• quizzling •

“Don’t let them do it! Don’t let them get to you!”
She’s very sophisticated, for five. That’s the thing about Thing Two.
Thing One, well, that’s another story.
If she weren’t so – if Nature hadn’t given her – I’m sorry, but, if she weren’t such a bitch. Then, maybe. But no.
It is what it is, and, until further notice, such as it is, such, it shall be.
Our big sister, see, she wants to be a schoolteacher, some day, and our fondest wish is to dissuade her from her folly. Besides, she’s no educator, she’s a torturess. This, we’ve not known, exactly, but we’ve long suspected. She’s evil, Thing One.
She needs to be destroyed, if possible. On this, we are one.
We’ve decided that the happiness of thousands, even, maybe, depends on this, potentially. On us, depends their future happiness. Lives will be saved.
So, what is our plan? See how it goes, but, first, and foremost: be ourselves, primarily.
She’s a big history buff, Thing One. She pores over maps. She memorizes dates. She lords it over us, with her apocrypha. She knows things.
She’s so self-righteous. She’s the bane of our existence. She’s got to go. On this, we are agreed.
“Pop quiz!” she announces, pulling out the the ‘tests’ she has printed up, on the Mongol hordes, and their sweep across the continent of Asia, hacking, burning, raping and pillaging – our favorite things. She knows this about us, but we’ve already decided her fate. This pathetic mitigation buys her nothing.
Quiz eh? We’ll see about that.
“Quisling!” we shout.
“Quisling! Quisling!!” we repeat. “Quisling! Quisling! Quisling!!” we iterate. It’s a happy dance. She knows, quisling, from quizzling. She knows the difference. This kind of thing makes her crazy. It’s the Burning Man, all over again.
Did we mention, she’s O.C.D.?
This kind of thing, really, burns her butt.
She’s told us this, a million times, if she’s told us once, more the fool, she. It’s the Summer Solstice, for us, and she’s ‘it’, Thing One.
Burn, baby, burn. We revel in it’s light. We warm ourselves in the dying embers, over and over again. Funny thing, it never gets old, but then, what do you want, we’re ten.
“Shut up! Shut uuuuuuup!!” she wails, and runs from the room.
“Quisling! Quisling!! Quisling! Quisling!!” we exult, and carry on, until we’re tired, but well before the crying stops, which we can still hear, from afar – from the living room.
“Stool pigeon,” we speculate.
“Narc,” we opine.
She’s telling mom all about it, no doubt. Poor baby.
“I tried to tell her,” laments Thing Two, sorrowfully, as she pockets her Tootsie Roll chocolate lollipops, from us.
She’s a good kid, Thing Two.
We think we’ll let her live. Maybe. Discuss.
~ Tim Burchfield



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