Mrs Brownstone
First, the blue and red flashes bounced against the silvery roof. Then, a Merry Christmas ringtone tickled Mrs Brownstone out of her creaking bed.
The merry tune came from the brick-size Motorola phone. She pressed her eyes at the ticking clock bolted against the tawny plank on the wall.
The minutes’ hand of the clock had hitchhiked on the hour hand pointing at 12. It was past midnight, judging from her husband’s twitching nose vrooming the yellow duvet cover.
She picked up the brick-size mobile that Mr Brownstone bought, thinking that the Motorola was an iPad. The first spine-chilling message was from the mobile telephone company, reminding her that her ‘Super Aweh’ will expire on the Sabbath.
In retort, she crisscrossed her wrinkled finger on her forehead and hummed the Apostle’s Creed. Then she scrolled down to the next message.
The hair-raising text said that if she doesn’t update her status, she will be removed from her dormant Facebook page.
The third message was from the bank, prophesying that her lifetime savings will be deducted for bank charges. Although she suffered a few mini-heart attacks, the bank apologised for any inconvenience.
She lit her paraffin lamp and looked at the nearempty sugar canister. Thereafter, she crushed a reddish ant that was journeying toward the brown sugar.
Instantaneously, she replied to the two messages. “This destination is barred,” the phone beeped. Now and then, she rubbed her eyes.
The next day, she bounced into the No Name Bank. Unfortunately, she tripped on the steel signboard and scribbled, “The floor is slippery when wet!”
A moment later, the grey-haired woman shoved a miniskirt teen out of her way. “I’m as old as the hills,” she said, wagging a hockey-like stick at the security.
In happenstance, the giant screen flashed the “Wall of Jericho”. “Call the manager,” she said. The light-coloured-hair manager huffed at the way she stammered on the word “m-anger”.
“Who’s sending me messages before the rooster doodle-doo?” she asked, banging the table and sending paper clips flying. “It’s the system,” the pin-sharp nose lady said, giggling.
Mrs Brownstone scattered pink hair curlers on the manager’s table. In return, the blushed-faced manager grabbed her phone and pressed “Flying mode”.
“This won’t happen again,” she said, tapping the silent button of the Motorola phone.