Another fast flung story from a writing club session.
Time allotted: 25 minutes.
Writing Prompt: "Due to being cursed, the walls of the house start talking and they won’t shut up about embarrassing moments in your life."
If the Walls Could Speak
“Swinging the sledge hammer, that’s what it’s come to?”
Jack Horner’s reply was a heavy swing from his shoulder. Plaster and latham flew everywhere.
“Well, that wasn’t nice. It’s only the truth that’s leaking out of the pipes. You’ve never been a decent plumber and your head’s not too plumb at the moment either, not when you’ve had one too many. Bad hair cuts that is. Wasn’t the best idea to save a buck by trimming your locks yourself was it. Ended up looking like a billy goat for six weeks. Kind of Gruff!
No wonder you ended up marrying that troll, Bertha. Wasn’t she a prize catch. No wonder she kept you close under the bridge of her nose. Not to hard when you stand all of 4ft 11inches tall. You got the short stick of the bargain there, you’re in the running with Rumpelstiltskin.”
Jack responded with another swing. Determined to find that voice between the walls. Surely it had to be his brother Peter hollering through the duct work.
“You’re no better than the blind mice, only they squeal when they run. Better look out for the farmer’s wife, she’s already halved your assets with a big knife.”
Jack yelled, “Peter, Peter pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn’t keep her.” Where was Peter anyway? As Jack peered between the walls he saw nothing but empty space and cobwebs.
“Hey, Jack, remember the time you brought home that long-eared brunette, Jill. You sure can pick’em. One to many in the drink, you not only lost your shirt.
Old Bertha took you for your pants too when you divorced. That old woman use to live a shoe, with that many children, really what could she do?
She wasn’t about to have that mule braying about the barn yard. Couldn’t even fetch a real milking cow. That would have made her jump over the moon. Should have counted your beans instead of climbing that stalk. You made an ass of yourself on that deal. Beanstalks and broomsticks, pipe dreams and Pied Pipers leading you all the way to Hansel and Greta’s candy house. One bad investment after another.”
The walls silenced at the buzz of a chainsaw. Jack ran the blade across the entire wall.
Water spewed everywhere as Jack struck a pipe.
A gurgling voice sputtered out, “The itsy-bitsy spider isn’t washed out just yet. Cinderella had a fella, who he really was, I just couldn’t tell ya.” Just then the wall all came tumbling down just like Humpty Dumpty all over Jack.
This little plum Christmas pie real estate deal was really a soured lemon full of curds and whey. He never should have trusted little Miss Muffet as she sat there on her tuffet at the bank. She never told him the walls could talk.
This story is all told, now it’s time to fold.
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