Erin Stimmler

Serious
By: Erin Stimmler
"Sir, with all do respect. As much as I try to sit down and write a serious article, I haven’t had that much success." Margie sat across from her boss, wondering what he would say if he knew that the mere mention of a private talk in his office made her palms sweaty, and an immediate doubt in her deodorant act as a plague in her mind. "Honestly I tried to write about the state of the streets as you had mentioned and all I could think of was a funny story of Timmble Tweed Tom and the Curious Curvy Court. All of the streets become rubbery and twisty, sort of bewitched by Timmble and his silly car. That is the problem sir, I want to write children’s books, not articles for scholarly journals!" She watched as her editors face twisted and contorted, and off she was again on an equally hilarious tangent like Timmble and the car, only this time it was her editor in a crazy circus, tricking customers in a mirror maze into thinking their appearance had changed into that of his.
A chuckle escaped her as she imagined a homely lady in her mid thirties taking her children through such a maze and giving a small start to her appearance when she all of a sudden became this very, well lofty man in a silly suit and a confused twisty face. Immediately Margie snapped back to reality, the red filling her cheeks burning just enough to emphasize her half hearted attempt at a smile.
"Margie," Mr. Carlson cleared his throat, a most annoying habit he had before he extended into a long lecture, "You really need to create a little credibility first, before you start with this silly business. We have talked about this about a thousand times now, every time you miss a deadline and give me this rubbish of not having inspiration. I practically hand feed you some of the leads, still there is nothing remotely productive that comes out of you. I don’t know what to do anymore really, the publishers get tired of having to wait and wait for something that gets a bite."
Margie wasn’t listening anymore, Mr. Carlson’s chin had caught her attention at the beginning of the lecture, somewhere around credibility, and he was instantly transformed into a giant talking hippo. The hippo version of Mr. Carlson was sitting very casually in his business suit and tie. He was examining his hippo hands as he talked to Margie who had also transformed into a pink flamingo. (Which to Margie was very peculiar since she had loathed them since she was tiny, mostly it was the awkward way in which their legs bent.) She was also dressed very similarly to what her attire had been prior to transformation. The flamingo version of Margie swept back a stray head feather with her right wing, and let go a quick giggle at not having felt this sensation before.
"What’s so funny?" Hippo Carlson practically yelled at Margie.
"Oh you see I am just not used to my wings, and feathers for that matter." Pink Margie answered straight away. ( How odd she thought to herself since she had never really examined how it would feel to have feathers instead of hair on her body.) "Sort of silly I guess." In a rush over explained to a very unconcerned suit wearing hippo, and was immediately swallowed by another bout of laughter. Grabbling for words to say in order to explain herself Margie continued.
"I don’t really know what you were saying, do go on hippo, er Sir."
"Why Margie, do gain a little composure." This hippo Carlson really wasn’t too different from the real one, and Margie was again not listening past this point, now she was wondering why it felt like she was smiling, but then again how could she if she was wearing a beak?
"Margie this is very serious, I am talking about losing you publisher if your not careful!" Mr. Carlson the hippo was gone and in his place sat the original and much less exciting version of his self.
"I understand Sir." Margie smiled politely excited to get this next adventure out on paper, if only she could just pay attention long enough to figure out what Mr. Carlson wanted from her. His face was blushing around the outline of his cheeks, and from experience this signaled that he was losing patience, soon he would resort to yelling, or pounding a fist on the table. Last time he started doing this Margie had been swept away by the Chimpanzee that took over Carlson’s suit and leapt fully onto the table, banging both fists and sending her into a complete fit of laughter. She was so mesmerized by the chimp, and concentrating on holding in her laughter that a loud snort had escaped her.
"Are you all right?" Mr. Carlson had flinched slightly and went grabbing for a tissue, which he shoved into Margie’s fist, possibly waiting for her to burst.
Oh the fun she would have if that was at all possible. She imagined herself becoming frustrated by the great boring stories she had been told to cover, mostly for Carlson’s "journals", and the like. She imagined doing all of the research at her home and then becoming so full of useless junk and knowledge that she simply burst, and had to spend much of the afternoon pulling herself back together. ‘What would I have done if my left arm had fully burst like the rest of my body and I had nothing to pull myself together with?’ she had wondered to herself in amazement. For she had never stopped to think about why for any reason that arm had not been burst like the rest of her body, and why she had been able to carefully place every body part back into its proper place.