Short Stories, Writing



I looked at the Hoover and the Hoover looked at me. I was fed up with being a repressed 1950’s housewife. It was time to have sex with the Latino gardener or read Lady Chatterleys Lover. I was so tired of Tupperware and the missionary position. Even my mid-morning whiskey was losing its edge. I wanted to disagree with the head of the local woman’s society and French kiss the attractive neighbour’s son, I wanted to wear crotchless panties and swear at my mother in law and I would. After Hoovering the hallway. It gets dusty.


I use to dream about a little elf hiding between my bedroom door and the toilet. He stopped me urinating in the middle of the night by threatening to bite my ankles with his sharp teeth. I would like to revisit that dream but with a sledgehammer and the arsenal of Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. I would set up intricate traps everywhere and stroll along the landing peacefully as he wiggled about in a fisherman’s net with an arrow sticking out of his side. I would learn to cartwheel. I would learn to whistle. I would sleep in the dark.


“Everyone should see it!” He says gesturing at the spotlights above the theatre.

“What exactly does that say?” I ask, looking at his advertisement for his forthcoming theatrical production but not being able to read the popping bulbs clearly due to glasses loss.

“The greatest show in the known universe!” He said.

“This is awkward. I’m from Neptune. I have a wider scope to compare it to.” I said.

“You are?” He replied.

“Yeah. We have lasers and flying elephants and talking dogs there.” I said.

“That sounds pretty good.” He replied. “I might have to change my advertising strategy.”

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