The Black Sheep

[I wrote the following whilst listening to this Grizzly Bear song. There's no video (except a picture of a bear), and it has no direct connection to the story. It's just interestingly eerie. Why not listen to it as the soundtrack to this entry?

Oh. You don't want to? Yes, I suppose that is a good reason.]




Jo put the carrier bag on the floor, leaning it against the table leg. It contained a heavy and expensive picture frame. From her pocket she took four large nails and her keys; all tangled up.

All the while, she held the day's mail in between her teeth.

Jo had sensitive teeth. Although she had to buy special toothpaste, it meant she hadn't had to open a letter in eighteen years.

She gently rubbed her front teeth over the stack. Immediately she read the lay of the land. (The Lay of the Land was a weekly topography magazine to which Jo subscribed).

She put the kettle on - still clenching various envelopes between her teeth, getting progressively moister (the envelopes, that is).

By slightly manoeuvring her tongue, she quickly assessed the rest of the pile. It included:

- two bills (Council Tax and coke delivery)
- a Domino's leaflet, advertising the new 'Mutton Ventured, Mutton Gained' pizza
- a Christian Newsletter
- the aforementioned topography magazine
- a postcard

The postcard was from Greece, and had been sent by Jo's Auntie Flan. (Flan wasn't her real name - but the whole family called her that. 'Quiche' was too difficult to spell.)

Two days after sending the postcard, Flan had died of food poisoning.

Jo had attended the funeral that morning. That's why she had bought the frame: to display the death certificate. She'd always been a strange one. The black sheep of the family, her mother called her. Jo refused to wear wool in protest.

Jo poured hot water onto a tea bag. The tea bag was in a mug, which made the whole process more straightforward.

She ran her teeth across the postcard, sensing every word. Flan had realised she was going to die, it seemed. The message was full of morbid and portentous musings. And the post-script simply read:

"I'm going to die."

A more superstitious person would have been shocked by this revelation. But no-one ever accused Jo of being superstitious. She simply said:

"Wfth ethht eh ttt deh."

The post was still in her mouth. She finally took it out to take a swig of the still-scalding tea. The heat played havoc with ther sensitive teeth, but she took the pain with aplomb and a shudder.

Lowering the cup, and perusing the wall for suitable frame-space, she simply repeated:

"We're all going to die."