Usually when I magpie, I collect glittery internet objects for you to be distracted by whilst at work. Today, however, I am collecting wee bits of writing instead. Most of these have been written over the last couple of months (by me), but didn't quite become anything of their own. Ergo, they will be added to this lovely birds nest I call a blog.
It started out slowly, like a very tiny itch between your shoulder blades that you couldn’t quite reach. It darted around her periphery, the small spark of agitation with being left alone.
“One of these days, you’re going to snap, Flemming,” she tells me menacingly. “Make sure you find me when it happens, because I can’t wait to see what sort of fun you are when you stop being so sensible.” She stomps off down the bleachers, flipping her dull blond hair over her shoulder, leaving me to watch Lou’s last place finish in peace.
“I didn’t do it,” I tell him, trying to resist the urge to scratch my nose, because I know that I won’t be able to reach. He ignores me, and scratches his pen against his pretentious legal pad. “Martin, did you hear me? I didn’t do it.” I say again, still waiting for him to look me in the eye.
He’s been here for twenty minutes and he hasn’t look at me once. It’s given me plenty of time to look at him, though, and I can see that his age is showing around the edges. His hairline is receding, and I can see gray hair sprinkled through the brown. He looks like dad, I realize, the pit dropping out of my stomach. The scowl he wears when he finally looks up at me only heightens the effect.
“You look just like dad,” I tell him.
“I’m not here to talk about dad,” he answers hollowly. “I’m here because you need a lawyer.”
“I didn’t do it,” I repeat, now that I finally have his attention.
“Ok,” he shrugs. “Now, about your--”
“You’re supposed to say ‘Doesn’t matter. You’re found guilty or innocent by a jury of your peers’,” I remind him. “That’s how the game works.”
“This isn’t a game, Mallory,” his face gets more stern, and suddenly I can see mom’s face and dad’s face both when he looks at me. How is possible that he looks like both of them, and I look like neither?
“As the one who is currently handcuffed to the furniture, thank you for pointing that out to me. It might have escaped my notice otherwise,” I quip back.
He rolls his eyes and consults his notes again, as though he expects them to give him advice on what to do when your little sister is on trial for murder but isn’t taking it seriously.
Hey! You made it to the end! Here's a hilarious shirt that I very much relate to: