You Die, I Call Your Stuff…

A cardboard box containing his effects; I rifle through. I’m sure I’m holding a ration tin; hefty and still full. It’s vintage WWII if I dare put any detail to my assumption. ‘Property of’ it reads on one side, the words attempting to protrude through the heavy green paint that covers them. Property of what? I flip it over to read the rest but the old man’s stirring gives me a start. So I slot the box quickly into my knapsack and feel a belated buzz from the thievery.
He’s supposed to be dead, damn him—an hour now since his pulse has been zero. I didn’t kill him; no, natural causes took this cantankerous old fool. If anything I prolonged his life; doing my duty in the face of his verbal abuse. My nursing skills are much appreciated in this low-paid industry you know. As such, I always pay myself a little bonus when folk such as these pass to the other side. They’ve no use for their knick knacks and the relatives who cast their elders here are so undeserving.

Ahh, it was but one of those last gasps. I sigh myself and it sounds uncannily the same as that which I’ve just heard. Corpses have a life of their own you know, and lots of gas! Yes, I thumb his neck, his pulse is still zero. Anyway, the gravel on the drive that leads to this building is being crunched under tyres; the doctor has arrived. A death certificate will be issued, my old nemesis will be wheeled out all flat like and neath the blanket of dignity. And I’ll be off home, my shift’s over. I’m going to let my curiosity get the better of me mind before I turn in. I’ll open the tin by way of its shiny button, heck if the insides are worthy, I’ll stay up late and list them for sale online.

“We’ve got a dead nurse spread over the apartment walls,” the police sergeant informs his inspector as he proffers a see through evidence bag. “Tin coleslaw in here, shrapnel to use the right word. I’ve done some of your work for you sir; look—pieced this together.” He thrusts the bag closer to the inspector who moves away a little and pulls his reading glasses from widow’s peak to bridge of nose. A squint reveals:  ‘Braithwaite Landmines, Property of the Ministry of Defence’.”

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Plot seem familiar? Well yes, it did for me too and I wrote this in the complete belief I was being original. I unearthed the seed of the subliminal plant four weeks after writing this.

Published by

Museworthy Man

Typically atypical man from Manchester with aspirations that’ll never/maybe/could one day be realisations :-D

7 thoughts on “You Die, I Call Your Stuff…”

  1. “We’ve got a dead nurse spread over the apartment walls,” – Nice visual – barfy*- but good stuff. *nods*.

    What’s the original story? It brought to mind ‘Apt Pupil’ , which is wrong, but nothing else rings a gory bell.

    I had just this happen to me not so long ago. I watched a film and became more and more annoyed and dismayed as it went along because it was so close to a story I was three quarters of the way through writing. The film came first of course, however, I’d never seen it, nor did I know anything of the story, so technically, I was being original. Possibly, ‘technically’, that would not stand up in a court of law. Jeez. Had to re-write lots of pages, and it sits glowering at me at present in a corner, half abandoned. So, I feel your irritation MM. I really do. – *nods again*.

    – esme upon the Cloud

    *troposphere word.

    1. The similarities only occur with there being an old man and a bomb. The connection is loose and unintended but it could be seen to allude to ‘The Third Policeman’. I don’t think it shouts ‘obvious’ though to most; more a subjective thing, like a pimple—but a blemish do they see of the volcano the mirror beholds.
      Make a space for your abandonments, bury them in your blog if you’re not going to use them; for the archivists of the future. Shame to cast your recorded thoughts into the entropic soup.

      1. ‘The Third Policeman’ – I’m glad you’ve read that – *smiles* – and I see your loose link flapping in the breeze now. – *nods* – Last night I finished another wry smiler, tis slim enough to be consumed with ease, and has some cracking characters within, so, should you be inclined to take a recommendation, have at this – ‘The Vesuvius Club’ – By Mark Gatiss.

        Something tells me esme’s cast-offs are neither as elegant, not as impressive as your own M.Man – *laughs* – (don’t tell her I said so, she gets the vapours at any kind of criticism.) But the piece in question isn’t ditched, I just need to wrestle with it, when the time is right.

        – esme pocketing ‘entropic soup’ upon the Cloud

          1. How strange, I didn’t notice that at all – subliminal connections were up to some shenanigans behind my back, or rather in my brain. Sneaky ain’t it‽

            Interrobang‽ I’d never heard of such a thing, what a brilliant idea – *shakes his hand thanking him for the extras*

            – Esme thinking it would make a great name for a band or a novel upon the Cloud

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