Well, here he is. The Stanger sharing a story that’s funny as hell. And, as I always have to do, I had to read the story twice to understand it because Mike’s so dang smart he writes above a sixth grade reading level which is where I read. Anyway, this is a classic, and like …
Well, here he is. The Stanger sharing a story that’s funny as hell. And, as I always have to do, I had to read the story twice to understand it because Mike’s so dang smart he writes above a sixth grade reading level which is where I read. Anyway, this is a classic, and like the poor son, I dang near lost it at the end of the story.
Check this story out. It’s Mike at his best! And thank you, Mike for this contribution.
How ’bout you, (pointing my finger at the reader of this post) sending us a funny story to this NON-Competition sharing of humorous stories. Just drop it in the e-mail slot marked firstname.lastname@example.org . That’s my AWwYP addy and I’ll post your story just like I did Sal’s and Mike’s and like I’m fixin’ to do for Stepanie.
The table sat quiet in the middle of the dining room. While the five of us sat in our reserved chairs we prepared ourselves for the evening’s feed. And as if a stage, the fifties era Formica set the backdrops for our characters. The way we acted around it stemmed from the way we searched with our hands, the worn out corners, to unearth runes of knowledge hidden in the scratches; our fingers translated the Braille for our tongues.
As always, Father spoke first. The preeminent law surfaced nightly like an old family ghost and visited each one of us in a deathwatch, until the shade was satisfied with our fears. No one dared to voice what the clairvoyant table revealed unless the old man at the head unleashed his own lessons first.
One night, Centerious, the middle boy, sat fidgeting in his seat. He kept looking sideways at me with an anxiousness that pleaded from his eyes. I surmised that my brother had miss-timed his earlier evening and desperately had to go to the bathroom, and, in as much as I felt pity over his discomfort, I responded with a stern expression. Hold it, I thought, trying to send the message to his mind. If you move the ghost will destroy you, never mind what Father will do. Centerious heard, his head bent low and negated from side to side. The air in the room changed as if someone unwanted opened a window at the far end of a hall and let in a destruction that threatened to consume us all. Father felt the spirit aghast and snapped his eyes in the direction of his son. Incredulous, seething beyond recognition, the old man watched as the boy reared back and upstaged act one-scene one with number one.
Our mother, Fertilia, gave way from her reality and instantly succumbed to unconsciousness. Her response to the hardwood floor beneath her, left little room for speculation as to how long she would be out.
Father’s daughter, Semele, his oldest, clutched the table with enough force to tear it apart. She glared at Centerious; she goaded him on, but hid herself from her Father’s eyes; his little girl too precious.
I myself, the youngest, Mirthful, stood in defense of my only brother. As I faced my fate before the human-turned-firedrake, I felt my own bowels fail and send sewerage down my legs. My god, I thought. How did it all come to this, and then I heard Fertilia, in a miraculous comeback, call from the floor to her husband. Enuresis has not your value happened.
The last to speak that night, Father ran an aged hand over his haggard features. His eyes focused down on the smooth laminated top, his body gave up. The ghost stood in disbelief and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting. The old man did not raise his head.