NaPoWriMo2020, Day 5 Victor's Memoirs

Guinea pigs are intrepid explorers
Smol but mighty.
Stroke their furry pear bums.
Battle wheeking as the fridge door opens.
Noses twitching adventure sniffing, mainly hay and nug nugs.
See them bravely run away like old soldiers.
Tasting greasy like duck (according to Sue)
I always suspected they would taste of squirming terror.

Victor, is a guinea pig. He has a Russian accent. He doesn’t like to range far from home.

Donald Trump is a tosser. Twitter is his mouthpiece ergo he is a big dumb bird.
There are big lumps of pig in this kefir.
The courteous arrow of his modesty, well-aimed but never hitting the mark, flies crooked and askew.

Victor had made his living as a toupee stand-in for the 45th, though granted political amnesty and indefinite leave to remain.
His handler, Queenie, keeps him safe in her bosom.
She will scribe his memoirs.  They will shock the world, like angry custard.
You, gentle reader, will quiver in your palm tree.
C’est juste la façon dont il est
My lap top shivers in anticipation.
The recalcitrant bolt falls at my feet.

NaPowWriMo Day 4 A Woman's Work

A Woman's Work

I dreamt that all the Music department

lived in a shared house.

It seemed a hopping bachelor pad,

which is odd as I know most are married.

But this is a dream and the office

often seems like a frat house.

When I joined the team, colleague? House mother? Who knows?

They welcomed me but warned ominously...

"Don't look in the box".

Women historically have issues,

both with curiosity and boxes.

It was an innocent looking, stout brown ottoman, for blankets I guessed or dirty linens.

Nothing of interest could possibly lie within.

But, women, boxes, curiosity, itching.

Nothing will do but to scratch, so I flip the lid.

I'm surprised to find the corpse of a cheerleader.

Grey skin clashes with her shiny plastic purple pom poms.

Though I had opened the lid silently.

It seems that tresspases are clamarous.

Above the lid of the box I see they've gathered, nervously waiting my reaction.

Before I can respond, Karl interjects, "We didn't kill her she just died here".

I'm not sure if I am meant to be comforted that it's only a dead girl not a murdered girl.

"Why didn't you report it". I choke the words out.

Ian explains, "We all thought someone would do it, but no one did it, then it had been undone for so long it seemed too late to do anything".

Not sure I follow the logic, but before I can say anything. Ian adds.

"Now your here maybe you can deal with it".

The scenes cuts to me, burying ottoman, girl, pom poms and all in the backgarden. 

I then plant over with petunias.

Pondering why women take on all the emotional labour in the workplace.