Miss Prim was not at all satisfied with Penny’s performance. It carried a rusty aftertaste. The birds were singing sweetly, the rabbits frolicked in the glen, and Miss Prim was not satisfied.
Penny’s ex-lover Harold fixed Miss Prim some hazelnut stew. Harold wanted to know if Penny missed him and he needed someone besides Penny to tell him. Harold wanted to know if a thick gel of delayed adolescence was stuck to Penny’s enigma. Harold wanted to know if it was really possible for zero to be the absence of something that had never even been there in the first place. Harold wanted to know if it were necessary for a vacant ten-foot radius to lay down on its side like that and could it roll around vertically and get up and walk away. Harold had heard a lot of things in a lot of places and Harold wanted to know if they were true. Harold wanted the sun to visit him at exactly 3:13 every afternoon. Before long Harold wanted Miss Prim to take Penny’s place. Harold wanted. Harold wanted and wanted.
Meanwhile the rabbits were getting tired of the inexpressible beauty of mere frolic and had begun devouring Miss Prim’s garden, a monument to the orderly preservation and restraint of natural elements. A fierce passion was belatedly making its presence known to Miss Prim, but alas, it was not of a positive sexual nature. The fulsome spilling wrath of a consummate restrained organizer was unleashed upon the glen. And still Miss Prim remained dissatisfied, but a disturbingly unexpected change of heart ushered itself into her performance with a surprising directness and intensity.
And so Miss Prim fixed Penny some rabbit stew and aggressively queried Penny. Miss Prim wanted to know if Harold had been a good lover. Miss Prim wanted to know if Penny had slept with any circus performers and did they perform satisfactorily. Miss Prim wanted to know if Penny’s nether lips had ever been parted in a passionate embrace. Miss Prim offered to replace Penny’s gel of belated adolescence with a couple of slippery fingers and a relentlessly exercised tongue. Miss Prim wanted to shock Penny out of her all too familiar complacency. Miss Prim wanted Penny to perform.
“Fuck this noise,” said Penny. “My body is a sacred chalice and I shall offer it freely but not to withered up old control freaks like you, and Harold can kiss my rosy little asshole.”
Who knows what heroes might have intervened if this were a legend handed down from bards or comic book collectors?
Have you seen the heroic fool who tried to marry Miss Prim?
Have you heard the tortured screams of pleasure in the glen where the birds sing so sweetly?
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.