Semi-Daily Scribbles

Franny walked up to the mailbox with the letter she'd spent three days composing. In her sturdy, tight handwriting, Franny explained why she could no longer be with Edna. They had been inseparable for 17 years, but the relationship had always clung to the edge of despair. Edna would slip, as she called it, and all the evils defiling the world were Franny's fault. Edna said the words "poor, poor, innocent Franny" over and over as she'd grab a fistful of hair, or strike her palm against a tear-stained cheek.

"For as much as you love me, you are my undoing." Edna would swear the soup Franny cooked tasted bitter with poison. The slice of cake at tea contained a shard of glass. "Even the trains aren't running on time because of your wickedness, Franny." The light had gone out of the sky, and it was Franny who had a reason, and the power, to destroy Edna. When Edna slipped, it was only to teach her beloved a lesson. As Franny placed her letter in the mailbox, the address on the envelope a place far outside of Edna's reach, she spoke aloud the words that were so very painful to write.

You are the light I cannot escape. Having tried for years to win your devotion by accepting your cruelty, I have killed off the goodness in both of us. As you slip this time, I give you permission to remain in the depths forever.

The Whistling Biscuit had seen its days of long lines and painted ladies reduced to a pile of bricks. This had been the spot where eager beavers waited months to eat alongside luminaries or, on the off night, the B Team. At any rate, a generous tip given to the doorman could allow one entrance into The Halls of Enlightenment. The last stop on the circuit, The Whistling Biscuit hosted every notable sage worth his weight in prophecies. This was the reason why people clamored to get on the list. A good night promised flowing liquor, chiseled barmen, and enough brimstone and testimony to save the damned. Or, at least lessen the pain of the wicked. But prophets change their tune, and the old saws no longer penetrate like they once did. Then it's time to freshen up the act and move to a new town. One where the audience, packed in and standing, don't know they need saving. Not until the wrecking crew comes to show them the world is a mirrored, hollow ball of indifference.

It was the openness Helen dreaded. She kept her cards close to her chest, and did not like people poking about in her business. Helen felt her professionalism and excellent attendance was all an employer should expect of her. Why, then, did she have to attend these horrible leadership courses where they made you act out silly role reversals? Helen didn't care what ran through Mr. Shipley's mind. She knew what needed to be done, and did it. As far as Helen was concerned, her boss was window dressing. Attention seeking was not her style. Helen let the lazybones around the office compete for the title of "Employee Who Has Too Much On His/Her Plate." Helen thought maybe, if these people stopped complaining about being busy and just did the damn work, she wouldn't feel so foolish during the Trust Building exercises. When did being everybody's friend become necessary in earning a paycheck? She worked so she could pay her bills and have a little extra at the end of the month for books and the occasional movie. Helen didn't want to lord over anyone, or hear about someone's family troubles. She wanted to come in, perform the tasks at hand, and go back to her peaceful rooms filled with freshness and color. Helen splurged the day before and bought one dozen yellow roses. She smiled at the thought of the tight little buds unfurling for her when she returned home that evening. It would not be a lie when she'd say to her flowers, "well done, my dears." That was openness. Helen knew none of her officemates would care to hear how she thought they were all small-minded and rotten.