Read a little... ~ The View From The Hat

An excerpt & book cover art.

She hasn't spoken in four thousand and sixty-seven days, but I forgive her. She's polystyrene. He, on the other hand, simply gave up.

Myrna stretched the full length of her glittery, golden spine, trying not to sneeze on the dust of the cloche hat, Dent. She nostalgically remembered the times — the Golden Era — as being so different to now, it was like she had been another person. Then, she took it for granted accompanying her mistress, Connie, everywhere she took her — to the shop where she bought her tea, the bakery where she purchased her bread and cakes, the park where she took her morning strolls - pushing the toddler in her perambulator, with the big poodle trotting alongside them — to visiting various friends and relatives; and the exciting places when they occasionally dined out in fine restaurants, or visited art galleries, the cinema, and even the hat shop, Dents, from whence she hailed. The Golden Era. When life was multi-faceted and rich. Mistress would whisk her up and carry her away, as though she were a whirlwind and she, Myrna, a real living thing — whose soul, akin to a brightly coloured bird with sharp eyes, and fluttering wings. Still, to this day, she carried the ache of loss for her mistress.

Then her attention turned to the familiar voices approaching the living room, where she sat so high up on the old cabinet, nearer the ceiling than the floor. Her and Dent, and Polly, the polystyrene head. Looking down on this dull, suffocating world. Mr Collin B. and Mrs Carrie B. and the hairy nipper, Ronnie. It was ghastly. Discarded and disrespected by humans and the modern day world. Listening to the mundane, nonsense that spewed out of the demon-screen in the corner.

The male one placed a tray of food and condiments on the low table before the demon-screen. “Hurry with the tea, Coll — Cash in the attic just started!” Called out the female one, easing her bulk onto the 3-seater couch; sending the male one back out of the room on this urgent errand.

Myrna felt Polly shift, ever so slightly, to get a better view of the demon-screen. Polly may have been a flower-child of the 1970s, but she was an old relic just like her now.

Whatever is Polly thinking in that air-head of hers, partaking in that drivel? Myrna thought with distaste, as the female one managed to push a handful of chips into the aching hole that was her mouth.

Soon after, the male one returned with two mugs of tea. His wife had almost finished the food off her plate when he nestled into the well-worn armchair and its flattened cushion. He began eating — at a slower pace — realising, conveyed with facial disappointment, that his food was cold. Though he said nothing.

Not for the first time, Myrna the hat pin, had to remind herself not to watch these humans eat. It was most off-putting.

Of course, with these 'programmes', hardly any of the antiques they showed were worthy. There weren't many jewellery pieces — and if there were, they weren't that striking — and hardly any beautiful dolls with faces as expressive or exquisitely made-up as hers. Dent used to ask her — before he disappeared into this 100-year slumber — his voice full of dejection: Where are all the hats? Where did they go? Didn't anyone care?

In her lowest moments she pondered about the state of being used, forgotten and forlorn. It was something that inevitably happened to everything old, she concluded.

But the years have been kind to me in one way, Myrna considered. She was still assured of her good looks — the sophisticated feather in her hat, the jewel at her throat, the diamantés running down her golden spine, and her youthful looking face with the cheeks rouged and the lips expertly painted a cherry-red. The painted arched eyebrows and the long, thick eyelashes. Her aquamarine-blue eyes. And not a wrinkle in sight. Not bad for ninety-one, she realised.

The couple — now themselves old, in their mid-70s — with their meals fully-eaten, were squabbling about the ketchup bottle being empty, and disagreeing on what to watch next.

There was little point in conversing with Dent — he was just Old Hat these days. Dusty and done. There was nothing left — interesting — that she could do, so she grudgingly went by the old proverb of: If you can't beat them, join them! However, the demon-screen usually carried her off to sleep.

Notes

I hope you enjoyed the FREE art and story excerpt.

The following was artwork and an excerpt from one of the stories from The House of Gemma: Tales From The Treasury The Stories page - https://houseofgemma.neocities.org/stories
The Thin Man - one of the inspirations behind the Myrna hat pin character.

Forthcoming, the accompanying short story collection by Faith McCord.