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Hazmat Scuppernong's Plaint (short fiction)
by Linda FullerHazmat Scuppernong struck his brow with the heel of his hand and exclaimed, “Ye gods and little fishes, can I not get some respect, some consideration, in my own home?” His good wife, Mystepha, ignored him (but in the most loving way possible). Her brother, Exaspa, replied, “Be of good cheer, Hazmat. The post is soon due from abroad and when the monies arrive your heart can rest on its laurels, your soul can sing Brouhahas, and your earwigs can refeather their waxy nests.”
Hazmat turned slowly toward his wife and brother-in-law, an expression of disbelief on his face. “Have you not ears to hear? Have you not brain to understand? I am sick, sick unto death of the dearth of familial hierarchy rampant in this household! The rats in the larder receive more attention than I. The cat upon the hearth, the dog in the manger, the bees in the bonnet, all, all of them treated with more gentility than I.” As he spoke, he paced in ever-widening circles around the marble-surfaced greatroom, yanking cottony tufts from his pate, which could ill afford the loss of a single tuft.
Mystepha and Exaspa exchanged glances. Mystepha then tossed Exaspa’s erstwhile glance her husband’s way. “Honestly, Hazmat,” she declaimed, “I don’t know what has come over you. You are my deity, my raison d’etre, my raisin bran. I live only for you – my every thought embraces your contingencies.” Here her voice became throttled with what passed for emotion among her kith. “Hazmat, Hazmat, what more can I do?” Exaspa sucked some coddled egg from his teeth and waited languidly for Hazmat’s response.
Many thoughts passed through Hazmat’s mind at this moment; it was as though he drowned. He remembered an idyllic youth of untold optimism, a strength of body and purpose long denied him. He recalled a young and sweetly dimpled Mystepha, who whispered with cherried breath secrets and dreams, a Mystepha he had believed to be an only child. He trod the paths of memory back and forth from a center which, swirling and cloudy, solidified into his present source of anguish. “Can’t you, for god’s sake woman, remember to leave the toilet seat up?”
08/02/2014 Author's Note: Written approximately 10-15 years ago. Brought to mind by Chris Sorrenti's Eau de Toilet Seat.
Posted on 08/02/2014
Copyright © 2024 Linda Fuller
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