Steven St. Murphy had a delightful shack that he kept full of mice traps. The collected dust concealed them on the ground, dried dead leaves concealed them on the shelves, and the ones visible to the eye were meant to be visible--he wants you to see them, they aren't concealed.
Today Steven slept outside, near the cliff's edge. He would have liked to have slept indoors but something about the mid-summer heat drove his vision into purple splotches on the bedroom ceiling, turned his ears into voices whispering fear, bugs both real and imagined ambushed in turn. It was in times such as these that young Steven climbed up to his beloved shack and took refuge under a crooked tree. The peace afforded to him there was celestial, especially on hot nights. The wind blew upon his crooked, twisted, sweaty body and the candle-lights below blurred into big octagonal spots as he drifted away.
“They’re for spirits” Steven had once remarked to his beloved, “the ghosts, the one’s that come up here.”
She sat at the base of his tree, smiling at him like Mia Farrow. “Do they ever go off, then?”
“Eh, only when an animal comes through, its kind of a pain.”
A squirrel had came in once and set off a chain reaction of traps. One such trap fell from a rafter and clamped Steven’s elbow, changing it into a purple bump ineligible for fieldwork.
Wisps of Lucille’s hair Van-Goghed in the orange light. She was pretty, wasn’t she?
Wasn’t she?
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