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Title: The Bush Family IS Our National Stephen King Novel, tale inspired by Bush's miscarriage tale
Source:
osborneink.com
URL Source: http://www.osborneink.com/2010/11/georges-in-jars.html
Published: Nov 9, 2010
Author: Matt Osborne
Post Date: 2010-11-09 12:58:13 by Ferret Mike
Keywords: None
Views: 3584
Comments: 3
Georges In Jars Nov 9, 2010 Short Fiction “Come here, George.” Mother had a scolding tone. Ever since the frog incident, George usually deserved it and tonight was no exception. As he approached the dimly-lit reading chair where she sat on a yak-fur, she looked to the jar under the desk-lamp. “Tell your sister Georgia good night, George.” George pecked his mother’s cheek. “Good night, George,” he said to Georgia. His mother slapped him. Hard. The sting felt good; he’d earned it. “Be nice to your sister, George the XIIIth, or I’ll put you in a jar.” Mind your mother. George could hear his father (George XII) telling him that just this morning in his office. The words echoed in his mind when he’d entered the room; now they were gone. “Thanks, mom. Good night, Georgia.” Georgia. Three sons with the name “George” first or second or even third of four, and she had gone and named the daughter-that-never-was after their father, too. He glanced at the Merovingian tapestry behind her. George knew nothing about the Merovingians or why mother enjoyed books about them so much. Fuck France and everything French. George the XIIIth liked chicks, cheeseburgers, and beer. Seventeen, he was already developing his tastes in all three and wanted very badly to split this scene on a Friday night. “Sit down,” she commanded as he stood back up. Oh, fuck. George smiled, staring at the tapestry, controlling his need to escape. “Don’t you put this in a girl,” his mother hissed. “This. Is. Precious.” She pronounced the final three words with a shocking sibilance. Suddenly covering her cheeks in rolling tears, she choked on the next sentence: “It should…be…loved…” George took her hand and leaned into her face. She embraced him between wet cheek and hand and he kissed her lips before leaving. He promised her he wouldn’t put one in a girl, and he could even say it with confidence because he had condoms in his jacket pocket. Downstairs, he avoided the old man and made it to the corvette that waited in the driveway. His friends had booze and fun for him while his mother prayed whispering “precious…precious” to her unborn. She knew to praise God, who had given her the precious Georgia and taken her away and left this for her to hold. Anna George entered softly after a few moments. “Mother, I’ve seen the maid off for the night. May I sit with you both and watch some television?” Her mother’s smile contained the beautiful mind behind it. “I think it’s time for I Love Lucy, isn’t it?” Anna George manipulated the remote and found Lucy’s rerun. “Mother,” Georgina said. “I learned something in school today.” “I don’t think mother wants to hear about what you dissected in biology class,” Anna George said. “Besides, this is her favorite show.” She turned the volume up for Ricky. Recalling the time Anna George, who was on the MRS. program at Yale, had smugly confided her intention to name a first daughter Barbara, Georgina looked coldly at her sister and pressed ahead. “I learned that half of all pregnancies end in spontaneous abortion,” she said. Barbara, her mother, laughed at Fred and Ethel’s banter. “Yuck,” Anna George said, standing back up to return the coldness. “Usually without the mother even knowing she was pregnant,” Georgina continued. “Speaking of dissecting” — Georgina began, but by this time Anna George was on her. “Just keep your ugly mouth shut,” Anna George said, imposing her 21 years on Georgina’s fourteen. “Stop it, both of you,” their mother roared. Then she tsked and shook her head. Anna George left off her assault and pretended interest in the Persian carpet. “From Venice”, she would tell friends. “Medici.” Georgina stared at the lamplight and burned her retinas on the image of a trip to Europe and a falling-off the grid for a few months with a fake name. This would happen some years from now. She would come back no longer quite part of this family, and she would escape the jar in her mother’s mind. But right now, it was time to shock the conscience some more. “She talks to it, you know,” Georgina muttered. Anna George stomped her foot. Their mother now distracted by the ancient television show, this debate went unmarked. “Mother deserves to be kept in the dark,” Anna George said through her teeth. “Whatever. I’m burying the frog,” Georgina said as she turned to leave. Anna George took sudden interest and followed her out. “Where?” Georgina stopped in a kitchen. She had already stolen the frog — dissected and suspended in formaldehyde while quite alive — from George’s hide-away in the basement catacombs. “I gave it an abortion,” George had said. “Its stomach was full of eggs so I scraped ‘em out.” Georgina had told father, who had not punished George. But she would punish him. She would bury the frog down by the creek. Not that she would tell this to Anna George, whose insistence on knowing lasted all of a fifteen-second stare-down. “Fine. Just make sure he can’t find it,” Anna said before turning away. “We don’t want George talking to it, do we?” Far away at a moonlit lakeside, George the XIIIth tried to kill another frog with a beer bottle but merely smashed glass all over the rocks. “George!” he said, chasing after it to the amusement of his friends. All frogs were Georges. French people ate frogs. Who the fuck would eat a frog? He drank, scored, and thought nothing of his future. Anna George found her mother with the TV sound off during a commercial break, jar held softly at her ear. She stood, waiting without hovering. “Georgia thinks that’s a pretty outfit you’ve got on,” her mother related. “Thank you, Georgia,” Anna George said. “I like the skirt mother made for you.” Mother had hand-stitched and embroidered a pink satin skirt. “Oh, it was all Georgia,” her mother said. Behind mother, the Merovingian curtain. Behind it, Anna George knew, were her brothers. “Should we bring them out?” “Oh,” mother chortled. “No! It’s past their bedtime. They’re so young.” George H. would have been thirty-three, the oldest. R. George would have been eleven. Anna George checked her mind and settled into the couch.
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#1. To: Ferret Mike (#0)
Bush Derangement Syndrome is alive and well I see.
Obama's first all-by-his-lonesome budget, btw, calls for a $1.17 trillion deficit.
Notice you weren't around in the week or so leading up to the election, oh stalwart standard bearer of the far left side of the barricade. But ten, neither was Hillary!, Barry Hussein Soetoro, his gracious wife Bruno or any other malefactor of holier-than-thou parlor pink social re engineering.
Well, [war's] got to do something for attention, his multiple personalities aren't speaking to him any more, and his imaginary friends keep finding excuses not to come over. (Murron)
Ruddie, I'm so pleased you missed me. I missed you too.
#2. To: Ferret Mike (#0)
#3. To: Rudgear (#2)
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