Molly headed down the street, past the cafeteria where she usually stopped. Its food had gone badly downhill, and a creepy guy there who tried to hit on her was the last straw. So she and Candy agreed to meet at the tearoom in the next block, where the decor was pink and frilly, but the food was OK.
Candy (more a business associate than a friend) was usually late, so Molly was surprised to see she was already there. She sat in a booth across the room, talking to someone.
Then Molly recognized him: that man from the cafeteria.
“I’m dreading this evening so I am.”
Matthew had been the more gregarious of the two. It was the ultimate compliment to his hosting skills that so many people often dropped by, unannounced.
When he died ten years ago, she shut her front door and gradually those unannounced visitors stopped coming.
Hallowe’en, however, every year brought the neighbourhood’s children, craving comments on cute costumes and greedily demanding sweets.
The doorbell sounded at 6 p.m. She sighed and heaved herself up.
“Jenny – you’ve been hiding away too long. It isn’t good for a person.”
She stuck out a tentative hand.
“Welcome, my dear. Would you like a cocktail before dinner?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Here you are, my dear.”
“Thank you, George. What smells so delicious?”
“It’s a special sauce I make. My own recipe.”
“I had no idea you were such a good cook – or should I say ‘Chef’?”
“I enjoy it. Cooking relaxes me after a long night at work. I love to try new recipes.”
“What are we having tonight.”
“I’d like it to be a surprise.”
I’m pretty picky about my food. Nothing exotic, I hope. Give me a hint?”
“Brains, my dear.”
“Ugh. What kind?”
“Aaaaand …” said Carly, setting the bag on the counter, “Real New York Bagels!”
“For real?” said Brenda, cocking an eyebrow.
“Yep – fresh from a shop near my mom,” Carly said.
Brenda picked up a bagel, squeezed, sniffed, and squinted.
“I bet this was made in some factory in Jersey,” she sniped.
“Oh come on Brenda! Who appointed you judge? Just eat,” Kit chimed.
“I don’t like Carly trying to put one over, like she did with salt water taffy her last trip,” Brenda said.
“Brenda, you don’t even bother bringing stuff in,” Carly said. “Put up or shut up.”
No cure for the Undead? Aren’t you being old-fashioned? Didn’t you hear that the new information was released? It’s only a matter of time before it filters through to the masses. After all, it’s not like they have to ingest something new, it’s just about refreshing their DNA, reminding them they aren’t Homo sapiens, only hypothetically advanced Cave men, identified as the original Undead. Geez, as soon as they wake up they’re going to know the difference and feel so much better. No more of this epidemic self harming, no more illogical passion to end the species. I can’t wait.
Just a fun poke at reality TV and the demise of well spoken English. A personal bugaboo of mine. I have heard each “barker” . (TMSATTVBBG). Throwing my shoes at the TV because of Bad Grammar. We all know we’ll see plenty of hyped up Paranormal “Proof” —
Ghost Hunters Two-Hour Special: Angel Hall University of Michigan, by Jo Oldani Osborne
“OH MY GOD! Did he just use a double negative again?” They watched from a distance.
“’There isn’t no reason not to believe in ghosts.’” Technically that’s a triple negative. Indeed, and he’s ‘a expert.’”
“-‘Exasperate the situation.’ Ugh!”
“Should we let him know?”
“Which? ‘Exacerbate’ or subject/verb agreement? He’s reinforcing bad habits. ‘I seen it!’”
“ ‘Scientific proof of ghosts’ – and he doesn’t even qualify it. Tell him.”
“YOU tell him.” They watched the Ghost Hunter adjust his EMF and recorder looking for “ EVP’s.”
“Halloween Specials! How tiresome.”
“Cretin. Let’s go haunt his editor.”
The doctor sat down facing the patient directly; he wore a serious expression and the patient knew something was wrong.
“Let me have it straight, doc. What’s the problem?”
The doctor shook his head. “You seem to have caught diabetes 2. Your blood tests show that your chromosomes have altered irrevocably, I’m afraid.”
“Diabetes 2? But how?”
“It can come from a virus, or an insect bite. Or too much internet shopping.”
The patient sighed. “The perils of modern life, I suppose.”
“Indeed,” said the doctor.
“Is there any hope?”
“No, your chromosomes indicate that you’ve already become a zombie.”