Today is the Delusional Doom Blogfest hosted by the Watery Tart!
In honor of the Ides of March when Julius Caesar met his doom, the Watery Tart has asked that for this blogfest we write a little something that predicts someone's death, plots a murder, or write an obituary for yourself or someone else.
Of course, as has become my obsession recently, at least where blogfests are concerned, I wrote another episode of Happy Acres. It follows immediately from yesterday's Broken Heart Blogfest entry.
It's kind of long (about 650), but at least I kept it under 1000 words!
Hope you enjoy!
“I’m going to kill that stupid woman,” I said, pounding the table in the Happy Acres day room by way of emphasizing my desire to crush her head to a bloody pulp.
“Zimbabwe,” Bill muttered from his usual chair in the corner where he sat with his puppet alter-ego T-Bone. The drug-like after effects of visitor’s day had worn off and everyone was back to their mental illness baselines.
“What did she do this time?” Tessa asked, madly scribbling away at a New Idea with a purple marker across the table from me.
“She knew we’d all be out here with our visitors, so she did a room search while we were distracted,” I said, pounding the table again for emphasis. Tessa actually glared at me. She suffered from post-visitor letdown too.
“You know,” Artie said, “it’s fully within staff jurisdiction to do room searches. I read the rules.”
“Mr. Artie,” Mia chimed in from a spot on the floor where she and the zombies poured over a pile of magazines Mama Mia had brought for them. “I would suggest you not poke the bear when it’s angries. This is what we call a bad idea.”
Artie’s brows came together in genuine confusion. I tried to forgive him because he still didn't understand us all. He hadn't yet found his place in the Happy Acres family.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“Em is moody,” Simon said from his perch on the couch.
“You should talk,” I growled at him.
“Did she take anything valuable?” Simon asked, feigning interest. But I knew he was only concerned about his own contraband inventory.
“Only the apples I’d hidden under my dirty laundry, a ballpoint, and the scarf Mama Mia brought me last month.”
“You hide fruit with you dirty laundry?” Artie asked, a troubled grimace on his face.
“Usually Cratchit skipsies the dirty undies,” Mia said. “They can be kind of yucky, if you know what I mean.”
“She must still be mad at you for the last call-button-in-the-coma-patients’ room incident,” Tessa offered.
“Why would she take a ballpoint?” Artie asked.
From his corner, Bill mimed T-Bone using a ballpoint to stab him in the neck. His eyes bugged large, and he spasmed in his chair as his imaginary blood drained from his jugular.
“Oh,” Artie said.
“I’d like to find that stash of confiscated ballpoints in her desk and turn her into an inky pin cushion,” I said through gritted teeth.
“I’m in,” Simon said.
“Me too,” Tessa said.
“Me and the zombies would totes abandon our nonviolence policy for that fun stabby party,” Mia said.
“Does that mean she confiscated my pen and pencil set?” Artie asked. I thought he was going to be sick.
“Zimbabwe,” Bill said, resignation in his voice.
“Those were a gift from my wife,” Artie said, his eyes narrowing and the muscles in his jaw tightening like springs.
He stood, his hands fisting at his sides. All eyes went to Artie, the now-ticking time bomb.
“Hey, Artie, man,” I said. “Look, as much as I really, really want to go all voodoo doll on Nurse Cratchit, let’s just come up with another plan, okay?”
Artie turned his gaze on me and I made a mental note not to cross him. “Like what?” he asked.
“Well, I have just as much fun tricking her and making her look like an idiot. So let’s maybe plan a midnight raid on her office or something, okay?”
Mia clapped her hands and giggled. “Oh, goodies. Em is super good at sneaky covert ops. It’s always tons of fun.”
Tessa looked up from her project, a little smile forming on her lips. “That’s just what we need,” she said. “I’ll bring the glitter sprinkles.”
I’d explain later that glitter sprinkles would only implicate us. Not that Cratchit wouldn't know it was us, anyway.
Artie’s jaw relaxed a little and he took his seat again. “Are you sure I’ll get my pen and pencil set back?” he asked.
I could feel the sly smile form on my lips, “Oh, trust me, Artie. You’ll get that and more. She’ll never know what hit her.”
Now go read the rest of them. I know I'm heading there right now. Can't wait to read more murder plotting....