Museum of the Weird Read Online Free Page B
Author: Amelia Gray
to keep her alive long enough to eat more hair.
The squirrel was no longer shaking, June noticed. Its tiny paw still hovered over its breast but the beast simply stared in through the window. June understood dramatics, having recently worked at a dinner theatre, but the performance was a little too compelling. The spirit and knowledge in the eyes was gone, and the squirrel was dead.
Somehow, its tiny claws had dug deep enough into the wet wood—it was raining now, June saw—to keep it righted on the mid-tree stump. The squirrel had honey-brown fur that was the same color as June’s hair, still twisting around her finger. June and the squirrel were only two stories up, which still seemed a long way to jump or fall.
That morning, June and her friends had a laugh over breakfast about how they would each die. June had claimed skin cancer, pointing to some questionable moles on her forearms. Another friend swore that after a lifetime of watching his partner smoke, he would be the one with an ironic cancer of the lung. Cancer is funniest when discussed over breakfast.
June tried to see the humor in things. It was a character trait of which she was proud, her ability to laugh at any situation. She joked about love and death. She thought the ball of hair stuck in the girl was hilarious. She often made a joke about the last gift her grandmother sent, a single pair of red socks with a row of embroidered polar bears. She wore the socks, and when anyone remarked on them, she would say, those were the last present my grandmother gave before her passing.
She never would seriously say “passing.” Her grandmother hadn’t driven in years and likely wouldn’t utilize the HOV lane, but June imagined the woman in a dirty red sedan, flipping the bird as she tore around a school bus and howling at the idea that a pair of socks could make so many people feel like shit.
The girl with Rapunzel Syndrome claimed she ate her hair out of heartbreak. June understood heartbreak, having recently worked at a dinner theatre.
The squirrel was dead for sure. It was staring through June with eyes that had seemed glassy before but were practically mirrors at that point. The squirrel swayed along with the tree. Raindrops dripped from its sagging tail.
June smiled at the poor squirrel, wondering about where the rest of it was at that moment. That was funny because she usually saved ridiculous thoughts about the afterlife for animals or people close to her. When the kitten died, for example, June invented the idea that the pitiful creature would return to the world as a ballerina.
She twisted her hair around her finger and watched the squirrel, which had passed. Her knuckle, wound tight with hair, was nearly at her scalp, and her hand was held against her head by her own hair. June wondered if it would be a comfort. She could barely see her own reflection in the windowpane, and when she squinted, it appeared that the squirrel was sitting on her shoulder. June closed her eyes and pulled her hand away in a ripping clump, making a sound like an animal might make. A brown leaf blew against the squirrel, against its face, and then whipped past. June twisted the hair into a knot and swallowed it without chewing.
She was distinctly aware of her body and skin. The squirrel pitched forward with the swaying tree branch. The times, they were changing.
THOUGHTS WHILE STROLLING
Harry Austin Clapp, creator of “Thoughts,” a column that ran in this newspaper every week for a score or more years, died at the age of 79, at his home in Collegeport, Saturday, December 25th at 10 o’clock following an illness of several months. Traveller, explorer, engineer, writer, philosopher, real estate man, Harry Austin Clapp rounded out a full and complete life before he passed quietly away.
The Daily Tribune (Bay City, Matagorda County, Texas)
December 27, 1937
Recent rain great for crops and makes the figs glisten and
The squirrel was no longer shaking, June noticed. Its tiny paw still hovered over its breast but the beast simply stared in through the window. June understood dramatics, having recently worked at a dinner theatre, but the performance was a little too compelling. The spirit and knowledge in the eyes was gone, and the squirrel was dead.
Somehow, its tiny claws had dug deep enough into the wet wood—it was raining now, June saw—to keep it righted on the mid-tree stump. The squirrel had honey-brown fur that was the same color as June’s hair, still twisting around her finger. June and the squirrel were only two stories up, which still seemed a long way to jump or fall.
That morning, June and her friends had a laugh over breakfast about how they would each die. June had claimed skin cancer, pointing to some questionable moles on her forearms. Another friend swore that after a lifetime of watching his partner smoke, he would be the one with an ironic cancer of the lung. Cancer is funniest when discussed over breakfast.
June tried to see the humor in things. It was a character trait of which she was proud, her ability to laugh at any situation. She joked about love and death. She thought the ball of hair stuck in the girl was hilarious. She often made a joke about the last gift her grandmother sent, a single pair of red socks with a row of embroidered polar bears. She wore the socks, and when anyone remarked on them, she would say, those were the last present my grandmother gave before her passing.
She never would seriously say “passing.” Her grandmother hadn’t driven in years and likely wouldn’t utilize the HOV lane, but June imagined the woman in a dirty red sedan, flipping the bird as she tore around a school bus and howling at the idea that a pair of socks could make so many people feel like shit.
The girl with Rapunzel Syndrome claimed she ate her hair out of heartbreak. June understood heartbreak, having recently worked at a dinner theatre.
The squirrel was dead for sure. It was staring through June with eyes that had seemed glassy before but were practically mirrors at that point. The squirrel swayed along with the tree. Raindrops dripped from its sagging tail.
June smiled at the poor squirrel, wondering about where the rest of it was at that moment. That was funny because she usually saved ridiculous thoughts about the afterlife for animals or people close to her. When the kitten died, for example, June invented the idea that the pitiful creature would return to the world as a ballerina.
She twisted her hair around her finger and watched the squirrel, which had passed. Her knuckle, wound tight with hair, was nearly at her scalp, and her hand was held against her head by her own hair. June wondered if it would be a comfort. She could barely see her own reflection in the windowpane, and when she squinted, it appeared that the squirrel was sitting on her shoulder. June closed her eyes and pulled her hand away in a ripping clump, making a sound like an animal might make. A brown leaf blew against the squirrel, against its face, and then whipped past. June twisted the hair into a knot and swallowed it without chewing.
She was distinctly aware of her body and skin. The squirrel pitched forward with the swaying tree branch. The times, they were changing.
THOUGHTS WHILE STROLLING
Harry Austin Clapp, creator of “Thoughts,” a column that ran in this newspaper every week for a score or more years, died at the age of 79, at his home in Collegeport, Saturday, December 25th at 10 o’clock following an illness of several months. Traveller, explorer, engineer, writer, philosopher, real estate man, Harry Austin Clapp rounded out a full and complete life before he passed quietly away.
The Daily Tribune (Bay City, Matagorda County, Texas)
December 27, 1937
Recent rain great for crops and makes the figs glisten and
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