Literary Yard

Search for meaning


By: Vijay Johnson-Tanco

nice dinnerMy name is John Stature from a wealthy family of scientists. The statures have had a key role in providing a cure for the common cold, which mankind really had no need for. There is quite a lot of things that mankind doesn’t need, such as social networking, technology of the future, the “hottest” new fashion, the most satisfying form of sexual positions and birth control, while the majority of the population is in poverty and misery.

Good thing the common cold is finally over with.

I suppose the statures could be blamed for the pitiful state the world is trapped in. the economy is in shambles, causing major corporations to fall apart, governments fell apart leaving the people without leaders. Why, a man I recently knew named Halbert was absolutely lost without a prime figure in his life. Now Halbert was just like a fat, profusely sweating pig in the Sahara, he reeked of cheese, crusty molded egotistical cheese. It used to be that Halbert was the very model of sophistication in this neighborhood; he did wear the most formal ties with only stripes, as they were the most complex designs in his wardrobe. No ridiculous distractions in his life. Halbert was so sophisticated that he came up with innovative creations to assure an easier life. He used an empty bottle as his top quality toilet, thus saving water.

It turns out that Halbert’s stench of cheese spared him from the cruel fate that the guests in our neighborhood planned for him.

I should explain, the guests that came to visit aren’t exactly like the rest of us. All of them have wounds or injuries about their grey decaying flesh. They’re quite repulsive I won’t life, given that they are prone to biting or scratching at us. In the past I’ve attempted, not succeeding, a peaceful dinner with close friends and family. The guests knocked and banged at our door, giving moans of discontent. When they finally attained entry, they would demonstrate the most undesirable and rudest manners one could witness. I could tell that they weren’t in any form educated well behaved individuals. The guests entered a frenzy and rushed into my home with their crude mannerisms. One certain man in a faded blue suit desecrated my home. He failed to remove his elbows from the dining table, his jaw was wide open while he chewed, and worst of all they grabbed my prize turkey with their filthy, bloody, maggot-infested, greasy hands while my daughter ruined the atmosphere of dinner by referring to our guests as the Z-word.

Oh the humanity of it all! Etiquette is dead!

I wasn’t aware of the fact that our guests were also trying to spread a disease around, like syphilis!

After the hustle and bustle of dinner, the guests were all mingling with my aunts, uncles, mother and father, and my closest friend Nigel. I remember plenty of fun gatherings with Nigel, who was skinnier than a twig and pale as a ghost. Poor Nigel got the blunt of the whole ordeal, with his blazer ruined by a guest’s bloodied body. He later drank Drano, a bottle of bleach under my sink, and then fell from his last family dinner.

I’m still not amuse, he could’ve attempted to clean up his own mess, but selfishness runs deep in this household while I do what I can to keep this family going.

The guests are festering in my home. As I observe them, my mind can’t help but wonder what is all the commotion in the modern world about zo– One moment!

I almost said that wretched Z word, how rude!

Before the incident of patient zero, these grey decaying guests of mind were only the fantasies of wild nightmares in the media. There were horror films depicting the guests tearing and eating away at normal people. Video games were often dedicated to killing the undead guests. The human population, at least the teenage groups, seemed to believe that a zombie apocalypse would be fun, and would offer a thrill to end the everlasting love that summer would bring.

Needless to say they got their wish, with the infecting spreading throughout the metropolis of New York. Then it hit my home and brought in unwelcomed moaning and salivating guests eager for the taste of flesh. The light in the eyes of our local adolescents darkened, with their excitement moving to fear as a rabbit is startled by gunfire. The guests were a tad mangled and underdressed for the occasion, and positively starved to the bone. They fed upon the neighbors, and my wife Sophia. I rushed my darling children and my pompous yet lovable brother Earl into our home. The ghastly guests enjoyed their dinners, however raw and full of fear they might’ve been, but it did give us time to set up for a proper feast. With Earl’s help, I boarded up the doors and windows, in hindsight probably ruining the paint and wall decorations, but one wouldn’t be able to notice due to the furniture blocking off any openings into the household.

Civility, I strive to have it in my home. To those who deprive me of that virtue with their savagery, I don’t care for them. In truth, it pained me to do this, but Earl was set in his old ways, I simply can’t stand poor manners.

I wouldn’t mind if it was plain ignorance, or for spite, but my brother went too far this time. He’s threatened to end my life if I didn’t help with the barricades that ruined my home. So my response was to do all I could for keeping our guests away. Stress can get the best of us at times, I can understand that. Earl searched my home and stole my rifle, the same prized rifle that was handed down from my great-great-great- grandfather, the union soldier who complained about the weather moments beofe a small lead ball entered his windpipe. “Damn these clouds!”

Meaningful last words from a meaningful soul.

The one thing Earl did that pushed me over the edge was his unacceptable habit of eating. He ate without any silverware or anything in general, only using his grubby overly large hands for steak in my bedroom, spilling grotesque steak sauce on my shirt. Ever since that heinous mistake, I’ve held a grudge against Earl. I’m still furious, as Earl hangs from a noose around my chimney as a Christmas ornament. Who knew Earl would look so pretty with red and green lights thrown all around him?

For a while my children and I sat there, huddling together in the attic for fear of the guests letting themselves in. My children included a boy of 16, and a girl of 15. Christian and Sally. My son was an odd youngster; he wore flat brim hats and ruined his senses with silly water and herbal ingredients, and by listening to the music of a gentleman named “Lil mayne” who was a lyrical genius that inspired many up and coming leaders of gangs. The artist is a diamond in the rough, a false valueless diamond.

Christian was going to acquire an occupation as a rapper, where he told me he’d make millions and inspire the new generation to fight back against the oppression. Before our guests arrived Christian was living in my basement perfecting his work with the help of a young woman named Mary Jane.

Sally, Sally, Sally. My dear precious little girl. She was maturing rapidly throughout school, to the point of becoming interested in boys by the time middle school hit. Sally used biology as her advantage for luring young men into her life. She boasted about with pants that were shorter than most forms of underwear. The pants were denim blue and since these were the modern years the everlasting fad of ripped jeans were all the rage. There was a certain rip in Sally’s pants positioned right outside her weapon of choice. The same weapon she used to arouse and satisfy young men in exchange for presents of money, food, and luxuries of all sorts.

Sally was blessed with a child at the appropriate age of 15. She lives on the cold streets with the crying wailing baby. My friends and neighbors know how much of a great father I am as they always give me remarks on how great my daughter’s chastity was, how lucky I was to be a grandfather in this odd day and age, and also how lucky I was to not know the father of my grandchildren.

Christian wasn’t always a good child; I knew that he did use some questionable recreational drugs to pass his time, and his failure in the high school system did cause some trouble in our relationship, but his attitude soon changed. Christian’s usual activities became less prevalent, I hardly even knew that he still lived in my home, but this was due to his ingenuity of memorizing my pin number and using my funds, generously I might add, to fund his expedition of “searching for the soul”. Since that event, Christian has fallen into a deep depression I’m afraid to admit, and fled to the family home when these guests came to greet us. Recently he developed the habit of cleaning guns and maintaining them for no purpose whatsoever, the guests were not that intimidating. Come to think of it, I haven’t attended to my son in quite a while now, so off I march to the corner where he resides.

Oh no! My hardwood cherry floors! My pristine white walls! All ruined with that filthy brain matter! It seems like Christian was cleaning his firearms once again, and this time he cleaned the gun to close to his face, why would he clean the gun with his tongue? That young man’s intelligence confounds me at times. One doesn’t clean a firearm with saliva. That just isn’t proper or tidy, or sanitary for that matter. Out come the cleaning supplies once again!

Sally gave the child to my custody, and I named him Rupert. What a grand young child he was! For safety reasons I had him sent off to my own parents, who lived far off from here, months before today’s dinner took place. As the guests flooded and invaded, Sally threw herself at them in a rude manner which I specifically raised her not to do. Children these days do not know their place among manners I’ve noticed.

But now here I sit on the balcony, while my guests linger and decay in the living room and attic. One thing that caught my attention, a fact that has drawn from my well-off disappointment, is realizing that civility has been killed, to only rise again just as the guests down below.

It’s a nice day, too nice to waste away. I say let the guests out and let them enjoy their feast. . . 



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