling it fiction- and it became a best-seller such that he never had to write another, and together they lived simple and fulfilling days, many of them. Not a care. No worries. and then-
A stranger began appearing about. Sometimes he would walk past the house or simply stand across the street and stare at their yard. He took notes, glared through opera glasses, and guzzled bottle after bottle of sickening Orange Crushp, but the most suspect thing he did, the thing that set off Mr. Recluse's inner fire alarm was this- In the middle of a North Carolina summer, with temps in the triple digits, and humidity dripping like hot rain, the stranger, who had a full and thick black beard wore long-sleeved black shirts, a black fur jacket, and black boots along with black gloves, a black ski cap, black aviator sunglasses and - black shorts that were very short. It was obvious this man's body was unfamiliar with the powerful (albeit vitamin D laden)NC summer sun's rays. From a distance, with his two boney legs sticking out of his dark overlays, he looked like... an eleven.
Mr. Recluse took all measures to keep his wife from noticing the bazaar stranger. He put in a new driveway on the back of the house that exited the street behind them so there was no reason to pass by the front of their own house, ever. He moved the mailbox out back, had the paper delivered out back and the trash was already back there, so.... He hired a (Speedy-R-Us) construction team to completely gut the inside and move all functional spaces to the back of the house as well until only the full front windows remained unchanged. He placed solar panels in front of them that blocked any view of the front yard and street. He was thorough. He didn't want to worry his beloved and he wanted to find out who this persistently peculiar guy was.
The day came when he could not stand the sight of the #11 guy another minute. Mr. Recluse stormed across the street carrying an empty black trash bag. "Who the heck are you and clean up your disgusting soda bottles, will you? Don't you know that shit will kill ya?" He socked the stranger in the gut with the trash bag.
"OOPH!"The stranger began picking up the bottles, filling the bag fairly quickly. "Or Keshay su su mow gral" He mumbled under his breath. "A Agaynobu, eeka zoolar!!" his agitated voice screamed.
Lucky for Mr. Recluse, his reclusive years had given him much time to learn new languages and he spoke Conversational Alien fluently. "She is NOT who you say and You better stay away!"
The stranger stood up, held the full bag of bottles over his head, then slammed it to the pavement before turning and walking his #11 legs away.
"Hmph, Well, that oughta take care of him!" Mr. Recluse said to himself as he headed back home. He entered the back door that was now the front door, he felt the weighted gaze of his wife's eyes on him. "What did he say, that man?"
"What man, lovey?" he looked into her eyes, solid.
She waited. He realized. She knew.
Mr. Recluse surrendered, "He wants his money back. He called you Keshay. I told him he was wrong, that we've been together for many years. I told him he was mistaken."
She stood looking at her best part of life and felt the tears tumbling over and down her face.
He held her. "It doesn't matter who you were or what you did, I know your heart. If what he thinks is true, you had some good reason and that is all behind you now. We are all that matters. Your kindness and acts of good have helped so many people, places, and things! It doesn't matter."
"He will kill me, as he tried to so many years ago, he is ugly with hate, and he hates the sun."
She wilted in his arms. "He came to this planet and stole my father's body. He pretended he was my papa and built a fortune selling a soda the color of the world he came from. He called it Orange Crushp and over time he forgot he was but borrowing a human form, he became bound to it, so I stole his money and hoped he would return to wherever -.
They carried each other to the back porch swing and spent the afternoon, reminiscing about happier times. They ate hot dogs for dinner and went to bed early, both knowing that even their love could not keep vile and evil away.
In the morning, Mr. Recluse awoke to find the mattress imprint where his wife had slept. He leapt up and searched the house for her, but she was nowhere inside. He put his slippers on and headed outside.
There. There in the VW lay her lifeless body. On the ground beside her door were 6 empty Orange Crushp bottles.
Like a maniac he ran around the yard screaming "Marge! Marge! my Marge! NO!" In his panic running, he came upon more empty bottles. They led him to a sewer drain. The rageful Mr. Recluse caught sight of two white sticks slowly going down the hole. #11! He lunged for the legs and pulled out the stranger who was screaming mad, alien language. Mr. Recluse's frantic panic deafened the sounds. He dragged the man to his car, pushed him up against it and started pummeling him with angry fists. With each pummel, the man cried out in alien language and then suddenly he went silent.
He slumped down the side of the car leaving a huge crimsonorange swath.
Mr. Recluse stepped back. The dead man was bleeding out from every pocket in his jacket, shirt, pants, and boots. He had clearly been carrying. Carrying many bottles of Orange Crushp. All that was left were shards. He had died,(In addition to the pummeling), by the very thing he made his gazillions from.-borrowed body gazillions that is. Mr. Recluse stuffed the body into the back seat. The fabric soaked up the blood. (He thought he had paid for Scotchguard treatment when he bought the car, but clearly, they had scammed him on that at the dealership.) He got in the car and drove to the quarry. He dragged the body out and slung it over the edge. Once he heard the landing body- thump, he looked down and saw thousands of slivers of glass reflecting the hot summer sun like crystals, bouncing off of the glassy rocks that surrounded the quarry lake.
Mr. Recluse walked back to his car. It wasn't until then that he noticed the splatters and sugary splashes of orange and red all over the sides, dripping down the windows, hood and trunk.He drove home and parked under the mulberry tree in the back yard that was now the front yard.
By the time new construction moved into the neighborhood, taking away his back driveway, the car was covered in dirt, mold, spit, pollen, sap, mulberry flesh. He moved it to the back that was now the front again, and parked it on the street. He could not bear to see his poor wife, who was still sitting in her car, in a continuing state of decomp, so he covered her car and pushed it into the side yard under the trees where it still sits today, Over time, he addressed the occasional complaint from neighbors regarding his property's odorous matters by simply saying, "Compost at its best, friend. Compost at its best." No one ever seemed to question the reply despite the fact that his yard stayed in shambles.
This morning when I passed by, I decided that after many years of grief and sorrow, the lonely widower got rid of the solar panels and became a hoarder. A mid-life career change may have started out as a refreshing shift for his emotional well being. Collect a few things, then a few more, then stop taking out the trash then, then, then. From the looks of things as I walk by now,I'm not so certain about the growing mountains of stuff inside being anything so benign as a mid-life career change, so I try not to look his way, I never carry a crushp, and I walk by fast in my every -day -of-the -year-black pants, just in case he still harbors some pent up rage.
Oh sure, you might say, Church Chick, there are so many holes in this story. This is not even close to a perfect murder. ...and I would say, maybe not in this story- but tomorry is another day. .....
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