Read Online The Singular & Extraordinary Tale of Mirror & Goliath: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Lovehart, Esq., Volume 1 (Notebooks of John Loveheart, E) by Ishbelle Bee - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ishbelle Bee
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kind of wrong, you and I?
Rat a tat tat!
A marvellously decrepit looking manservant opens the door.
“I have come to see my Aunt,” I smile. Those magic words open the door, and I enter her domain with all my colour and my wicked flowers. Into a deep white space. I am walking on the moon.
I am escorted into the conservatory, leaving a trail of flower petals behind me. Visiting a minotaur in its labyrinth, I must of course find my way out again.
She stands erect and unmoving, a bible resting like a prop on the side table and a stuffed little dog in a glass case on the wall. Obviously her last pet. Maybe she has a glass case prepared for me? Stuffed and mounted on the wall. That would please her very much. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
“Auntie,” and I hold my hands out to the old dear.
She remains unmoved. “John, you look like a fool, some sort of clown.”
“Oh Auntie, you old charmer,” and I hand her the flowers, which she grasps rather wobbily and puts on her reading table.
“Frivolous.”
“I knew you’d like them.”
“You’ve grown up,” and she paused, “You’ve been spending time in the company of devils. Why have you come here John?” She examines me coldly.
“I am your nephew and I haven’t seen you in years. I’ve been thinking about you, Auntie. A lot,” and I lower my eyes.
“You were always a ridiculous child. Spoilt by your philandering father. Ungrateful and ungodly. That stargazing contraption he gave you,” (and she shook her head) “I told him it was a machine of the devil. Stargazing is ungodly. Unclean. Unnatural.”
“Speaking of ungodly and unnatural, are you still baking, Auntie? Your walnut and coffee was a real heart stopper.”
She says nothing for a while.
“You understand so little, John. I told your father you clearly had an underdeveloped brain, prone to excitement and imagination. You were always a little liar.”
“Why did you do it, Auntie?”
“Do what, exactly, you little wretch?”
“Poison Mamma? I just want to know before I go as we may never see one another again.”
“How dare you! I was the only one who stopped her suffering. She needed to be put to sleep into the arms of the Lord.”
“And how many others have you put to sleep?”
“Dozens,” she says softly. “Including my late husband, my children and my dog.”
“I really have missed you, Auntie!” I cry happily and I pull out from my waistcoat a long silver curved sword. My voice lowered like a prayer, “We have so much to catch up on”
I chop her into pieces . A blood bath in the conservatory. And then I leave, whistling to myself.
The day shines a little brighter. The flowers bloom with a touch more colour.
Death & Mr Fingers have tea & cake
I f you look at me , you see a little boy. If you look closer you will see the universe floating in my eyes. Gaze of a surgeon, smile of a scissor shark. I am Death. I am the Great Collector. I am behind every closed door.
Today I am walking through the streets of London. The gentlemen in their top hats and elegant smiles stroll past me.
----
B lack boils
Cancer
Muscle Spasm
Cholera
Syphilis
Heart Attack
Poison
Hangman’s Noose
----
I t is written on their faces. The letters thick and inky, imprinted on their skulls. Written in coils of time. Your fates are a teasing itch – you always want to know the outcome. Scratch it and see. London, city of poisoned water, sour milk, fish stink and shit. Blood bubbles and drips down the thighs of her. London: the bite of a mad dog, the kiss of a witch-woman. London: you eat raw flesh, dissect and arrange skulls. Mother: I know you from before. I have seen your face.
I have an appointment with the Lord of the Underworld. We are meeting in a tea shop down Dumpy
Rat a tat tat!
A marvellously decrepit looking manservant opens the door.
“I have come to see my Aunt,” I smile. Those magic words open the door, and I enter her domain with all my colour and my wicked flowers. Into a deep white space. I am walking on the moon.
I am escorted into the conservatory, leaving a trail of flower petals behind me. Visiting a minotaur in its labyrinth, I must of course find my way out again.
She stands erect and unmoving, a bible resting like a prop on the side table and a stuffed little dog in a glass case on the wall. Obviously her last pet. Maybe she has a glass case prepared for me? Stuffed and mounted on the wall. That would please her very much. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
“Auntie,” and I hold my hands out to the old dear.
She remains unmoved. “John, you look like a fool, some sort of clown.”
“Oh Auntie, you old charmer,” and I hand her the flowers, which she grasps rather wobbily and puts on her reading table.
“Frivolous.”
“I knew you’d like them.”
“You’ve grown up,” and she paused, “You’ve been spending time in the company of devils. Why have you come here John?” She examines me coldly.
“I am your nephew and I haven’t seen you in years. I’ve been thinking about you, Auntie. A lot,” and I lower my eyes.
“You were always a ridiculous child. Spoilt by your philandering father. Ungrateful and ungodly. That stargazing contraption he gave you,” (and she shook her head) “I told him it was a machine of the devil. Stargazing is ungodly. Unclean. Unnatural.”
“Speaking of ungodly and unnatural, are you still baking, Auntie? Your walnut and coffee was a real heart stopper.”
She says nothing for a while.
“You understand so little, John. I told your father you clearly had an underdeveloped brain, prone to excitement and imagination. You were always a little liar.”
“Why did you do it, Auntie?”
“Do what, exactly, you little wretch?”
“Poison Mamma? I just want to know before I go as we may never see one another again.”
“How dare you! I was the only one who stopped her suffering. She needed to be put to sleep into the arms of the Lord.”
“And how many others have you put to sleep?”
“Dozens,” she says softly. “Including my late husband, my children and my dog.”
“I really have missed you, Auntie!” I cry happily and I pull out from my waistcoat a long silver curved sword. My voice lowered like a prayer, “We have so much to catch up on”
I chop her into pieces . A blood bath in the conservatory. And then I leave, whistling to myself.
The day shines a little brighter. The flowers bloom with a touch more colour.
Death & Mr Fingers have tea & cake
I f you look at me , you see a little boy. If you look closer you will see the universe floating in my eyes. Gaze of a surgeon, smile of a scissor shark. I am Death. I am the Great Collector. I am behind every closed door.
Today I am walking through the streets of London. The gentlemen in their top hats and elegant smiles stroll past me.
----
B lack boils
Cancer
Muscle Spasm
Cholera
Syphilis
Heart Attack
Poison
Hangman’s Noose
----
I t is written on their faces. The letters thick and inky, imprinted on their skulls. Written in coils of time. Your fates are a teasing itch – you always want to know the outcome. Scratch it and see. London, city of poisoned water, sour milk, fish stink and shit. Blood bubbles and drips down the thighs of her. London: the bite of a mad dog, the kiss of a witch-woman. London: you eat raw flesh, dissect and arrange skulls. Mother: I know you from before. I have seen your face.
I have an appointment with the Lord of the Underworld. We are meeting in a tea shop down Dumpy
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