Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Monday, December 28, 2009

The Incident On Norwich Street (Flash Fiction)

(Flash Fiction Version)

The day was sunless, raw and cold. A late afternoon fog, dull-gray, crept slowly in from the East River, shrouding the ramshackled row houses and small shops on this derelict section of Norwich Street. A man stopped in front of a storefront, hesitated, then entered Seymour’s Pawn Shop.

A single light hung from a mildewed ceiling. It cast a dim reflection on a glass counter containing myriad numbers of items pawned for quick, Saturday-night money. They remained unredeemed. Nothing moved.

The man strolled slowly to the dusty desk in the rear. “Do you have the money?” Seymour’s voice was shrill, harsh. The man shuddered. “You know the deal, right?” He knew. It had been a deal with the devil, and Seymour was his last option. He was tight for cash, faced foreclosure, so he pawned the house…and worse, made another hasty pledge of something far more precious.

Shrimping had not paid the bills. But then one man’s pain is another’s gain. “No, sir, not all of it, I wondered if…,” Seymour cut him off. “No excuses.” Stunned, the man said, “I know, but…” Steely eyes stared back, “No buts. Pay up or else.”

The man shivered at the sound of “or else.” He was caught between two grim choices: lose the house or persuade his only daughter to be Seymour’s wife. In silence he looked at the raw plank floor, wondering. Was the house worth that? “Please give me until…” From Seymour’s thin lips came a cold sneer, “No sir…the money or the girl. Your choice.”

The dark night descended as two men negotiated a Faustian bargain in this dimly-lit den of misery. The man lost. Sadly he retreated into the deserted streets, Seymour’s last words ringing in his ears, “No more delays.”

She was 18, soon to graduate and pursue horticulture. She loved roses. With greedy eyes Seymour watched her often as she strolled carefree with her dreams along the cracked sidewalk in her floral print dresses. Nestled in a manicured rose garden next door was a tiny pastel-blue cottage. It was the home and business of its owner. The sign read, Roses by Edward. She worked there, and she loved Edward.

Seymour, now in his fifties, would think, “What a wife she’d be.” But he knew it to be unlikely. Yet possibility overcame probability when the man walked into his shop, needing money. Like a knife Seymour held the man’s pledge to his throat. So obsessive was his desire now for the girl he’d lost all interest in the mortgage deed.

But the man and his wife procrastinated, promising but not delivering the pledged girl. Dates came, went, and now Spring. The girl continued to pass the pawn shop, working next door. Her very walk taunted Seymour, inflaming his ardor as he stewed in his obsessive lechery for her.

But obsessions often flame out of control. Seymour’s did.

On a sultry evening in late May the girl and Edward worked late in the cottage. Seymour also worked late, but for another reason. Bitter in his desire for the girl, and in a rage of jealousy, he slipped out of his shop into the darkness. He flung a lighted torch beneath the cottage. In minutes the wooden cottage was engulfed in flames. Seymour slinked silently into the shadows, avenged for the unrequited payment of the man’s pledge.

The cottage burned into hot ashes, scorching the garden roses and trellises. An inspection was made later as to the cause, but there was no sign of human remains, nor could the cause be determined. It was placed in the cold-case files.

Weeks turned into months. Seymour often stood gazing into the charred ruins of his passion. The girl and Edward had vanished. What a waste, he thought, as life returned to normal on Norwich Street. But not for Seymour.

Spurned in his desire for the girl, life had become intolerable for Seymour. The man had come in, redeemed the mortgage and seemed happy for some reason Seymour could not understand. Unresolved questions tormented Seymour nightly. Sleep eluded him as mental images of the girl tortured him in dreams. All the while, next door, the rose shrubs remained without blooms, a mocking reminder of his crime.

In the early morning hours of a late summer night, Seymour, with axe in hand, entered the ash-strewn ruins of the cottage. He was determined to destroy the reminders of Roses by Edward…the blossomless plants. The rotten smell of charred ashes reeked in the humid air as he carried out his catharsis.

The telephone rang early in the Sheriff’s office. The voice said, “Sheriff, better get over here to the burnt cottage on Norwich Street.” Soon he and the Coroner stood looking in shocked amazement at the lifeless, mangled body of Seymour. Still clutching his axe, his lacerated body laid entangled among the vines of a Blaze of Glory climber rose. Brilliant red blooms exploded in a profuse display, mingling with the dried blood of the mutilated pawn broker.

What do you make of it,” the Coroner asked. The Sheriff replied, “Well, if I didn’t know better, I’d say the roses got revenge,” shaking his head, puzzled. Was this a crime? He wondered.

San Francisco is beautiful in late summer. Early morning mists waft slowly through the city, and it glistens like diamonds in the morning sunrises. Perched high above the Presidio, Pacific Heights is home to quaint shops, coffee houses and boutiques.

Today a young woman in a floral print dress unhurriedly strolls through an arbor into a pastel-blue cottage, surrounded by roses in full bloom. The sign on the door reads, Roses by Edward….


Bud Hearn
December 28, 2009

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