Dearest Bonnywooders,
It is time once again to fetch your feathered quill and compose a lovely missive on what events may have transpired that led to the situation presented in the photo.
We have many details with which you can work: Why are the bars so dusty? (How old is this place?) Why are there bars in the first place? (Is this one of those naughty bondage emporiums one hears about?) What is going on with the color palette? (Was Ted Turner trying to colorize yet another movie and he got bored in mid-stream?) Why are the doors so oddly close to each other? (And why does only one of them have a welcome mat? Or is that mat really a stained-glass window in the floor?)
So much to ponder, if only one is open to the waves of imagination crashing on a distant shore.
And there is a story behind the photo. But I won’t share it unless at least twenty scribes take feathered quill in hand, which makes this week’s prompt a double-edged dare.
Are you up for the challenge?
I think you are. Just listen to the waves.
Cheers.
Categories: Humor
Bonnywood Manor 
Those two-tone doors are probably survivors rescued from a flooded home.
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Oh, I like that angle. Perhaps a Post-Katrina decorating scheme that caught on in New Orleans…
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Strange. From this perspective I got the urge to belt out my own rendition of Cell Block Tango.
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I’d certainly join you in that effort. Between the two of us, you KNOW we would make that stage magic work. Mmm hmm…
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I was going to pass on this one because the picture just didn’t ring any bells (sorry). That may be because I got about five 1/2 hours sleep and am groggy today and a wee bit crabby as a result. But if you’ll share your story, I’ll certainly wade in because I wanna hear THAT, dang it.
Okay:
Guide: Watch your step and no touching anything! Please allow the shorter people to stand in front so everyone can see! I know you’re all wildly excited to view the last place Jimmy Hoffa was ever seen. Well vertical anyway. Note the faux lilies in vase which appeared mysteriously three weeks after he disappeared. It’s speculated that someone knew more than they ever told about what happened to Mr. Hoffa. Does he sleep with the fishes? Is he in some landfill somewhere, and will never be…
Little Kid With Snotty Nose: SAY MISTER!! *reaches a grubby paw up to tug at the Guide’s formerly pristine jacket*
Guide: Getaway kid ya bother me! Now where was I..
Little Kid WSN: MISTER!! I GOTTA WEE. RIGHT NOW! WHERE’S THE BATHROOM?
Guide: Oh fer…. WHO OWNS THIS CHILD? Claim them and take them away before there are unwelcome consequences to your ill advised parental planning.
A large woman, sweating profusely, marches up and grabs the snotty urchin by the hand and drags him away, howling.
Guide: Okay now. Any more persons in need of the facilities? *crickets chirp and more dust settles on the iron bars*
..As I was saying…Much speculation has been put forth on the whereabouts of Mr. Hoffa. His heirs, hard up for cash, since life insurance companies are rude about paying off if there isn’t a body to show the policy holder is actually dead, had this wing of the Hoffa Manse preserved as a sort of memorial to their dear departed **koff koff ** LOST ** Koff KOFF loved one. You may observe the stunning artwork on the walls, and the retro door mat on the floor. The left door has never been opened in all these years and it’s presumed that Jimmy took the key to that lock with him where ever he went. I am to share the news that the family is willing to pay a handsome reward for information leading to the whereabouts of Mr. Hoffa. They’d really like to move on and that insurance money will ensure they don’t have to do these cheesy tours any more. For details contact me after we’re done here. Now moving on….”
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Perfect!
My rebuttal:
Dear Hoffa Family,
I realize times have been a bit tight, financially-speaking, and I certainly would like to help guide you back to fiscal happiness. But I’m sorry to report that Jimmy is not on the premises of Bonnywood Manor, wherein this photo was taken. Yes, things of great unexpectedness did take place in this wing of the estate, but they did not involve union leaders, efforts to silence said leaders, or discreet payoffs to anyone who had any information about the preceding two items.
That being explained and said, I would really appreciate it if you could stop conducting these profit-grab tours on my estate. We certainly celebrate creativity here at Bonnywood, but there does come a time when things go too far and litigation becomes eminent. Please leave.
Sincerely,
B. Lageose
Hotel Manager
Personal P.S. to Dame Melanie: Are you intrigued even more at this point? I thought so…
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Yes. So Mr. Manager … I have one question now “What’s behind that (perhaps) Green Door?” I saw an eyeball peekin’…. “
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Since I have signed a non-disclosure agreement, I’m certain you can understand my reticence concerning revelations….
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I’ve been inside this barred cabinet for 10 years! I guess i shouldn’t complain. At least these walls aren’t solid wood, and i can see my surroundings. If only i had a camera, i could take incriminating photos of all the famous clients who come through that front door. They’re only visible for the 2 seconds it takes them to come in, then go through the door straight ahead. That’s enough time to size them up though. I wish i could see in there, but i can clearly hear the screams and moans that come out every few minutes.
Don’t get me wrong. Nothing untoward happens in there. Well, i guess according to some people the proceedings are questionable. But – the clients are consenting adults. You see, the woman who runs this business is a Dominatrix. She has a busy weekly schedule, and her clients pay a high fee for her knowledge and skills in this specialty.
I, the narrator of this story, am merely an old bottle of wine. A bottle of wine with a mind. So, i guess i’m special. I’m the wine; that is, not the bottle. Wine that apparently, no one wants. I’m a perfectly good pinot noir from Oregon. Not terribly expensive, but neither am i cheap. I figure Miss Lorna Lee is saving me for a special occasion? A special client? I wish i could scream and moan like her clients, then maybe she’d let me out of here. I could escape, find Discord and somehow make her turn me back into a person. See, i was once one of Miss Lorna’s customers. Quite randy i was. But i fell for Miss Lorna, and that’s a no no. It was supposed to be all business, nothing personal. No feelings, per se. Well, except for the simultaneous pleasure and pain of the Dominatrix’ whip. Oh how i miss that.
Anyway, Discord being Discord, she became insane with jealousy, therefore, cast a spell, and i’m cursed to live as 🍷.
And i guess that really, i wouldn’t take any photos of what goes on in that room behind that closed door. I want to be in there and tied up myself. Now it’s my turn to be jealous!
Wait! What’s that? Yes, i hear a loud moan of pleasure coming from in there. Another saisfied client! Oh, if only i wasn’t stuck in this bottle in this cage!
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Dearest Mary,
Once again, you have proven that your imagination is stunningly admirable. I can’t begin to tell you how exciting it is when I read the impromptu work of someone who is possibly just as off-the-wall as I am. I look forward to the day when we quit bantering about a collaboration and actually make it happen…
Satiated,
B. Lageose, Esquire
P.S. I’ve never actually been IN that room but, oh, do I know some secrets…
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Everyone thought it was switching to talkies that ruined the careers of so many silent film stars. Alas, it was actually a push toward color before the technology was sufficiently in place. Many are the stars who found themselves 1/4 color, 1/4 sepia, the rest a wash. All that remained for them was to take a calla lily and follow the procession to the gray beyond.
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This is quite tasty, and you have flipped a switch in my fevered brain. Perhaps I should expound on this concept, creating an entire novella concerning the social interactions between the “partially tainted” and the “fully washed”. Working title: “Pigmentalion”…
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