Jillian Chantal

Sorry I missed last week with Tuesday Tales, but sometimes life gets in the way. I’ve started a new story and have decided to sprinkle in references to the Beatles in it for fun. I’ve long wanted to write a story with all the characters named after people in Beatles songs, so I’m altering that goal a bit to have lots of Beatles references and not just to their songs.

This week’s word is sour. Hope you like how I slid it in.  Be sure to check out the other tales here. 

Doctor Maximilian Edison suppressed the groan that threatened to escape. Yet again, upon meeting someone over a certain age, he’d been treated to a serenade of the first part of that Beatles’ song. Was no one original these days? Surely his mother knew when she named him Max that she was cursing her son to being the victim of some pretty horrible singers, never mind it was her maiden name and she wanted to honor her father. Max once considered taking the medical boards and moving to a non-English speaking country, but he was almost positive there was nowhere on Earth—or Mars for that matter—that the Beatles music hadn’t reached. He’d have to live with being Max with the silver hammer.

“Are you sure you want to consider the old Rigby mansion as a place to call home?” The realtor leaned closer and whispered, with sour breath that turned Max’s stomach, “Poor Mrs. Rigby was murdered there, you know. They say it’s haunted.”

“I’m a medical doctor. I don’t believe in that nonsense. I’ve also been around dead people. It’s not frightening. The house is large and private and the price is right. I want to see it.”

The realtor leaned back on his chair in the office arranged like a steno pool from the 1940s. Placing his hands behind his head, he said, “I have to confess, the place creeps me out, so I’m going to send my newest team member out with you. Is that acceptable?”

It was more than a little ridiculous but Max didn’t want to insult the man by making a big deal over it. “That’ll be fine.”

The man lifted his arm and snapped his fingers in the air three times. “Stella. Come and meet Doctor Edison. He wants to see the old Rigby estate.”

Appalled at the way the man addressed his associate, Max stood and turned to greet the woman.

When he saw her, he was even more angered at the older realtor’s treatment of her. She couldn’t be over twenty-five and the snapping of the fingers wasn’t only rude, it was sexist—and maybe even racist. Max bet the man wouldn’t behave that way to a white, male colleague.