With apologies to Michael, and especially Miss Marbles and Sal[ivate], silliness for Mindlovemisery’s Tale Weaver # 73 Making Sense of Nonsense.
I have an acquaintance who visits on Grimace Street, and is a close confidante of the marvelous Miss Marbles. Her tales are related elsewhere, so I’ll keep to this particular story.
He was enjoying a glass of elderberry wine, lounging in one of Miss Marbles’ comfy chairs. There had been a comfortable silence between them – the way close friends can enjoy each other without a word passing.
“She will need the book; don’t forget.” Miss Marbles often came out with what seemed like a random thought that never was random. So he wrote in his diary: book needed. With no female acquaintances of his in particular need of a book, he just hummed and whistled his way home. Last he thought of it, he mused “Odd name for a book. Wonder what it’s about” and promptly forgot about it completely.
He continued to aid damsels in distress who needed many things – but the idea of the book never came to mind. Some problems were easily resolved, others, well . . . it’s not my place to give intimate details of his usually successful damsel-assisting talents.
One damsel seemed determined to be well . . . depressed. Stubbornly depressed. But such is the way of the rescuing/assisting damsels in distress business.
My friend was going through his old diaries, looking for stories to tell, when he came across the entry prompted by Miss Marbles all those years ago. Book needed. He puzzled and pondered a bit as he hadn’t written down the book’s title. Certain he had the correct title, The Book of Universal Cerfin, he confidently googled it. No luck. OK, now wasn’t the author Bott Grojean, but that led nowhere. He decided the book must have a cure for stubborn depression. He tried all sorts of combination of spellings, but it was as if the book never existed.
Feeling a bit defeated, my friend made a cup of tea, looked out at his fern garden, and thought it might be time for a trip to Grimace Street, and renew his friendship with Miss Marble and her neighbours, including the woman with the grey bangs.
A definite “arf, arf” at the front door – meaning “don’t doodle or dawdle.” Sal[ivate], Miss Marble’s furry companion sat on my friend’s doorstep. With a brown paper wrapped book-shaped package affixed to his back with purple grosgrain ribbon. And an envelope with my friend’s name calligraphed in gold.
name of friend (can’t give away secrets such as that):
I can’t believe, after reading me 120 drafts, you don’t remember writing and self-publishing this book. It does exist. Here’s my copy. Your discussion of the stubbornly depressed begins on page 450. Miss Marbles. PS: new batch of elderberry wine if you feel like writing a sequel.