Drakeathon Leftovers: Souvenirs
Feb. 25th, 2011 03:31 pmFrom ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ysabetwordsmith's prompt/invitation: you are cordially invited to play with either of my urban fantasy poetic series, Monster House or the Psychic Photographer:
http://penultimateproductions.weebly.com/serial-poetry.html
This is a riff off of her Monster House series, which you should really, really read.
It was Melody’s idea to leave cream out.
We were living in one of those broken-down used-to-be-nice old houses in CollegeTown, sharing a three-bedroom place with four other people, and our stuff was vanishing. We confronted the worst of the roommates, but his beer-sodden answer was to blame “that freaking fraggle.” We chalked that up as Worse Excuse Ever, until a late-night return caught the little imp (the so-called fraggle, not Joe) in Melody’s underwear drawer. A little internet searching and some library time later, and we’d invested in a little cream and set a flea-market saucer in the coolest windowsill.
Our stuff stopped disappearing overnight, and the cream was gone every morning. What’s more, stuff started coming back; Melody’s underwear, my signed guitar picks, the goblet from our first year together; when we saw the imp – boggart, our studies suggested – it looked fat and happy. When we moved, amongst our stuff was enough of our roommates’ trinkets to make up the back rent they all owed us.
We keep putting out cream. It was another small and harmless eccentricity in our collection of such oddities we treasured, souvenirs of our life together. With the new place, we’ve taken to leaving out oatmeal and honey for the brownie in the kitchen, too.
Hey, some people collect shot glasses.
ysabetwordsmith's prompt/invitation: you are cordially invited to play with either of my urban fantasy poetic series, Monster House or the Psychic Photographer:http://penultimateproductions.weebly.com/serial-poetry.html
This is a riff off of her Monster House series, which you should really, really read.
It was Melody’s idea to leave cream out.
We were living in one of those broken-down used-to-be-nice old houses in CollegeTown, sharing a three-bedroom place with four other people, and our stuff was vanishing. We confronted the worst of the roommates, but his beer-sodden answer was to blame “that freaking fraggle.” We chalked that up as Worse Excuse Ever, until a late-night return caught the little imp (the so-called fraggle, not Joe) in Melody’s underwear drawer. A little internet searching and some library time later, and we’d invested in a little cream and set a flea-market saucer in the coolest windowsill.
Our stuff stopped disappearing overnight, and the cream was gone every morning. What’s more, stuff started coming back; Melody’s underwear, my signed guitar picks, the goblet from our first year together; when we saw the imp – boggart, our studies suggested – it looked fat and happy. When we moved, amongst our stuff was enough of our roommates’ trinkets to make up the back rent they all owed us.
We keep putting out cream. It was another small and harmless eccentricity in our collection of such oddities we treasured, souvenirs of our life together. With the new place, we’ve taken to leaving out oatmeal and honey for the brownie in the kitchen, too.
Hey, some people collect shot glasses.
