Just before we begin–
this is a piece of fiction that I wrote, and I know it seems a bit out of character, considering the fact that I usually just write poetry. However, I was very interested to write this, so I hope you all enjoy!
Nobody lives on on the fourth floor anymore-at least, not after what happened to Mrs. Winters. No, everyone stays an arms length from that thin dusty blue carpet and the doormat in front of apartment B-10 that once bore the strange and unfamiliar word “welcome.” It’s funny people even speak of it now. Most people would just label it as a “convenient superstition”.
Molly strode up The narrow staircase nonchalantly, carrying a rather large and unmarked cardboard box. She was dressed in an out of style Calvin Klein tee shirt, a taupe, knee-length overcoat and perfectly washed, but faded and slightly ripped, designer blue jeans, suggesting that she had once been wealthy but recently lost all of her money.Molly Plunked Down the Package outside of apartment B-10, smiled briefly, then ran down the staircase to the lobby and was gone.
A man at the end of the fourth floor hallway had arrived there accidentally, just as the old building elevator, which often malfunctioned, carried him one floor above his desired destination. He observed Molly walking along the fourth floor with purpose, carrying the box, and suspected her of doing something she ought not to do.
The next morning, the man tiptoed up to the apartment B-10 and realized that the box, and whatever lay inside it, was gone. The man shuddered. He dragged his feet back to his residence, then sauntered through the door, unlocked his desk drawer, picked up a shiny revolver and shot himself. If anyone were to have asked him who took the box before he went back to his apartment, he would never have disclosed what he knew: people have a way of constructing detailed and vivid stories on their own, and have such wild imaginations that it would spoil the fun of explaining it.
A small portion of a conversation between a Ms. Hewitt and a Mrs. Cooke, at seven thirty eastern standard time, Monday, June seventeenth, 1996.
Ms. Hewitt: You know he had a bad day, Maggie! It was bound to be a rash decision!
Mrs. Cooke: No, not the way I saw it. He was pacing around the kitchen table giving me that look. I got so freaking scared, I–
H: Well don’t you dare blame me, I was the one to get nearly 50 letters from the man,while you sat there at home doing nothing to stop him.
C: Don’t exaggerate.
C: I said don’t exaggerate. It’s called a Hyperbole.
H: Yes, we all know you went to grad school, Margaret.
C: He only sent you five letters.
H: More like 20.
C: The point is, I know he hid it from us.
H: So… he had it brought back for…safekeeping?
(there is a long pause. Ms. Hewitt breathes heavily)
H: Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that Bas***d had the balls to do PLAN G?!?! Of all the–
C: Nobody has to know!
H: Oh, but they will know, they will Maggie, the second it gets there someone’s gonna go bananas. And if it gets out, It’s gonna be–wait, who did he hire?!
H: Ah Shit! you’ve got to be kidding me!
C: I can always have her let go–
H: No, No! It’s all ruined! she knows too many people…
C: We have it under control.
H: That’s highly doubtful.
C: Beth, we have it under control, okay? I love you but–
H: Yeah, love you too.
C: What I mean is, sometimes things don’t turn out how you want them to. And, I know it’s never getting any better for us, but–
H: You want me to order flowers?
C: You’d do that for me?
H: Of course.
C: Thank you darling.
H: Not a problem. Call me if anything else goes wrong in the next 24 hours, which I’m sure it will.
C: That I will do.
H: well, so long for now.
C: so long.
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry