This week’s words:
Blood Despair Woman Seek Seclusion Willowy (adj.) Lithe, graceful, slender) Beaten Aware Nectarine Scaffold Wolf Mimeomia ((n.) the frustration of knowing how easily you fit into a stereotype, even if you never intended to, even if it’s unfair, even if everyone else feels the same way—each of us trick-or-treating for money and respect and attention, wearing a safe and predictable costume because we’re tired of answering the question, “What are you supposed to be?”)
It was Monday afternoon and Wayne and Greg were meeting for their afternoon cuppa before the evening rush of souls began. As representatives of heaven and hell, it was their job to direct the souls of the dead to their rightful destination.
Both entities were munching on nectarines. Well for Wayne having teeth like razor blades it was more a matter of him ripping it to pieces within seconds, Greg on the other hand, resplendent in his suit and tie, was careful slicing his up before petitely eating each slice.
“You are so predictably mimeomian aren’t you,” said Wayne with an air of derision in his voice.
“How so?” replied Greg slicing another piece from his nectarine.
“Well you think about it there is an air of the stereotype about you isn’t there. Conservative, proper, correct, boring.”
“I’m an angel of heaven Wayne, it’s how we are supposed to be.”
Wayne rolled his eyes as a signal had come in on their angelic soul metres that a woman had been struck by a bus in the street around from them.
It was their cue for action and they both departed all the while looking at their metres for the tell-tale sign as to which of them would be gathering her soul.
They arrived and it didn’t take them long to seek out the said victim. She lay in a pool of blood, the once willowy woman now a soul ready for the taking.
“Oh dear,” said Greg looking at his soul metre, “she lived in seclusion it says here and had been beaten by a callous and cowardly husband.”
“My metre says she was a scaffold worker and suffered depression and therefore despair comes into my job description, not yours.”
“I have what is called forgiveness in my portfolio and you can never trump that.”
“Don’t mention that trump word, his number will be up soon and all signs point to him being a wolf in …no just a wolf and he’ll bring nothing but disrepute to the gates of hell,” replied a wistful Wayne, “we are thinking another category of hell might be called for when the time comes.”
“Oh, you, hellish types are always thinking up new categories and you get bothered by my mimeomist behaviours. Are you aware of this poor woman in front of you?” said Greg with a feeling of victory in this one instant.
“She’s all yours Greg, you’ve beaten me on this one. Think I’ll retire to the seclusion of Hell’s Kitchen and indulge in some of the universes best sushi.”
“Ok,” replied Greg, gathering up the woman’s bewildered soul, wrapping a halo round her head and sending her flying upward. “Order some for me too, love Hell’s Kitchen.”
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/05/29/wordle-157/
Morpethroad 