And so it was that we returned from our last sojourn in Spain, and I was presented with the above tableau in the backyard. I initially thought that I might be experiencing some hallucinatory form of jetlag, so I patiently waited for my vision to clear so the lamppost could return to a more traditional position.
It did not.
Clearly, some sordid bit of malfeasance had taken place whilst I guzzled sangria in the quaintly historic town square of Cómpeta. The mystery deepened as I realized that said lamppost is quite some distance from the nearest patch of driveway, lessening the culpability of a poorly-controlled motor vehicle. (I have no idea why this lighting device is in the middle of the backyard. It was simply there when I bought the house back in 1879, and I have respectfully left it alone to commune with nature and whatnot. I don’t even know how to turn it on, and now I apparently never will.)
I contemplated asking Countess Nabokov, the lovely lass who cares for our dwelling whilst we are away, if she might have any insight into the Leaning Tower of Pisa tribute that had transpired under her watch. But then I realized that she could feasibly view this as an accusation of negligence, and since she otherwise does a sterling job of house-sitting, I thought it best to let things be so we could continue our heretofore mutually satisfying relationship.
Still, what the hell happened?
And this is where you come in, dear reader. For this week’s writing prompt, assuming that you accept the challenge, please construct an absurd little ditty detailing what led to the listing of the lighthouse. Keep in mind that this nefarious incident occurred at Bonnywood Manor, so any of the recurring characters I scribble about are fair game as suspects. Was it Granny Mae? Dr. Brian? Scotch the Cat? Ellen DeGeneres? Joan Crawford? The possibilities are endless, as should your imagination be in this literary lark.
Of course, where you go with this is entirely up to you. But I do hope you go somewhere, and I mean that in a purely creative sense and not as some form of banishment entreaty.
Enjoy. And cheers.
P.S. I just now noticed that some of the terra cotta pots in the background have been knocked asunder as well. Hmm. More fodder for your tawdry tale, or just an example of poor groundskeeping on my part? I’ll let you decide…
P.P.S. Again, not trying to limit the scope of your musings, but this photo certainly screams “naughty limerick”, don’t you think? Ribald haiku? Sultry sonnet?
P.P.P.S. Just to the right of this tableau, there is the infamous “sinkhole” that I babbled about in a past story. There is a stubborn but thin layer of grass covering an ancient excavation site, wherein something extremely large was ripped out of the ground eons ago. It’s very deep. If you stand on the rim, you can smell Chinese food.
P.P.P.P.S. Okay, I’ll shut up now.
Categories: Flash Fiction