Foreword
At my school, VCS, we have a triannual, week-long, multigrade trip known as Encounter Week. These weeks cover many themes (sustainable art, the local political sphere, hiking, back-country skiing, etc.) and take place anywhere from right at the school to the North-East Kingdom to Belize to China. I was part of a trip to Peru that was going to take place this May, but alas, ye olde 'Rona struck. In place of Eweek, our school invented Encounter Experiences, a shortened Eweek via everyone's new best friend, Zoom. I participated in a Creative Writing Encounter Experience, and this is one of the pieces I wrote. It was inspired by Edward Gorey's absurd and surrealist stylings, specifically this video: https://vimeo.com/23504205
An Exploration of Intricacies
Edith wouldn’t have been seen if it wasn’t for the wart.
She had grown accustomed to the dark must of the closet he kept her in, but she hadn’t grown to enjoy her time among the cobwebs. His Grace, the Duke of Matchbox, would often pass by, smelling of yesterday’s lunch and tomorrow’s umbrellas, but much to Edith’s chagrin, she could only spy a little circle of his waistcoat through the brass keyhole. Eventually, though, Edith grew bold.
She wanted out and she wanted out now. The trumpets originating from somewhere deep in the air vents had grown difficult to ignore, and besides, the spiders never invited her to their weekly tea parties. Alas, she knew His Grace would never let her out, not unless it was their anniversary, so she would need to escape. She remembered, from the joyous days that their anniversary did come around, that His Grace kept the key braided amongst his uvula. And everyone knew where he kept his uvula.
She first tried boring the door open. Not with a drill or some sort of awl-like-tool, but with a lengthy and lugubrious recounting of the birth of her most recent child, Bronwyn Pencil Case. Bronwyn wasn’t birthed so much as launched out of her mother’s uterus bedecked in aviator’s goggles and matching helmet. From then on, Bronwyn’s feet— That was as far as she got before the door stopped her and informed her that he was far too old to be bored open by some old wives’ tale. After huffily reminding the door that Bronwyn was, in fact, a very real little girl, and not a figment of her imagination, Edith set about constructing a secondary strategy. Preferably one that involved calisthenics.
After much internal debate, and another week sans spider-tea-party-invitation, Edith had brewed up her most outlandish plan since her solution to the Suspicious Lack prowling the neighborhood and terrorizing Mrs. Linty-Downtown’s begonias. This new plan was big. It was bold. It was brave. One could say it was large. It put her cat-like reflexes to good use. It stunk vaguely of mothballs, but that was to be expected having been created in the cozy nook between the late Duchess of Matchbox’s ancient fur coats. The plan relied, however, on the cooperation of a certain avian member of His Grace’s circle of friends, so Edith bided her time.
After one more unbearable week of abysmal arachnidian gossip, the day arrived when His Lordship, Prudence Petticoat Peacock arrived on the Estate of the Duke of Matchbox. It was go time for Edith.
Now, for a bit of context. His Lordship, Prudence Petticoat Peacock is a bird. A large and rather grandiose bird, but a civilized bird, nonetheless. He wore only the most bespoke tailored suits and the most suede shoes with the curliest tips. He left his bottom half bare as was customary for birds of high aristocracy, and good thing, for he often ruffled up his opulent tailfeathers into their upright, peacock shape. (Yes, in what may have been the ultimate act of vanity and narcissism, His Lordship had gotten his lustrous tail trimmed into the shape of himself. The poor barber tasked with that endeavor came down with a fit of laying after all was said and done. Blamed it on the multitude of feathery particles lodged in his lungs). With his feathers standing at attention, he would wander about the property he was currently occupying, dragging along his trusty grand piano behind him. As His Lordship always said, “One can never know when a concerto might strike.” Strike they often did, and with such frequency that Mrs. Linty-Downtown began to suspect His Lordship was paying a concerto breeder to set them loose on his command.
Today was no different. His Lordship, Prudence Petticoat Peacock, wore a smart, three-piece, velvet number with color-coordinated top hat. The deep crimson rested deliciously against the jeweled blue of his feathers. His grandest of pianos was rolling obediently a few feet behind him as he walked below the Book Trees with The Duke. Their pages rustled like a smattering of hearty heifers and whispered little blue stories about rats and poor scullery maids and men living in pumpkins and babies. The two Gentlemen—or Gentleman and Gentlebird, rather—engaged in polite conversation, nodding along as the other commented on the weather, both knowing he had mentioned the weather not but five moments before. They talked stalks: which were going up, going down, the greenest ones, the browner ones, the ones with lots of leaves, the ones with those damned thorns that kept scratching up His Grace’s favorite pair of perambulating trousers. Finally, the pair retired inside for a delicate, but sufficiently masculine platter of cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off.
From Edith’s limited vantage point betwixt gossiping Gladiss Grass-Spider and blabber-mouthed Bessabell Brown-Recluse, she caught an occasional garbled bit of dialogue.
“...were simply divine,” Lord Peacock was proclaiming when Edith managed to tune out the mudslinging eight-leggeds.
“I can’t help but agree, Your Lordship. And the way they incorporated those Prisoners of War? Simply above.” His Grace kissed his bundled fingers.
His Lordship humphed.
“What?” queried His Grace.
“I actually found it egregious and rather distasteful. They were only foals for heaven’s sake.”
“Oh.” The pair fell silent. Even Edith, from within the wardrobe, could tell it was a Most Awkward Silence. This couldn’t have played out better for her. As everyone knows, once a Most Awkward Silence is begun, it can only be ended with an Apology of Utmost Sincerity. And as everyone knows, His Lordship, Prudence Petticoat Peacock, and His Grace, the Duke of Matchbox were both far too toffee-nosed to apologize first. That meant this Most Awkward Silence would drag on. Perfect.
A while back, Edith had observed that, while it may not have been all that large, the keyhole was the perfect size for her nose to poke through. As of yet, she had only used this lovely fact to catch a whiff of His Grace’s cologne (canvas and teakettles) as he walked by, or even a small aroma of dinner. But now she could use her svelte nose poked through the keyhole as a lure.
For whom? For whom? I can hear you hungry, greedy audience members crying. Well, as everyone knows, a svelte nose looks nearly identical to a pinky fat, delicious, long worm. And who likes worms? Birds. And who is a bird? His Lordship, Prudence Petticoat Peacock.
To Be Continued...
Perhaps, we'll see.
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