mr. snod

The Scream.jpg

image: Edvard Munch via Wikipedia

“From my rotting body,

flowers will grow

I am in them

and that is eternity”

Evard Munch

Some how I lost the intro to this prompt. I had written:

Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie (Sunday) Writing Prompt #113 “Backpfeifengsicht”(noun: a face badly in need of a fist). I don’t know just who wanted to punch Mr. Snod.

Instructions:

“There is no need to incorporate the word into your poem or story only to describe such a person in vivid and agonizing detail. Create an unlikable character. Whether it be an arrogant self-righteous hero or a cowardly and manipulative villain or anything in between. It could even be a specific part of yourself that you have never been able to accept.”

 ~*~*~*~*~*~*

Most people never took to Mr. Snod. There was something creepy about him. He breathed creepily. He walked creepily. He sang to himself creepily. And, of course, he thought creepily.

He was the upstairs boarder. Long days of silence would be punctuated with shrill shrieks, and mumbly moans. Mother said never to mention these episodes to Mr. Snod. “He has his own private afflictions,” she would say. I just thought, “Creepy.”

Mother never explained how Mr. Snod came to be our boarder, our only boarder. But I don’t think she welcomed the idea too greatly. I once saw her cringe and cry during a Snodian episode, as I came to call them.

I forgot to mention Mr. Snod smelt creepy. A kind of Snodian stench went about with him. Old bubblegum wrappers, stale Glade scent-thingees, cold coffee and musty basements. He crept so creepily up and down the stairs, I never heard him, just smelt him. It took hours for the air in the hallway to clear.

I read the word “odious” in a book. “That’s Mr. Snod, all right!,” I thought. “Creepy and Odious.” I always played in neighbours’ yards, ate dinner at friends’, and eventually never gave out my address or phone number. I was sorta used to Mr. Snod by then. I only confided in his existence to extremely, very extremely close friends. Otherwise classmates would have taunted me. And Mr. Snod.

As I approached my hormone-driven teenage years, I’d become rather used to Mr. Snod upstairs. I missed the cursing cries and grumbly groans when all was quiet upstairs for too long. Or what seemed like too long.

Then, Mr. Snod exploded. No, there weren’t pieces of Mr. Snod all over the stairway. But, the nefarious noises (I read the word nefarious in a book) would start at dusk, and by dawn, his throat finally wore out.

“Mr. Snod must be a relative,” became my way of thinking. How else could Mother put up with the stereographic sounds? Unhinged uncle, a confused cousin, a befuddled brother.

My hormonal instincts (with the over-active imagination, Miss. Sned, my grade school teacher said I possessed) melded with slightly romantic and gothic notions. Mr. Snod was Mother’s former suitor, driven mad when she choose my father. Out of kindness, she let him stay upstairs. Or, he had been her secret lover. When caught, my father bopped him on the head. To hide the crime, Mr. Snod became our boarder. Perhaps to punish Mother, too.

The truth was far more mundane. No madness or romance.

My mother died in a freak accident. Just before dawn, she headed to a friend’s house – a 25 minute drive along the interstate. The rays of the emerging sun must have blinded the tracker-trailer driver in front of her. He swerved wildly, and the trailer toppled over, spilling it’s cargo. My mother, being the sort she was, pulled her car over and got out to see how the other driver was. She slipped on a banana peel, the cargo was bananas and well . . . .

Mr. Snod must have seen it on the internet (I assumed he was a consumer of child porn – it fit his creepiness) or heard it on the news. He began wailing weeps, crying calls, and generally sounds of deep despair.

I became a nut-bar after her death. Mr. Snod was so forlorn too, and now was my boarder. During a particularly cacophonous round of great grief, I thought it best to console ourselves. As in nightmares, I crept up the bare wood stairs, knowing that the 6th one crackled.

There was no creepy of the creepiest, Mr. Snod. I didn’t have him as my boarder. In fact we never had.

@ Pylor, 2015

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8 thoughts on “mr. snod

  1. mindlovemisery July 3, 2015 / 11:38 am

    As Michael already stated this story just sucks you right in, Mr. Snod is truly a masterpiece!

    Like

  2. summerstommy2 June 28, 2015 / 7:52 pm

    Amazing story. I was engaged throughout, who wouldn’t be with a Mr Snod character….I am still fascinated by the last line….how clever you are friend.

    Like

    • phylor June 28, 2015 / 8:06 pm

      Thank you, kind sir.
      As it turns out, Mr. Snod is more than one of a kind.

      Like

  3. DELL CLOVER June 28, 2015 / 7:06 pm

    I was really taken in…and wondered why she had need to imagine such a creature. Curious and Curiouser.

    Like

    • phylor June 28, 2015 / 8:07 pm

      At first, I thought perhaps it would be her emotions upstairs. Then I thought, ay, I’ll just leave it, like I do, open ended!

      Like

  4. aseriesofdreams June 28, 2015 / 5:43 pm

    Imagination is a wonderful thing. Surviving an accident to slip on a banana peel and then the strange boarder. I enjoyed reading your story.

    Like

    • phylor June 28, 2015 / 8:08 pm

      Thank you very much.
      It was a weird, though fun, story to write.

      Like

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