Things Spoil in the Shade

Outside, the staff trained through snow and hail and rain. They ran tires and climbed ladders and shimmied poles. They performed push-ups and sit-ups and leg-ups and knee-ups. They trained through bright light and flat light and no light, and this frightened Mrs. Kenworthy--the no light did. She phoned or personally visited the staff manager of the inn and brought this to his attention, and he assured her everything was well.

She had said, The staff training in the no light frightens me; this I would like to bring to your attention.

And he had said, I assure you, everything is well. All staff training environments have been sampled and thoroughly tested by the environmentalists, by means of large, sterilized microscopes, and both acidic and non-acidic testing chemicals. All is well Mrs. Kenworthy. I suggest you eat or relax or, possibly, nap. The staff will be up to your room shortly to perform their routine clean-and-tidy.

Mrs. Kenworthy could neither eat nor relax nor nap; she was frightened, she was frightened of the staff training in no light, and she was frightened of the shade. She sat at the end of her bed and tapped her foot and darted her eyes and spied for any bit of shade the staff might have missed during their last routine clean-and-tidy.

Mr. Staff-Manager, Mrs. Kenworthy said through the mouthpiece of her bedside phone, I wanted to notify you of an unacceptable amount of shade residing in my room.

Mrs. Kenworthy, the staff manager replied, I deeply apologize for the unacceptable amount of shade. I will most certainly send my best cleaning and tidying crew to fix the problem. Your stay here is most important, I assure you.

Yes, there mustn't be any shade. Not a bit.

Of course there mustn't. We will be to your room as soon as possible.

Mrs. Kenworthy paced her room and chewed her fingers, and in a pocket of shade she found a small boy. She hoisted the boy and cradled him against her chest and set him on her bed and saw that his body had spoiled. His limbs had withered, and his bones were soft; his skin was moist, and his mouth wet. And he wheezed a terrible odor into the brightly lit air.

This is unacceptable! Mrs. Kenworthy cried through her phone. I have a spoiled boy in my room. I was pacing about, spotting additional bits of shade for you to clean and tidy, and found a boy, standing, dripping with shade. He is now on my bed, wheezing a terrible odor into the air. You see, there mustn't be any shade. Not a bit.

Mrs. Kenworthy, the staff manager replied, I deeply apologize for the spoiled boy lying on your bed. We've received several complaints regarding spoiled boys: spoiled boys running through the halls, spoiled boys soaking in the fountain, spoiled boys cooling in the ice chest. We will soon have things under control, I assure you.

Oh no, this boy is far too spoiled to be running or soaking or cooling.

Then I will make sure the staff brings the vacuum along with the rest of the normal cleaning and tidying supplies.

And this will fix the spoiled boy lying on my bed?

Yes, we find the easiest way of resolving the spoiled boy problem is using the vacuum to siphon their moist bodies. Then, spread them across florescent light beds to firm their bones and tone their skin. But in your case, it seems the boy is far too spoiled to count on a full restoration.

The boy wheezed and the room filled with his terrible odor, and Mrs. Kenworthy became lightheaded. The scent filled her nose and wrapped her tongue, and the boy's lips curdled with saliva. His skin stripped and flaked in Mrs. Kenworthy's hands; it peeled when she tried to touch him, and tore when she tried to hold him; it broke and crumbled and sifted through her fingers. And Mrs. Kenworthy was frightened, frightened of a boy deteriorating in her arms. She tried to piece him back together; she tried to fit the broken pieces, massage his bits of flesh, knead the seams, dab the cracks with her sweat.

I have phoned to announce the deterioration of the spoiled boy in my room, said Mrs. Kenworthy.

Mrs. Kenworthy, replied the staff manager, I deeply apologize for the deterioration of the spoiled boy in your room. It seems the spoiled boys soaking in the fountain have begun to do the same. I'm told their bodies have become a mere thin layer of cream floating atop the once-clear water. There have been complaints of this cream glaze emitting a violent odor or odors. We have yet to determine the specific scent.

Yes, my room is filled with the boy's terrible odor. This is most unacceptable. How am I to sleep with such a foul scent parading about in complete disregard for respect?

According to guests on floors two and four, it has been advised to wrap the overly spoiled body in bed sheets then slide the wrapped boy beneath the bed. This will stifle the scent. But I will direct the staff to bring an abundance of aerosol rather than the vacuum, considering the condition of your spoiled boy.

Mrs. Kenworthy gathered the pieces of boy and wrapped them tightly in her bed sheets, and the skin panted louder than the mouth had wheezed. And she ignored the panting skin and slid the package into the shade beneath her bed. This stifled the scent but did not silence the panting and moaning and crying.

It should be known, Mrs. Kenworthy spoke into the receiver, that the wrapped boy beneath my bed is now leaking. The spoiled liquid is streaming in all directions. I cannot leave my bed for fear of stepping in the fluid.Unacceptable.Mrs. Kenworthy, the staff manager responded, my deepest apologies for the streaming fluid surrounding your bed. It appears the spoiled boys cooling in the ice chest have leaked a foul leakage just the same. Their liquid has coated the cubes, encasing the iced squares in a treacherous, poisonous scent. We have asked all guests to refrain from using ice in any drinks, food, or sexual fantasies. You are not alone Mrs. Kenworthy, I assure you. The staff will be up shortly and I will advise them to bring the squeegees along with the aerosol and shade deterrents.

And on the bed Mrs. Kenworthy remained, frightened, frightened of the boy, frightened of the staff, frightened of the shade.

About the author:

John Holliday watches FoodTV or the Food Network or whatever you want to call it, never doing anything else, finding himself enjoying Rachael Ray most and Bobby Flay least, thinking Flay and his group of assistant goodfornothings should just quit altogether. He lives in Michigan off the coast of I-94.