Best job I ever had was caretaker of the Grandmoor house.

At the time there was all kinds of talk about historic preservation since the family that built it were city founders. They owned the mill and the box factory, had all kinds of servants.  One was even the mayor.

The original grounds had seventy acres before hard times winnowed it down to the last three.

Still, it was a swell place with brick porticos and a pipe organ in the parlor.

None of the family are alive now. Some moved away when the money ran out.  So it goes.

 

Friday Fictioneers

“Where you been?”

“Sick. Real sick.”

“Yeah? Better off you’d died.”

“Why’s that?”

“Merton’s been hollering. Called the supervisor. He wants your ass, Jay.”

“That so? Well, last I checked we got a union. We got sick leave.”

“Merton said you didn’t call in. Nobody was covering your route. You see your case yet?”

“I just walked in.”

“Well, it’s a goddamn mess. You got at least six crates of rough-sorted, about two hundred pounds of junk mail, plus the packages.”

“Neither rain nor snow nor dark of night.”

“Jesus, Jay.  We’re talking the goddamned US Mail.”

“Is that so?”

 

Friday Fictioneers

 

First time she shot up it was like God had given her answers to questions she hadn’t dared to ask.

The meaning of life. The nature of love. The essence of self.

She fucking loved it.

Now it was all about avoiding that go-to-hell empty sickness that announced itself with chills and nausea, a town crier marching ahead of the invading army.

There hadn’t been anything close to euphoria for a long time,  but she still feels the magic power that she can banish the fiercest wolf of a jones in an instant.

If she can just find a bathroom.

 

Friday Fictioneers