A Letter About The Letter

1417 Words Aug 30th, 2015 6 Pages
I hit pause on Terminator, my zillionth time watching the thing, and listen to the battle sounds rising up through the furnace vent, or to be precise, I hear my oldest sister bullying the others into submission. Her name is Joy, a more misnamed person I’m positive doesn’t exist, for her sworn vocation is to eradicate joy from the world, one person at a time, starting with me. After years surviving as the youngest, my finely tuned senses pick up something. Voices raise; one word comes up, clearly, deadly -- bingo.
Oh crap. I’ve screwed up, caught home on bingo night! If my stupid broken window opened, I’d risk hang dropping from the second floor. While not sounding dangerously high, the junk filling the backyard makes becoming impaled a strong possibility. Several times a year, the city sends us a letter demanding we clean up the yard and each time the only thing making it to the trash is the letter.
Things go quiet downstairs, not a good thing. I shove my laptop into a backpack. In the insane pre-bingo rituals, now begins the fight about who goes early to save seats. Bingo veterans launch scouts hours in advance to grab the good seats, although my simple mind cannot conceive what seat could possibly be good at a bingo. Most times this task falls on poor grandma. Several hours before they call the first bingo number, she’s left at a “prime” bingo table with Taco Doritos and two bourbon laced Pepsi bottles.
Warily, I open my door, peering into the…

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