THE RUNAWAY BUNGALOW
Rob Hunter
Genre:
Horror
Format: PDF
Words:
15,000
Price:
$1.99
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SHORT EXCERPT |
The penis with the butterfly tattoo arrived in the mail that afternoon. A plain cardboard box, book rate. Inside a bubble-wrap cocoon was the plastic bottle, Sue Bee Honey. The norteamericano supermarkets displayed these in tidy rows near the peanut butter. The butterfly's wings hung limp in a golden haze of honey as though it had only just left its chrysalis and paused in the sun to dry.
The eyebrows of Oswaldo Patricio Meléndez O'Rourke y Nuñez described a reddish-brown arch above his golden Inca eyes. "So, Pat's dick." Oswaldo held the plastic squeeze bottle to the light. "They killed him." Oswaldo spoke to the cheery little bee on the label. "Para no olvidar, a forget-me-not." Sue Bee smiled back. That it was Patricio's manly part, Oswaldo was sure. He unscrewed the plastic cap of the honey bottle and dumped its contents down the garbage disposal. The grinding went on no longer than for an apple core or a melon rind. That the flaccid organ of which his uncle was so proud arrived by mail and not FedEx ruled out self-mutilation. In life Patricio traveled first class.
Several thousand miles to the south, the butterflies hung, frozen stiff. Orange and black bodies of Danaus Plexippus, the common monarch, clung to the trees, then fell. "Something in the milkweed," the norteamericanos said about the dying butterflies. With a wet winter, an unseasonable sleet and no blossoms of helianthus, aster and verbena to browse to keep up their strength on the long flight north, the butterflies died in their millions.
But here one butterfly had returned to North America.
In the street, a powder blue Celebrity, a veteran of many Maine winters, coughed to life, a cloud of blue exhaust erupting from its tailpipe. Harriet's breath steamed as she emerged from the car to scrape at the layer of frost on her windshield with a small plastic rectangle--a credit card. She looked up at him as she scraped. Successful, she held her arms above her head and clapped her mittens together to demonstrate that she was entitled to a victory lap. A momentary halo of ice crystals fell and powdered her hair. He would not tell her of this.
"So, a souvenir. For me. Tío Patricio's butterfly is a memento signifying something beyond a card of condolence for the passing of a relative. Someone feels I should know of this." Miguel Santandrea then, who played at being a monkey with his origami animals. Miguel, who was dead, wanted his money.
Money.
There was a balance achieved between being and not being, the living and the spirit world. Money was the bridge. Los Muertos were the walkers on that bridge. Los muertos--either seen and not acknowledged or invisible but for little signs--the bristling of a cat's tail, the secret messages in recurrent lottery numbers.
Harriet threw him a kiss from the departing automobile. She was gone; he was alone.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR |
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With the onset of late middle age Rob Hunter is the sole support of a 1993 Geo Metro and the despair of his young wife. He does dishes, mows the lawn and keeps their coastal Maine cottage spotless by moving as little as possible. In a former life he was a newspaper copy boy, railroad telegraph operator, recording engineer and film editor. He spent the 60s and 70s as a Top-40 disc jockey. Rob's wife, Bonnie, is the secretary at a nearby rural elementary school.
Author's site:
http://www.onetinleg.com |
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