So, I say to the Butcher, “Be careful on your way to work. You know we become a city of idiots when it rains and the ice is just going to make it worse. ‘A city of idiots.’ Possibly that should be the title to my next book.”
And the Butcher looks outside at the icy conditions and says, in a dreamy voice, “They thought they heard a strange noise, but they didn’t notice that they’d left the window open and so could hear more ambient sound. When the curtain billowed in the breeze, they closed the door to that room and vowed to never enter it again. They left it to the ghost, which wasn’t a ghost at all.”
Now I’m sitting here stunned, because that’s the most wistful, funny, wonderful bit of flash fiction. And it just blurted out of my brother’s mouth like no big deal.
And then he shrugs and says, “Well, I better get going if the roads are going to be shitty. Have a nice day, Betsy.” Exit the Butcher.
The wrong person in my family may be writing.