weirdmonger
THE LAST BALCONY (www.nemonymous.com)
The Metal Ghost
The Metal Ghost
posted Saturday, 21 August 2004
“Why don’t they have funeral barbecues, Daddy?”
I studied the questioner forgetting for a moment that it was my young teenage daughter now taking an unhealthy interest in the new words and ideas emerging from the surrealistic mulch of childhood.
“I don’t know. The guests do go back to a reception or wake. It would seem a bit strange to have a barbecue, though. Usually cucumber sandwiches and cups of tea would do. Maybe tots of rum.”
She stared finding me, no doubt, as strange as I found her. I had not really noticed it before but strangers are ugly as they undergrunt past you in the street. Finding a complete stranger in my daughter, whose nappies I had once helped change, was unsettling to say the least. She seemed to be going the same way as her mother. Surely she could not be imagining what I was imagining. A jacket potato being baked to a turn over hot coals between the buttered buttock cheeks of the deceased...
#
Breakfast that morning was a cold affair. My wife and daughter just played with their sunnyside eggs, moving them about their lubricated plates as if they were surgeons inspecting the morning’s mastectomies.
My own egg had been broken in the pan and I could not delight in rupturing the shimmering yellow bulb: an act of desecration that even saints could enjoy.
“Have you put the rubbish out?” My wife’s eyes turned themselves upon me.
“Yes, I did it last night.” I had not forgotten they would be coming this morning to take it away. I scowled (or I think I scowled) at the idea of me having forgotten such a sacrosanct fatherly duty. She scowled back, but not before having the courtesy to return her attention to the knife and fork.
“Daddy, I saw a metal ghost last night.”
My daughters beautiful face was a pinched mask. She knew she would evoke a response with such arrant nonsense.
“Don’t be silly, Deirdre. Ghosts are not made of metal.”
My wife made a sarcastic rattle inside her throat. She did not believe in ghosts at all.
#
This was my week for the washing up. Even with the heavy-duty scourer, the caked smears of yolk pulp would not budge from the plates. I heard my wife and daughter leaving for church. I shrugged. There’s a Holy Ghost in at least every one of us. It must be Sunday, then, I mused. Dustmen don’t usually come on Sundays … unless they’re after something special. Still, not for me to question. I’d only be humoured later, when they came back, if I brought the matter into the open. Some things have to be kept secret. Otherwise, madness may be inferred.
I turned round to face the oven. It was spluttering loudly. I opened the iron belly to check and found the pulsing of its basted Christmas heart.
(Published 'Dreams & Nightmares' 1990)
comments (1)
1. Paul Dracon left...
Tuesday, 2 August 2005 7:41 pm
"Surely she could not be imagining what I was imagining. A jacket potato being baked to a turn over hot coals between the buttered buttock cheeks of the deceased..."
Such imaginings would surely bring anybody back from the grave, in metal form!
posted Saturday, 21 August 2004
“Why don’t they have funeral barbecues, Daddy?”
I studied the questioner forgetting for a moment that it was my young teenage daughter now taking an unhealthy interest in the new words and ideas emerging from the surrealistic mulch of childhood.
“I don’t know. The guests do go back to a reception or wake. It would seem a bit strange to have a barbecue, though. Usually cucumber sandwiches and cups of tea would do. Maybe tots of rum.”
She stared finding me, no doubt, as strange as I found her. I had not really noticed it before but strangers are ugly as they undergrunt past you in the street. Finding a complete stranger in my daughter, whose nappies I had once helped change, was unsettling to say the least. She seemed to be going the same way as her mother. Surely she could not be imagining what I was imagining. A jacket potato being baked to a turn over hot coals between the buttered buttock cheeks of the deceased...
#
Breakfast that morning was a cold affair. My wife and daughter just played with their sunnyside eggs, moving them about their lubricated plates as if they were surgeons inspecting the morning’s mastectomies.
My own egg had been broken in the pan and I could not delight in rupturing the shimmering yellow bulb: an act of desecration that even saints could enjoy.
“Have you put the rubbish out?” My wife’s eyes turned themselves upon me.
“Yes, I did it last night.” I had not forgotten they would be coming this morning to take it away. I scowled (or I think I scowled) at the idea of me having forgotten such a sacrosanct fatherly duty. She scowled back, but not before having the courtesy to return her attention to the knife and fork.
“Daddy, I saw a metal ghost last night.”
My daughters beautiful face was a pinched mask. She knew she would evoke a response with such arrant nonsense.
“Don’t be silly, Deirdre. Ghosts are not made of metal.”
My wife made a sarcastic rattle inside her throat. She did not believe in ghosts at all.
#
This was my week for the washing up. Even with the heavy-duty scourer, the caked smears of yolk pulp would not budge from the plates. I heard my wife and daughter leaving for church. I shrugged. There’s a Holy Ghost in at least every one of us. It must be Sunday, then, I mused. Dustmen don’t usually come on Sundays … unless they’re after something special. Still, not for me to question. I’d only be humoured later, when they came back, if I brought the matter into the open. Some things have to be kept secret. Otherwise, madness may be inferred.
I turned round to face the oven. It was spluttering loudly. I opened the iron belly to check and found the pulsing of its basted Christmas heart.
(Published 'Dreams & Nightmares' 1990)
comments (1)
1. Paul Dracon left...
Tuesday, 2 August 2005 7:41 pm
"Surely she could not be imagining what I was imagining. A jacket potato being baked to a turn over hot coals between the buttered buttock cheeks of the deceased..."
Such imaginings would surely bring anybody back from the grave, in metal form!
No replies - reply
