BONUS STORY

Here is a BONUS STORY. Before reading it though, I suggest you read the Secret Life of Walter Mitty by James Thurber. It will make an awful lot more sense if you do so.

The Secret Life of Mrs. Mitty

There he was, sunk deeply inside of the old armchair by the window, with his stupid stubble and greasy hair, and that stupid look in his eyes-white as a ghost but with no light reflecting upon it. 

“I’ve been searching all over this hotel for you!” I said, curtly. “Why do you have to hide in this old chair? How do you expect me to find you?”

“Things close in,” Walter Mitty mumbled dreamily.

“What?” I said, “Did you get that what’s-its-name? The puppy biscuit? What’s in that box?”

“Overshoes,” he said, vaguely, off in his own little world. What a nuisance it is, having him for a husband. How can I expect him to do anything when the most paltry of matters distract him?

Humph. “Couldn’t you have put them on in the store?” I asked, annoyed. Talking to him was like speaking to a three year old- you can either receive the queerest and most confusing of ramblings, or simplest, the most blatant of answers. This man was the latter, a bewildering mass of simplicity that can drive the sanest person mad. You can never understand a quiet person who speaks in the tongue of one-word-sentences. 

“I was thinking,” Walter Mitty said. I scrutinized his expression carefully. Ruminative. How odd, he is usually dreamy, not a deep thinker. “Doesn’t it ever occur to you that I am sometimes thinking?” There he goes again, his simple statements that drove me mad.
“I’m taking your temperature when I get you home,” I said, adding later, “And this time, I’m driving.”
We later pulled into the driveway of our plain white house. I lead Walter Mitty to the front door of his house he trailed behind, his arms full of bags. Suddenly, he stumbled, and the bags all toppled on to the ground, scattered amongst the pavement. 

Ugh. What an inept oaf.  I went back to help, when I noticed his foggy, glazed over eyes. I picked up some of the bags, when I noticed something that didn’t seem quite right. I pulled open the bag from the convince store and pulled out the puppy biscuits, giving them a disdainful sniff. 

“These aren’t puppy biscuits, they’re kitten biscuits!  My, if Wilma Mitty has to get something done, she has to do it herself!” I shouted angrily, shaking with vexation.

I stormed over to the car, tossed my head over my shoulders, and gave a shuddering roar, “And you, Walter Mitty, stay HERE!”

I drove as fast as I could without frightening myself to the convenience store, where I purchased a bag of puppy biscuits, and then returned home. 

Inside of the house, Walter Mitty was tidying up the kitchen, but his eyes were white and unfocused once more. 

“I’m home,” I called back, and he blinked his protuberant eyes, a jolt of energy that allowed his consciousness to flood into himself once more. 

He stared back blankly.

I sighed, and bit back my annoyance, “Well, I’ll be in the basement if you need me.”

“Alright,” he replied, and went back to cleaning the dishes. 

I headed down the basement stairs, the old house creaking to life with each step I took. For a moment, I fumbled around in the darkness until my hands sought out a familiar surface-Walter Mitty’s father’s polished oak armoire. I through open the doors and felt around for a candle and matches. The soon lit candle brought warmth and knowledge; sight is a beautiful gift of understanding that we never so often cherish. It guided me through labyrinth of our basement-a cluttered mess of trinkets I’ve gathered throughout the years.

I found my way around-past my grandmother’s cauldron, stepped over my hoard of various creature’s skulls I once so proudly boasted of, and under vines of knives and other assortments of weaponry, until I reached it- the glorious Land O’ Spells. 

I kneeled over a large box of spell books, and fumbled through the pile in hopes of finding “Reincarnation Recollections,” a novel I so very much favored. Soon, I uncovered it; it was buried beneath “Intelligent Incantations” volume 1-5, blew the dust off of it, and flipped open to page 546. This page was tarnished and stained, as I had used it so many times.

I set the book down on the floor, and kneeled over it. I reread its words for what seemed like the thousandth time; they intrigued me and lead me on. I started with the paragraph about how a human’s reincarnated self was trapped inside their soul, and a bit of witchcraft can urge those past lives to escape and be used as pawns. 

I so desired to have my own collection of servants to carry out my bidding; for now though, I only had Walter Mitty, a human being who’s self was so fractured he was almost entirely useless.

Though, he was not completely menial, for I used him to acquire his past lives-future slaves of my every wish. On this very page I have open in front of me, were also instructions on how to free past-lives from a human soul using puppy biscuits and a tad bit of incantations. You simply feed the human a certain type of puppy biscuits (most will work, however, one must ensure that it contains the proper wheat-to-meat ration) and the chemicals found inside penetrate the soul. When you recite these words , “Spera in meo caemiterio tabernus”, the puppy biscuits rapidly spin inside the soul, and are pulled out of the body and through the mouth. The past lives are extracted as well, becoming slaves in a form of apparition. It does not mention what becomes of the body the spirits were withdrawn from, but I am sure that it would become weak, now that its soul has been emptied. But, alas, who cares, for it is just a body, isn’t it?

I have tried this method on Walter Mitty many a time before, but it somehow never works. He does not vomit up the puppy biscuits or any spirits. Instead, he shudders and returns to his normal self, acting as if nothing odd happened. I notice, however, he often succumbs to a dreamlike state, like the past lives consume his mind from time to time. I am sure that the spirits he once was are trapped inside his mind, inside his head, and I am certain now, with an extra bit of incantations, I can wheedle these spirits out.

The only thing I need now is the body that contains those spirits.

“Walter Mitty, dear, can you come down here?” I called. “I need you for a moment.”

NOTE: Please check out the blog foaminfrodowithafro.blogspot.com for fascinating installments. I suggest you start with the first posts and then work your way towards the most recent ones. 

Strength of the heart tears us apart

A fortnight ago, I was driving in my car around the farmland part of New York, on my way to NYC's Disney Store, when an old friend of mine was chasing me. Her black hair was in knots, her teeth were silver bullets sharpened to a point, and on her feet were these miniature bouncy houses that gave her speed. I stepped on the pedal as fast I could, trying to get away from this barbaric specimen, when she chucked an axe at my window. It shattered, but luckily I ducked in time. I then got out of my car and ran through a corn field until I came across a planet fitness.

 I entered the locker room, and climbed down the stairs into the fallout shelter. I took a sledgehammer and knocked down the wall, thus revealing a secret passageway. This passageway lead me to an airport. I notified the officers there about the insane killer who once had been my friend. 

Turns out, she is an insane mass murderer in America. But her biggest enemy now was me. Just for fun, she wanted to kill me. The airport decided they needed to protect me, Oprah, Queen of the Universe, at all costs. They disguised me as a preppy school girl and enrolled me in a private school. They braided my hair and made me where a mask over my face so I looked younger. They sent me off to England, and that's when my life was rewritten. 

The school was called Rose Robin Rad School, and as far as anyone knew, my name was Sally Turner, not Oprah Winfrey. I was an exchange student from the United States, and the children there were so fascinated by my life there. What's a burger? Are hotdogs made of real dogs? Why do you set fire to the sky in July? All these questions I answered and more. 

I soon found out though, that this school was no ordinary school. In my art class, we were using koalas as a reference, but one escaped and turned out to be as dangerous as a bear. Everyone admired my artwork, because, let's face it, I'm Oprah Winfrey. I got along well with my other teachers but there was one that bothered me. My Spanish teacher was spawn of evil itself, I swear. 

From the moment she saw me, she hated me. She picked on me for my backpack, my grades, and the fact that I couldn't roll my r's. She practically bullied me and at every class; I was almost broke to tears. One day, I told her she wasn't being very nice, and she gave me a detention. 

I cried because I'd never even gotten a lunch detention before. I wrote an angry note to the school, and they took pity on me. They fired the teacher and told the students they were sorry. As a reward, they brought us to Disney World. When we went to Disney, for some reason, the park was pretty empty. 

My assumption was they were probably afraid of the mass murderer-I heard now she had an army of equally heinous cronies. We went on a bunch of rides with no wait, and all the food there was free because Disney was so happy that they finally had customers. I met all the princesses and characters and had a swell time. I even called up Phil, and we agreed that one day, when everyone else in my Spanish class was eating Dinner with Cinderella, we could go eat at Belle's Castle. 

But before that, though, I was going to go on the Peter Pan ride but everyone in front of me had fleas. 

So I headed over to the Magical Fantasy Land, right over to the fountain with Gaston, and went into the restroom. There, I pulled of my mask and took out my tight braids. I put on the Belle Dress I had stolen from backstage (I found a secret passageway to under the park. Since there were hardly any Disney Customers, the amount of Cast Members they had was quite low as well. I was able to nick a few of the authentic Princess Dresses, but to be nice, I left behind four thousand dollars, hoping that it could cover the cost. 

I then went to Belle's Castle, and met Phil outside. There was a staircase that allowed you to enter, so we held hands and climbed up it. But suddenly, the staircase started to tremble. I gripped onto Phil's hand and the staircase fence so hard my knuckles grew white. The castle began to rumble and roar, and we began to rise up and up; the staircase was growing. Up and up we road; Phil was screaming and I was in tears. 

"Help, help!" We pleaded. The rumbling ceased, but a skeleton grew out of the ground. He bowed and opened the door. We walked inside, slowly, the old floors creaking to life with every step. And suddenly, a bucket of hot water was dumped upon our heads. I screamed in agony, and felt as if I was melting. I wasn't melting though- I was growing! 

I then looked down at my hands, expecting to see red hot sores, but instead found something that made me scream, except, the only thing that came out of my mouth was a, "NEEEEIGGGGHHH!" I had hooves! I looked over at Phil- he was a cinnamon colored horse with a deep mahogany mane clothed in a blue suit. I myself was a horse as well. I started to freak out, I tried to run away, but ended up falling on my feet. I got up again, frantically trying to change myself back into the beautiful woman I once was, but I kept slipping and sliding and falling. 

Then, the halls erupted in a mechanical laughter. A sergeant slid down the stairs-his loose uniform and beautiful cloak billowing behind him. "Tut, tut, tut, what have we got here?" He asked with a smirk. "NEIGHHHH!" I said. He laughed. "Hello Oprah. Hello Dr. Phil. I am a servant of your old friend." My eyes grew wide. He was in league with the mass murderer! "Ahh, yes, you know of whom I speak of. Well, I shall tell you one thing, I am capable of being just as evil as her. You see, once upon a time, I was going to be married to a fine young lady. But on the day of the wedding, she fought with my brother and killed him. How could this woman ruin my life? I was so upset and deeply ruined-we'd already said our vows and I was to afraid to try and file a divorce-I knew she could hurt me. Eventually, I gained courage and sought revenge. I ruined her family, and now, I am here. I can ruin you too, but first, let's play a game. It's called dancing. Ballroom dance for me. NOW!" He commanded with a shuddering roar. 

I almost passed out. How could a horse ballroom dance? I slid over to Phil and held out my hoove, but unbalanced, I fell forward. The sergeant roared with laughter. Eventually, though, us horses were able to slide to the best of the music, somehow, I was able to spin around in a full circle. Must be the ballerina in me. The sergeant pushed us on, forcing us to work harder and be better. It was so difficult though. After time, he was satisfied, and called for lights out. He tied us up in small twin beds and eventually, I drifted to sleep. TO BE CONTINUED. 

Who says we have got to hold on?

Last night I had a dance off with one of the Country Bears and someone filmed it and posted it on Facebook and I was so embarrassed. 

Then I went to this sleepover at this friends house and there were some girls there that were nice but they talked too much about fancy bath bombs and I wasn't really into it. I kept trying to take pictures of the sunset but they laughed at me and insulted me. I ran for shelter in an empty room and his, sobbing. 

The window was open and there were teens outside. My heart raced. They were a gang, a cult filled with hormoned homogenous balls of epidermis. 

They kept yelling "trash can" and "dirty twister" while pointing at the window. When I got up, and looked at them, scowling, they fled. Some girl at the sleepover chased them. I called 911 and there was this automated voice message of a southern man stereotype saying, "Yee doggie you've called 911, yeseree! Heeheehaw! Yee haw! State your emergency and give your address and we'll come fer help Yee dawggie!" 

I answered, and then these paramedics in this huge truck came. There wasn't enough room for all of the crime doers so some had to sit on the roof. I came too abut the driver of the paramedics truck kept on getting distracted so we went to this fall jamboree and played soccer on a lake. 

A dream is a wish your heart makes... or is it your greatest fear?

I had this dream last night that I took this baking class where we could bake whatever we want but we had to collect the materials from the forest outside. Like get eggs from wild chickens, chase giant Coogoo cats and pull of some of their loose fur and grind it up as flour, or get milk from a cow and get chocolate from the leaves of a peppermint bark tree. I made things like blueberry muffins, salads, and a pizza with a cookie dough crust. 

Later on, I became such a good chef that I had to make a meal for Rachel Ray and she liked it. I also took an orchestra class, but we had to carve the instruments ourself out of wood. Soon though, at my schools, a new principal arrived. He was cruel and mean and standardized everything, and the solution for everything was go give students more and more work. The teachers, like lots of teachers, didn't like these new rules. But the new principal often came in our classes to check on us and make sure we were following the rules. He also brought along a cute, fluffy big black dog as a threat to rule breakers and shenanigan doers.

  Sometimes, he asked us questions. I answered him in a high and girly, innocent voice that was so sarcastic it was great. But Mr. Principal couldn't detect it. Once, he asked me a question. I didn't answer him. Instead, I scolds him for standardizing everything-that was so old fashioned. The new wave of the world is to individualize student learning based off of their independent thinking because not all kids learn the same way. He laughed and said I was a good jokester. I wanted to sit on him.

 Then, it turned out, he fired the teacher of my food class and he wouldn't let us go outside because it was "dangerous" and "barbaric". Instead, we had to collect food from the fridge, and he TOLD us what good we had to make, and the EXACT way to make it. And, we would only be making healthy food. Today we made QUEESH. So no more cookie dough pizza :(. 

The moral of this story is that it is a metaphor to our terrible school system that is getting even worse and we must fix it before we destroy our children! And I leave you with the question: if a bad dog is the result of a bad trainer, is a bad child the result of an adult's mistakes, or is the child old enough to know what is right and wrong and find out for themselves?