26 Absurdities of Tragic Proportions

by Matthew C Woodruff

  When Ivy and Ida came home that day they discovered they were suddenly and inexplicably Mermaidless.

  This was the first part of the plan. The rest, well it was decided that Ivy and Ida should spend some time apart, summer vacation was coming up and each individually should be given their parents’ undivided attention and introduced to some more appropriate things.

  Upon hearing about her little darling’s Mermaidal instability, Aunt Louise offered to help.

  “What those girls need is a good old-fashioned summer on the farm.” And so, it was decided.

  For two weeks each, Ivy and Ida would go separately to Aunt Louise’s, and one of their parents would go with them, while the other stayed at home with the non-farm visiting sibling.

  Work schedules were arranged, travel plans made. Four weeks to introduce Ivy and Ida, independent of each other, to other, more appropriate interests.

  It was decided by chance that Ivy would go first. She would be the first of the pair to visit Aunt Louise that summer with their mother. Ida would stay at home with their father, and then visit Aunt Louise after Ivy returned.

  If it hadn’t been for the catfish, the plan may have been a success.

  Normally, you’d expect the separation of two close siblings to be traumatic, at least at the start, especially more so for identical twins. But Ivy and Ida didn’t mind being separated. They both loved and looked forward to seeing Aunt Louise. The fact that the woman never stopped baking may also have been a factor.

  The first two weeks it seemed, went great.

  Ida’s time was spent doing and learning about all the things her father thought would interest a girl her age. One day they went bowling, one day they went to a ball game, one day they went to the zoo, one day they saw a princess movie, one day they went to a car show and one day they attempted to cook dinner, practically burning down the house, rolling with laughter. Ida loved spending this special time with her dad, but deep down, she never forgot she was a Mermaid queen.

  Ivy though was swayed by all the new and interesting things shown her. Ivy and her mother went for country hikes and they swam in the still waters of the small, nearby lake. Ivy learned how to use and apply make-up and learned how to bake, possibly being the only girl her age who could bake a perfect cheesecake, Aunt Louise’s specialty. Ivy also saw the new princess movie and thought she might like to be a princess one day, all thoughts of being a Mermaid queen pushed slowly from her mind. The two weeks fairly flew past.

  Then the switch came. Only for one day would Ivy and Ida be together at home. After the explanations of all the things done and the exclamations of wonder over Ivy’s cheesecakes (of which there were plenty, cheesecakes I mean. They can be frozen you know), the commiseration over Ida’s blisters, (learning how to play golf) and after the joy of being reunited, Ivy and Ida found themselves alone together in their room, their parents seeking some together time for themselves.

  “Let’s play Mermaid queens” Ida said. “You can be Queen Marta,” one of their favorite Mermaid characters.

  “Nah, I want to show you how to put on lipstick” Ivy replied. “Here, do you want red

  or pink?” pulling two partially squashed lipsticks out of her new, little purse. And though the lipsticks did intrigue Ida, she was concerned over her sister’s lack of Mermaidal interest.

  “You don’t want to be Queen Marta?” she inquired. Everyone wanted to be Queen Marta.

  “Mermaids are silly, they aren’t real,” Ivy simply replied while gazing in the mirror, not understanding the effect her words would have on Ida.

  Ida was in shock and remained so for the whole trip to Aunt Louise’s farm, where she now did not want to go. Something obviously happened to Ivy there, something (shudder) sinister, she believed.

  Aunt Louise was glad to see Ida, whom she loved just as much as Ivy. Aunt Louise wanted to teach Ida how to bake, maybe a nice berry pie, she thought. Ida’s mother and her Aunt Louise tried all the things with Ida they had tried with Ivy, but to no avail. Ida seemed to be lost in her mind. Oh, she was polite enough, and feigned interest in things, but Ida was determined to get to the bottom of the Ivy mystery.

  Near the middle of the second week, the answer presented itself to Ida.

  One of Aunt Louise’s old and garrulous neighbors stopped by, just to talk (while having a big plate full of cheesecake, mind you). During this fairly boring adult conversation around the kitchen table, Ida heard the magic words, “that dang ol’ great big granddaddy catfish.” Apparently, several years ago, as no doubt Aunt Louise had heard many times, the neighbor had almost hooked himself a big ‘ol catfish, the biggest in the county. Now supposedly, this granddaddy catfish taunts the old man at every opportunity.

  “Where is this?” Ida interrupted, not really having been listening.

  “Why right here in your Aunt Louise’s little lake, honey”, he answered, brushing crumbs of cheesecake from off his overalls.

  Ida now knew for a certainty what had happened to Ivy. Many years ago in some undisclosed location, Queen Marta’s younger sister Taurine had been abducted by the King Under the Water, according to a story they had read. Upon finding this out, Queen Marta cursed the King to be forever in the form of a great big catfish, who was just too wily to ever be caught.

  This catfish, right here in Aunt Louise’s pond, must be the very one. The King Under the Water. He must have stolen the real Ivy and is keeping her in one of his dark underwater caves so talked about in the story, Ida knew now for a certainty.

  She considered telling the adults, but after looking around at them thought it best to handle it herself. Adults were unpredictable.

  That next morning early, just as the eastern sky was lightning and the mist was slowly lifting off the lake, Ida stole out of the house still in her nightgown and ran down to the lake to rescue her sister Ivy’s true self from the King Under the Water. The early morning dew was wet and cool on her bare feet.

  The little boat was easy to push out onto the still lake and climb into. Ida was determined to search all day for the underwater cave, if she had to. She searched and searched, at least until the cold dark water stole the breath from her one last time.

  She never did find that wily old catfish.

  The End.

  James

  The pastor at the Abiding Savior Lutheran church in Verona, Wisconsin, Father Jensen, was partial to enjoying a glass or two of Lakka every evening after supper. Lakka is the traditional alcoholic drink of his forebears from Finland, crafted out of cloudberries. Cloudberries resemble very, very pale black-eyed peas, but grow on bushes like blueberries, way up north in the Scandinavian countries. I guess God or Odin or whomever, figured if you managed to trek all the way up there, or somehow managed to eke out an actual living just consuming codfish, you deserved a treat. Viola, the cloudberry.

  Father Jensen was an aging, balding, over-weight celibate who chose to dedicate his life to God after the very narrow escape of almost marrying his high school interest, Brigitte Andersen, who at the time was already balding and over-weight. For many years, Father Jensen used to thank God profusely whenever he encountered his erstwhile girlfriend at church or community functions (something that happens quite often), for she has gotten balder and heavier with the passing years.

  Neither of them had ever left Verona for very long. Father Jensen to go to Seminary, and one year of service abroad, and young Brigitte to one year of university in Milwaukee where she chanced to not only attach herself to another local boy, the unfortunate and apparently desperate, Harold Lindberg, by some unlikely means, but also come home pregnant. It wasn’t long before she was married in the very church where the good Father Jensen now serves though scandalously, the pastor at the time wouldn’t allow her to wear white, a tradition that has fallen to the wayside. It didn’t keep the young Brigitte from radiating happiness on her entire waddle down the aisle.

  Maybe, some of the older generation in the congregation assume, Harold and Brigitte’s un
ion was actually one of love and mutual respect, rather than desperation and shame. After all, they stayed married for thirty-five years, through three children, until Harold’s untimely death in an ice fishing accident and seemed if not exactly happy, at least content for most of it.

  The good Father Jensen, as was the habit in the area, lived in a small stone house attached to the rear of the small stone church in which he served his small congregation of faithful. The house having been vacated many years earlier upon the death of Father Jensen’s predecessor and mentor in the faith, who interestingly also enjoyed the occasional glass of Lakka.

  Brigitte Andersen, now Brigitte Lindberg these many long years, as mentioned earlier, had three children. Two of them couldn’t wait to leave Verona as soon as possible, both settling in somewhat warmer climes. This story isn’t about them, so forget about them. The youngest, however stayed and married the very pretty, if somewhat dimwitted, high school basketball star, James ‘Jimmy’ Bronson, who after graduation worked in his father’s garage fixing automobiles (a more lucrative business than you might imagine). They also had three children, the youngest, being the only boy, was named James, jr.

  Now young James loved his grandmother Brigitte. He didn’t care that she was fat and bald. In young James’ eyes, she was a kind, warm, soft, cuddly and loving grandmother. Maybe that was some of what Harold saw in her? At any rate, the two were almost inseparable. As they lived on the same street, much to Jimmy’s dismay at times, they were seemingly attached at the hip. Wherever Brigitte went, there was young James.

  Now the fact that Brigitte was a founding member of the Abiding Savior Lutheran Church Women’s Auxiliary meant Brigitte was very involved with the church and the community. If she ever felt uncomfortable seeing Father Jensen so often, the man she almost married, or in fact if she even ever thought about it, she gave no indication. It seems of the pair, only Father Jensen had that particular hang-up.

  This then, is how James came to know Father Jensen so well. Of course Brigitte took James to church every Sunday, that was a given. The whole family was in attendance, as were all good Lutherans. Young James was also in attendance every Wednesday evening from 6:3o – 7:30 for Bible study, as well as Saturday afternoons for prayer meeting. The ladies of the auxiliary prayed for all those in the congregation, the poor children in Africa, and the Mormons, all who needed the extra help.

  There were also many church functions at which young James was in attendance, there were potlucks, bake sales and the monthly free store when small sundries and foodstuffs were disseminated to the needy. What did James Jr.’s parents think of all this churchy stuff then? They didn’t mind in the least. James was a good boy who stayed out of trouble when some youngsters his age were getting into all sorts of crazy things, violent video games, R-rated movies and drinking and whatnot.

  There are worse things for a young person than faith. Some of those in the congregation with salacious minds and wagging tongues wondered about such a nice looking young blonde boy (obviously, he took after his father’s side) being so often around an apparently celibate priest, but they were just sad old bitches who had nothing better to consume themselves with. No such thoughts had ever occurred to the good and faithful Father Jensen. The only person he ever thought about remotely sexually, was Brigitte.

  No one ever could have foreseen the tragedy that was to strike our young James.

  Now it so happens that many, many years earlier, Father Jensen’s predecessor, who had been a strong believer in the old ways, started an annual Lutefisk traditional supper for the weekend after Easter. That gelatinous looking, horrid smelling, butter drenched traditional Scandinavian specialty that it seems only Americans now consume.

  Of course, tradition being what it is this unfortunate supper was continued. Personally, though he would never admit it, Father Jensen hated Lutefisk, as do most people. The church basement, which housed the church kitchen and community room fairly stunk like he couldn’t even tell what for weeks after. It was all he could do to keep the nauseating smell from invading his own attached home. He was more than happy when Brigitte kindly suggested the Women’s Auxiliary take over the planning and execution of the yearly event.

  “If you really think you have the time,” he replied, all the while thinking to himself, have at it, and God be with you, wondering if he could possibly find a reason to be out of town that weekend. Maybe a relative would pass or something.

  As the weeks up to Easter approached, and the Women’s Auxiliary put the annual Easter egg hunt plans to rest, it was time to start planning for the Lutefisk Supper. Brigitte asked if she might stop by Father Jensen’s home Sunday after services to discuss logistics. Important things such as, where are the many pounds of dried cod fish to be purchased, where and how will it be soaked in lye for the week ahead of time?

  Wait, you say, lye? Yes, that caustic drain cleaner that is used by murderers to dispose of their victims is also used to give Lutefisk its unforgettable texture, smell and taste.

  It was only natural that young James came along to the meetings at Father Jensen’s home.

  During these visits Father Jensen and Brigitte would partake of Father Jensen’s stock of Lakka from the bottle kept on the side table in the living room, both being avid drinkers of the stuff. Oddly, during these meetings and perhaps due to the imbibing of the Lakka, Father Jensen would wonder what his life may have been like married to this deeply spiritual and good woman before him. But, as we said, if Brigitte ever thought about what might have been, she never gave a conscious indication.

  For some reason, these Lutefisk supper meetings were happening with surprising frequency, with young James watching his grandmother and Father Jensen the whole time. What Father Jensen didn’t notice, and what Brigitte wouldn’t have admitted, she thoroughly enjoyed the old pastor’s company. James could tell the subtle differences in his grandmother, both during and afterwards. There were more frequent smiles, the unaware humming of a gay old ditty and the extra care on her appearance. Small things, but they were large in James’ mind.

  The thought of his grandmother being so happy made James happy. He attributed it to the Lakka though, not Father Jensen. He had seen his own parents become quite lively after a couple of drinks, and started thinking about what it would be like to have a drink or two.

  One such evening, Father Jensen’s Lakka bottle was nearly empty and both he and Brigitte had decided they had time for one more small drink.

  “James, would you mind running down to the storage room and fetching a bottle?” Father Jensen kindly asked.

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t mind,” James replied, always so polite.

  “It is up on the high shelf, but there is a tall stool you can use to reach up for it” Father Jensen said. “Will you be okay to do it?” He asked James.

  “Yes sir,” James answered, jumping down from his chair and scurrying down to the basement. Part of the reason James was in such a hurry to fetch the Lakka for Father Jensen was he had overheard some school chums talking about drinking their parent’s alcohol and even though at first the taste was awful, and it burned going down, they enjoyed it (they were lying of course, it had made them dizzy and sick).

  Now we should mention something Father Jensen seems to have forgotten. Several years ago, the city council briefly debated about making it illegal to process any food using lye, which basically is a poisonous and dangerous foul liquid. So, fearful of the legal ramifications of their annual Lutefisk dinner and wanting to keep it alive in honor of his predecessor, Father Jensen removed all the labels on all the bottles he kept on the high shelf, including the entire case of Lakka he bought that year.

  There was absolutely no way James could know which liquid filled bottle was which.

  After climbing up on the tall stool to reach the high shelf, James determined that if he took a swig or two out of the bottle neither Father Jensen nor his grandmother were likely to notice. Relying on his friend’s greater knowledge of such things,
the burning sensation and the bad taste of the first swallow convinced James he had found the correct bottle.

  He had not.

  The End.

  Kate

  The would-be zombie apocalypse, still being feared by conspiracy theorists everywhere, happened many, many years ago in a small town in Pennsylvania, and was quickly halted by the quick-thinking actions of one young lady, my beloved.

  Everyone knows the most feared creatures in our mythology, all of which is true, by the way, have been among us for hundreds, if not thousands of years. Vampyres rose up out of the misguided worship of Selene by some young Greek, pissing Apollo off, and forcing our would-be hero to make a deal with Hades, the god of the underworld. The result was a race of blood sucking night dwellers still residing among us.

  Dr. Frankenstein’s immortal monster, and the many other before and after tests and attempts at perfection, were set free to roam and terrorize in the 1700’s. Mark my words, you haven’t seen the last of them no matter how many pitchforks you poke them with.