Kareech looked at the ground. Sitting there, isolated from the rest of the bunch, was a singular key. For some reason Kareech always assumed that keys traveled in groups rather than by themselves.
The key shone in the mid-morning light and in it was reflected a distorted, bendy view of the street he currently stood in. There was nobody else around and so, with nothing much to lose, Kareech bent down in the incorrect fashion and picked up the key. It was much smarter than it should be; there were marks along the long edge, little nicks where the key must have been used to open a parcel, help with a struggling tin opener or possibly used to pick food out of an old woman’s teeth. No discernible indications as to whom owned the key or where it should be left in case of emergencies.
It was Sunday, the lazy day, the day for not doing much. Kareech had a very limited ‘to do’ list; other than picking up some salt for his mum and tying his shoelaces that was it for him. The world does not expect much from a fourteen year boy.
At first he left the key in his pocket, to jingle against the metal fixtures of his sad, faded foldy out velcro wallet. Maybe next year he will get a proper wallet rather than something that resembled a permanent reminder that adulthood was still way too far away. At the top of Evershed Terrace, however, he stopped to take in the brisk air and his hand grazed the intimate sides of the key. It was then that he made a decision, a decision that would ultimately change his Sunday and make it the kind of Sunday that he would look back on as an old man and possibly point a pipe up into the air, desperately trying to remember what happened.
Kareech tried the key in Number 1 Evershed Terrace. The metal reached about half a centimetre in before the mechanism forced it to stop; this key was not the key for 1 Evershed Terrace. And so onto Number 2 Evershed Terrace. It reached a little further in before stopping. Another failure. And so onto Number 3 Evershed Terrace. It barely got the tip in before the inevitable prevention and overwhelming sensation of failure. And so onto Number 4 Evershed Terrace…
12 comments on “Kareech Mantell and the Key of Destiny”
When you say he bent down in the wrong way, do you mean he bent at the back instead of bending at the knees?
Having been on a Manual Handling course I know the difference and may indulge in a wry chuckle at Kareech’s naive bending technique.
Yes. Yes I do. He bent down using his back instead of instigating a slut drop and going down with dem knees.
Feel free to commence any wry chucking at his expense now.
I’ve spent the last two and a half weeks since you posted that chuckling wryly and my life has gone pretty much off the rails because I’ve neglected everything else, including sleep and personal hygiene.
Thanks a lot, Kareech Mantell.
I understand your fear and loathing which is why I’d like to write a poem to make you feel better. I promise I won’t turn it into a best-selling novel like all my other award-winning projects.
OK. I am in my best listening pose and am ready for your poem. Go.
Owl need at least 24 hours. Only then can we call it a day.
(ba dum chish!)
Kareech Mantell, I knew him well, he found himself a key. He thought that with it an adventure would certainly set him free. It didn’t though, and blow by blow, he dug himself a hole. A metaphorical one of course, because he’s not a vole.
Our Chris did read an online feed, it told him what to know. But as he read, the tale did make his eyes just grow and grow. A fortnight passed, it passed so fast he forgot to blink. He also forgot to sleep and wash and that is why he stinks.
Thank you. I am moved by this poem. Specifically, I am moved to stop reading this page and go do something else.
Are you moved because it is so accurate that it is as if I’ve been watched you for the last two and a half weeks?
If I say yes, will you stop writing poetry?
As in yes but also no. I like to keep my options open.
Actually yes, yes I will stop. I’ve decided (I used my Wheel of Thrusting (TM) to decide).