I posted a short story on a Paula's short story blog a week or so ago. For those who are interested here it is.
Trimmings
Snip, snip, snip, Solitude snipped a few dead rose heads with her newly sharpened shears. Nice, she thought, as they popped and then hopped over the hedge.
In ordinary daylight the roses might bewilder any casual passerby; or perhaps not. It is possible that the mixture of red pink orange plum yellow coral variously tipped and variegated blooms might appear perfectly reasonable. Our casual passer by might presume that the hedge was comprised of many differing rose plants overgrown and bound together so that one could –if one was of the mind too, possibly pick any bloom, that is choose not “pick”, and after locating its individual stem from thence trace the stem through all its winding and wending curves until reaching the vary base of its original root. Alas for our determined root seeker, such an action would not be possible for all blooms, each and every bud, and each and every blown florescence, led to one root stock: Period. Best to give up and say it was a botanical mutation supreme and simply admire it in all its phantasmal-glory.
Solitude was of course used to the wondrousness of the hedge and her sole concern at the moment was to make the overgrown bits esthetically pleasing while not actually trimming the hedge and creating an inhabited feel. That would not do at all. She enjoyed the wild exclusiveness of a slightly overgrown maze.
Too overgrown and it appeared abandoned, forlorn, forgotten, and thus an open invitation for any sort of romantic minded over imaginative dreamer to enter and that was not acceptable. On the other hand, too neat and tidy, and than the respectable callers, the rule followers, the rigid thinkers would appear and what fun would that be? No not appropriate either.
But a carefully tended and artistically mussy hedge indicated the possibility of persons who cared and perhaps were away for a little too long but surely would be returning any day now. Thus a romantic might pause but would not intrude or loiter overlong. And as for the respectable people, well they would eye the disarray and mentally note to themselves that this was a rather untidily kept up place and quite possibly the residents were lazy, idle or poor groundskeepers, or worse: incompetent at either hiring or managing servants (or even a worse horror: both!) and not worth the trouble to get to know.
So Solitude continued snipping the rose hedge and humming to herself happily. Occasionally a rather fetching tendril would peep out at her, and a twig or two would catch her fancy, and these she tucked away thus refurbishing her garments and at the same time shedding bits of cobweb and spider spit to encourage that slight disreputableness of the overall esthetic.
One particular tendril was exceedingly mobile. And as Solitude observed it, it appeared rather thicker and furrier than a rose stem ought to be. Puzzled she peered closer. What could this be she wondered.
It’s a tail of course.
Well, she paused mid-snip.
No. Not a well. That is not here at all and you know it dear Solitude
Cat, how are you?
Oh can’t complain can’t complain.
What brings you out this way Cat?
I was looking for you.
Oh.
Solitude was puzzled even further. Cat was known for being his own best company why would he seek out the companionship of someone as Solitary as Himself? Wait a moment. She had felt a peculiar resonance with the word Himself.
Looking for me Cat? Or looking for someone else?
What do you mean?
Cat, the word “you” can refer to me or it can refer to any other person present who may or may not be visible. It is a rather general pronoun. In fact it is a little too general for a Cat to use.
The truth is, dear Solitude, I was seeking solitude.
Oh
And here I have found you, Solitude but not solitary at all.
What do you mean Cat?
We are not alone.
Cat, must you always speak in riddles? I can not make you out; neither head nor tail
You can see my tail can’t you? asked Cat in a rather worried tone
Yes
You can see my head then can’t you?
No
Oh, in very relieved accents. Well that explains why you can’t make me out head and tail but not why you can’t make me out neither head nor tail as you can see my tail if not my head
Thoroughly exasperated Solitude snipped her shears across the leafy tops several times in rapid succession nearly neatly trimming it in the process but she caught herself in time.
“Maxima calamitas!”
Both Solitude and Cat startled and glancing at each other saw their own expressions mirrored: what was that?
They looked up: Nothing. They looked behind: Nothing again. They looked before themselves: Still more nothing. And then they thought to look down and there, neatly disappearing into the hedge, was a white cotton tail followed after by the faintly echoing cry of:” maxima calamitas, maxima calamitas, maxima calamitas,” until only the faintest whisper of that odd Latin phrase trailed back to them to finally vanish amidst the tangle of thorny stem and spiny leaf which had heretofore tidily hidden the rabbit’s passage.
Oh dear!
Oh my!
Wasn’t that interesting?
What can it mean?
***
Snip, snip, snip. Another pair of sharpened blades was trimming a hedge not of leaf but of words. Snip, snip, snip, snip, and another set of trimmings were added to the pile of barber like clippings on the floor surrounding the figure’s chair. The spectacled and hunched form appeared to not notice the steadily increasing collection and that soon he would be all a sea in a tidal pool of newsprint and photo essays if he didn’t do something like sweep soon.
Snip, snip, s-n-n-n—i-i-p! And fluttering to the floor in a whispery sigh more shreds joined their brethren. A gentle breeze acting the moon’s role shifted the flowing mass across the floor first in one slow sweep towards one end of the room and then back again to the opposite side.
***
Mistress: “What are you doing!”
The slight bespectacled and bearded form jumped and whirled around
Mistress: “Give me that!”
And his scissors were snatched away before he could blink.
Mistress stood before him, clearly outraged
He then blinked and looked down. Slowly his eyes wandered over the vermicelli covered flooring.
Vermicelli? That couldn’t be vermicelli. He shook his head to clear the mist of thoughts. Well if it wasn’t vermicelli what else came in long thin strips? Fettuccini? He peered closer. No, there were markings on the strips – so, tickertape? Why would he be in a room covered with tickertape? He listened carefully but all he could hear was the sound of Mistress’ angry breathing.
He peered owlishly at her. “Did I miss the parade?” he asked
“What!”
He looked down and then back up. “The ticker tape parade, did I miss it?”
Mistress shook her head in exasperation and disbelief.
The librarian looked confused.
Mistress: “You have been shredding the library.”
Librarian: “I what?”
Mistress: “You have been clipping the books, over editing the stacks, perforating the paragraphs, serratting the spines and lacerating the lines.”
Librarian: “Why would I do that?”
Mistress: “I certainly don’t know, you being the librarian and all. You tell me.”
The librarian looked around himself more closely this time.
“Which ones”, he finally ventured
Mistress: “What do you mean which ones?”
Librarian: “Which books have I been clipping?”
Mistress: “Does it matter which ones? Isn’t it enough that you have been?”
He shook his head slightly. “I don’t know.” He paused again for a while before continuing. “Have I been clipping all of them?”
Mistress looked thoughtfully at the floor. Then she looked at him and said, “No. If it had been all of them you would have drowned by now or at least suffocated which is near enough the same thing.”
He nodded, “Then it does matter which ones have been clipped.”
After glancing around once more Mistress asked, “And how do you propose discovering which ones?”
He looked slightly surprised, “By reading the bindings of course”
Mistress looked around again this time making rather a show of it. Then she returned her gaze to him and asked if he saw any bindings in the room. And here she shifted a tremendous backwash of shredding with her foot and stirred them together.
Thoughtfully, more concerned with the investigation then the opinion of Mistress he said,
“No, but even if the bindings are not here I can piece the pages back together.”
Her eyebrows rose and nearly disappeared behind her skull in amazement.
“Oh really?”
“Yes,” he said and then smiled. “I am the librarian after all.”
She sighed theatrically then inquired if he would like the assistance of One, Two, Three or Four in the process of piecing the pages to be read.
“Thank you no”, he quickly replied and then added, “however…”
Mistress: “Yes?”
Librarian: “Would you be so kind as to take these away with you?” Here he pointed to the scissors very carefully.
Pocketing them equally carefully within the folds of her apron Mistress left, closing the door softly behind her.
***
