Witness Rhymin' Symin

"Right, well..." MacDoozle muttered to himself, surveying the line of witnesses again.  Finally his eyes came to rest on a slight, dark-haired pixie of a girl in the corner, her eyes darting around like those of a bird.  He caught her eye and motioned for her to come forward.

She perched on her chair, further reminding MacDoozle of a sparrow.  "Name please?"

"Symin's the name, with peculiar spelling, rhymin's my game, what you want me t'be telling?"

He looked up from his pad, utterly shocked.  "C-could you spell that for me, please?"

"Ess-why-em-eye-enn.  That's how you spell it, you ding-dong-den."

He tried to fix her with a glare, but her sharp eyes cut clear through to the back of his head.

"Can I have a last name please?"

Symin shook her head.  "I can't and I won't, for I think I would find you already have one, unless you meant mine.  But, lo, what a shame, for I haven't a last name."

"Must you always rhyme?" he asked impatiently

She folded her arms crossly.  "I rhyme when I can, which is almost always.  Have you any more questions?  I haven't all days."

Poor MacDoozle couldn't focus on anything other than the girl's peculiar speech.  He tried to ask a question, any question, but his throat refused to work.

Finally Symin sighed.  "Around the time of the unusual crime I was standing in that corner's straight lines.  I saw the perp bark with knife sharp as a shark.  Needless to say he was a strange lark.

"May I go?  I grow bored with your silent demeanor.  Or must I insult you with speech pointed and meaner?"

Completely and utterly dumbfounded, MacDoozle nodded and weakly gestured to the door.  This was going to be just one of those days, he felt.

The End

103 comments about this story Feed