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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/955708-The-Battle-of-Ernestine
Rated: ASR · Short Story · Entertainment · #955708
~ she was as docile as a sequinned corgi ~
"Go wash your hands," sang Ernestine, in an insincere soprano. The gargoyle at the top of the wall, a relic dressed in moss, released an exclamatory splash of water. It hit the left toe of Ernestine's patent leather foot, and a tendril of smoke spiralled up. Ernestine looked up, expectant, but the gargoyle's malevolent face was fixed resolutely ahead; if his stare had borne flame, he would have ignited the three windmills on the horizon.

"Wash your hair," called Ernestine, melodramatically, her voice as rich as a freight train. Turning, she noticed shaggy cobwebs massed over the piano like natural antimacassars, and she sighed. "You better wash that man right out of your hair."

A rusty train stumbled past, an ancient freight train, as full as an egg with bull calves and precious gemstones. The train was heading far away, to places as yet unmapped and unpolluted and unwashed. Its nasal whistle startled Ernestine, who jumped, and dropped her sharpest saucepan.

"Why don't you answer me?" she wailed. "Why don't you wash your hands, or your hair?"

"Because I don't have any hands," whispered the blue child, "and I don't have any hair, either."

A snail had trailed some silver calligraphy on the highly polished floor. It had written crow hope smoulder blue never in perfectly formed and shining letters, but Ernestine did not notice. She was too preoccupied.

"Wash your face," sobbed Ernestine, letting the bald cat sharpen its claws on the ottoman. "Wash your blue face, and wash your mouth out."

The blue child played with a pretty satin lemon.

Ernestine seized her beaded purse and her silver amphetamine shoes. She threw a cloak full of pockets over her shoulder, and spun about, dramatic as a music-box ballerina, to look at the room.

"I need to catch that train," she told the bald cat and the blue child and the mossy gargoyle. "I can no longer bear to remain here."

And Ernestine departed. She slammed the angry door behind her. The slam echoed within the room for hours, but Ernestine was too far away to hear it.





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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/955708-The-Battle-of-Ernestine