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Parental Control
A Thursday Prompt story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
Prompt: pulp
“No – NO! It – It CAN’T BE!”
The tigress backed away from the looming shadow before her. One step, two – and she fell backward, tripped up by the train of her sheer silk dressing-gown! She started to sit up, dazed, and she gazed up transfixed at the sight of Karl, the man she trusted, the man she confided in. Alexandra moved backward, too terrified to attempt to get to her feet, backing away from the bear until her back collided with the corner of the room, her only avenue of escape blocked by Karl.
She found her voice. “You . . . YOU’RE THE MURDERER!?”
Karl chuckled, the faint gleams of light coming from the hallway glinting on the keenly-honed blade in his fist. “Yes, my dear Alexandra,” the bear said. “I murdered Sir Henry, and the Maharajah. If I cannot possess you, no one will.”
Alexandra screamed, and Karl laughed when she stopped, hoarse and panting. “There is no one in the house, dear Alexandra. Don’t you remember? You sent them all away so you could confront me. Even that stupid brother of yours, who fancies himself a detective.” He chuckled again, shifting his grip on his knife. “So confident, so sure of yourself, little realizing that you were absolutely correct.”
“Monster,” Alexandra sobbed.
“If so, then you created me, my dear” –
“What the hell is this, Paul?” a harsh voice rang out over the radio’s background noise, and the thirteen-year old ferret flinched back as his father snatched the copy of Astoundingly Amazing Stories out of his paws. His father said, “I thought I told you to stop reading this trash and start reading something that’ll help you do better in school! I – “
“Richard?”
The older ferret paused, looking down at his son, and said, “Yes, Emma?”
“Can I talk to you for a moment, in the kitchen?”
Paul flinched again as his father threw the magazine on the living room floor. “Coming,” the older man said in a sullen tone as he walked out of the room.
Emma turned away from the stove as Richard stomped into the kitchen, letting the door close behind him. The door swung both ways in smaller and smaller arcs before finally stopping. Emma turned down the gas on the stove so that dinner wouldn’t overcook or burn and smoothed out her dress and apron before saying to her husband, “Aren’t you being a little hard on him, Rich?”
“Hard on him?!” Richard said. “He’s lucky I didn’t take my belt to him. His grades aren’t getting any better, and you were there with me when the teacher said he wasn’t reading.”
“I know, yes,” Emma said. “And he is reading.”
“He’s reading trash! He’s in the Class of ’55, and I want to make sure he doesn’t get left behind! I want him to read the old masters, the ones who really matter – “ He stopped as she put a fingertip to his lips.
“Keep your voice down,” she said, glancing past him at the closed door. “He enjoys reading those books.”
He closed his eyes, taking a few breaths and replying in low tones. “But they’re – “
“I know, I know,” she said placatingly. She glanced down at the linoleum floor for a moment before saying, “But let me ask you this: Would you rather he read something he likes?” She caressed the side of his face with a paw. “Think of those magazines as a foot in the door, kind of like a pushy salesman.” He almost snorted a laugh and she added, “Besides, I seem to recall a fine young man I met in high school who loved reading dime Westerns.”
“But that’s . . . oh.” Richard deflated as he realized the parallel. He smiled at her. “And you still like those romance novels.”
Emma got nose to nose with him. “Yes, I do. Now, if he reads those books, he’ll enjoy reading, and he’ll want to read more, and we can sort of ease him into stuff like that whale story you always start but never get through.”
“I’ll finish it one day.”
“Uh huh. “But if he hates reading, what will happen to his grades then?”
“I only want the best for him.”
“And do you think I don’t?”
“Hmmph.” He placed his paws on her hips and drew her to him. “How did I marry such a smart woman?”
She grinned and put her paws on his shoulders. “I dazzled you with my beauty first.” They started to laugh, only for Emma’s nostrils to twitch and she whirled away to stir the gravy. “Phew, good thing it didn’t burn.”
“I’m sorry,” Richard said.
She turned back to him and kissed him. “I’m not the one you should apologize to.”
“Heh. Yeah.” He kissed her, and left the kitchen.
Emma returned to getting dinner, listening to low voices out in the living room as she gave the gravy a final stir and poured it from the saucepan into the gravy boat. Taking a moment to place the boat on the dining table, she checked the rest of the dinner as peace descended again on the house.
Perhaps she’d have a chat with Paul as he helped her and his father with the dishes after dinner, and maybe a walk around the block after that.
end
A Thursday Prompt story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
Prompt: pulp
“No – NO! It – It CAN’T BE!”
The tigress backed away from the looming shadow before her. One step, two – and she fell backward, tripped up by the train of her sheer silk dressing-gown! She started to sit up, dazed, and she gazed up transfixed at the sight of Karl, the man she trusted, the man she confided in. Alexandra moved backward, too terrified to attempt to get to her feet, backing away from the bear until her back collided with the corner of the room, her only avenue of escape blocked by Karl.
She found her voice. “You . . . YOU’RE THE MURDERER!?”
Karl chuckled, the faint gleams of light coming from the hallway glinting on the keenly-honed blade in his fist. “Yes, my dear Alexandra,” the bear said. “I murdered Sir Henry, and the Maharajah. If I cannot possess you, no one will.”
Alexandra screamed, and Karl laughed when she stopped, hoarse and panting. “There is no one in the house, dear Alexandra. Don’t you remember? You sent them all away so you could confront me. Even that stupid brother of yours, who fancies himself a detective.” He chuckled again, shifting his grip on his knife. “So confident, so sure of yourself, little realizing that you were absolutely correct.”
“Monster,” Alexandra sobbed.
“If so, then you created me, my dear” –
“What the hell is this, Paul?” a harsh voice rang out over the radio’s background noise, and the thirteen-year old ferret flinched back as his father snatched the copy of Astoundingly Amazing Stories out of his paws. His father said, “I thought I told you to stop reading this trash and start reading something that’ll help you do better in school! I – “
“Richard?”
The older ferret paused, looking down at his son, and said, “Yes, Emma?”
“Can I talk to you for a moment, in the kitchen?”
Paul flinched again as his father threw the magazine on the living room floor. “Coming,” the older man said in a sullen tone as he walked out of the room.
Emma turned away from the stove as Richard stomped into the kitchen, letting the door close behind him. The door swung both ways in smaller and smaller arcs before finally stopping. Emma turned down the gas on the stove so that dinner wouldn’t overcook or burn and smoothed out her dress and apron before saying to her husband, “Aren’t you being a little hard on him, Rich?”
“Hard on him?!” Richard said. “He’s lucky I didn’t take my belt to him. His grades aren’t getting any better, and you were there with me when the teacher said he wasn’t reading.”
“I know, yes,” Emma said. “And he is reading.”
“He’s reading trash! He’s in the Class of ’55, and I want to make sure he doesn’t get left behind! I want him to read the old masters, the ones who really matter – “ He stopped as she put a fingertip to his lips.
“Keep your voice down,” she said, glancing past him at the closed door. “He enjoys reading those books.”
He closed his eyes, taking a few breaths and replying in low tones. “But they’re – “
“I know, I know,” she said placatingly. She glanced down at the linoleum floor for a moment before saying, “But let me ask you this: Would you rather he read something he likes?” She caressed the side of his face with a paw. “Think of those magazines as a foot in the door, kind of like a pushy salesman.” He almost snorted a laugh and she added, “Besides, I seem to recall a fine young man I met in high school who loved reading dime Westerns.”
“But that’s . . . oh.” Richard deflated as he realized the parallel. He smiled at her. “And you still like those romance novels.”
Emma got nose to nose with him. “Yes, I do. Now, if he reads those books, he’ll enjoy reading, and he’ll want to read more, and we can sort of ease him into stuff like that whale story you always start but never get through.”
“I’ll finish it one day.”
“Uh huh. “But if he hates reading, what will happen to his grades then?”
“I only want the best for him.”
“And do you think I don’t?”
“Hmmph.” He placed his paws on her hips and drew her to him. “How did I marry such a smart woman?”
She grinned and put her paws on his shoulders. “I dazzled you with my beauty first.” They started to laugh, only for Emma’s nostrils to twitch and she whirled away to stir the gravy. “Phew, good thing it didn’t burn.”
“I’m sorry,” Richard said.
She turned back to him and kissed him. “I’m not the one you should apologize to.”
“Heh. Yeah.” He kissed her, and left the kitchen.
Emma returned to getting dinner, listening to low voices out in the living room as she gave the gravy a final stir and poured it from the saucepan into the gravy boat. Taking a moment to place the boat on the dining table, she checked the rest of the dinner as peace descended again on the house.
Perhaps she’d have a chat with Paul as he helped her and his father with the dishes after dinner, and maybe a walk around the block after that.
end
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Ferret
Size 120 x 92px
File Size 37.6 kB
Listed in Folders
Pulp won. All the biggest modern media franchises are fantasy, sci-fi, or alternate reality. The only difference is that now they have bigger budgets. Or perhaps popular culture had always been there, and always will be. Categorizing culture into high and low is for stuffy old squares anyway.
“If people cannot write well, they cannot think well, and if they cannot think well, others will do their thinking for them.” - George Orwell
Oh so true - even more so today with the hopeless excuse for writers for all those crappy movies coming out these days. You can tell they didn't read when they were young - there's no imagination or thoughts in their little heads! Too many of them can't come up with a single new idea/plot, so they badly 'remake' things others have done - without actually studying how and why things were written the way they were the first time around.
When they changed the first Star Wars movie so that Hans didn't shoot first I was surprised at the number of people that didn't/couldn't understand how much that action reduced the changes in Hans between the beginning to the end of the movie. 'You cannot have mountains without valleys - you cannot have a high without a low to compare it to ...'
Oh so true - even more so today with the hopeless excuse for writers for all those crappy movies coming out these days. You can tell they didn't read when they were young - there's no imagination or thoughts in their little heads! Too many of them can't come up with a single new idea/plot, so they badly 'remake' things others have done - without actually studying how and why things were written the way they were the first time around.
When they changed the first Star Wars movie so that Hans didn't shoot first I was surprised at the number of people that didn't/couldn't understand how much that action reduced the changes in Hans between the beginning to the end of the movie. 'You cannot have mountains without valleys - you cannot have a high without a low to compare it to ...'
Reading pulp, IMO, is actually an excellent way to study literature. It's extremely basic and often over-wrought, so that the otherwise-hidden mechanisms are obvious and easy to understand. Starting with literary classics, again IMO, is like starting with supermodern ultracomplex polyphonic harmonies. Yes, there's a time and place for those. But "She'll Be Coming Around The Mountain" comes first. Thank you, I enjoyed. =:)
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