It was a typical Thursday eve in the Bryan castle, including the dark and stormy night failing to materialize outside. The fearless king and queen paid no mind, comfortably ensconced in their thrones…uh…recliners watching the latest episode of their currently favorite murder mystery they’d accidentally started calling Polka Face due to the queen writing the dance chapter of her book all week. The plot had thickened to the consistency of pea soup (the king’s least favorite) when…dumb…dumb…dumb…the power went out.
Darkness descended on the castle. Quiet reigned supreme. A black void filled every nook and cranny (along with multiple dust bunnies) except for dumb…dumb…dumb… the eerie glow of the queen’s cellphone screen penetrating the gloom.
“Do the neighbors have lights?” the king inquired, his voice calm yet curious in the dark.
“I’ll check,” replied the queen, rising from her recliner and narrowly side-stepping the shadowy figure of the prone border collie/Australian shepherd in her attempt to reach the castle door.
“Alas and alack!” said the king. “Get the flashlight. It’s in the kitchen by the toaster because I was using it to see the dial. Methinks our resident ghost Sir Oscar messed with it again, causing me to burn my royal toast. Can you see to get in there?”
“Indeed,” said the queen, thankful that her beloved king had actually remembered where he’d left the flashlight this time and that she’d been playing her bubble game when the outage occurred, so she still had her phone in hand.
Upon retrieval of the flashlight, the queen forsook the phone as she retraced her steps and opened the castle door. “Nope, no lights at the neighbors, and the courtyard light is out, as well.”
“Do you have the number for the electric company?” queried the king.
“Verily!” the queen said, thankful once more for the invention of cellphones and text messages enabling her to make a quick retrieval of the number to the vassal of voltage.
Ten minutes later, after the queen had returned to her recliner and the only the sound was the snoring of the oblivious cowboy corgi on her back in her dog bed, the king arose, picking up the flashlight.
“Are you retiring to the bedchamber?” asked the queen.
Might as well,” replied the king, “after I traverse to the dining room to take my pills.”
“I need to take mine, too,” said the queen, locating the pillbox she was grateful, this dark night, to have left beside her throne. But, alas, when she lifted her Yeti vessel, it was devoid of water. “Drat,” said the queen, arising again for another trip to the kitchen to obtain cold water from the plastic flagon in the refrigerator. Phone still in hand but continually having to be refreshed, the queen felt her way, opening the refrigerator door, and grasping a jug only to discover it was the unopened container of High Pulp Simply Orange orange juice. Undaunted by the meager light of her phone which she was still holding, she balanced the orange juice jug on the lower freezer door while setting the container of leftover cooked quinoa on top of the nonfat yogurt. But when she reached for the water, the quinoa toppled from its lofty perch, popping open to spew its grainy contents upon the queen, the refrigerator, and a goodly portion of the kitchen floor.
“Blankety-blank!” cried the queen, ruing the dark and the fact that first thing in the morning, if the electricity was back on, she’d have to retrieve her trusty Shark to restore order in the castle kitchen.
“Are you okay?” inquired the king from the bedchamber from which the glow of his flashlight beckoned.
“Yes,” quavered the queen, after which she explained about the quinoa calamity.
“What time did the electric company say the power would be back on,” the king asked, gazing longingly at his CPAP machine and oxygen concentrator.
“10:45 pm.”
“Well, wake me up when everything comes on,” said the king rolling over, his CPAP mask at the ready.
At ll:26 pm the lights blinked on and the queen’s cellphone pinged to which she arose to inform the king and shut off all the electrical devices that had suddenly whirred to life.
And as she drifted back to sleep, the name of the culprit who had caused such upheaval in the kingdom floated to the forefront of her cerebrum…dumb…dumb…dumb…
Evergy!
Disclaimer: No kings, husbands, or steadfast electric company employees were intentionally besmirched in telling of this tale.
Have a good week everyone.
Hugs,
Dale
Remembering Our Pets
Stephanie Shaw shared her picture of Jiggs. “He was a little poop, but he was our little poop,” she said. “Miss his arrogant personality.”
Thanks for sharing, Stephanie, and thanks for the memories, Jiggs.
What a clever story, Dale!!
Great story! Loved it!