(playing card design from a stock image site and listed as copyright free) [Jack of Diamonds] I should like to tell you that my name is Penelope Cornapeous Hornpickle and that I live in a two spiral towered four-storied house with six chimneys, three porches, and a grey fence surrounding a yard sparsely populated with patches of green grass that press against a grey fence in what I believe is a valiant attempt to escape—but I can't. Because I am not Penelope Cornapeous Hornpickle. I am Jack—to be more specific, Jack Tumbleweed Wrakleday; though most just call me the Jack of Diamonds. Why do they call me Jack of Diamonds, you might ask? Or instead you might be somewhat curious as to why a boy wants to be Penelope Cornapeous Hornpickle? I suppose that I could answer each query in its turn. You see, Penelope Cornapeous Hornpickle lives in a house with two spiraled towers, four floors, six chimneys, three porches, and a grey fence surrounding a yard sparsely populated with patches of green grass—and—she possesses a horrible little honking horn. The honking horn is a dull twisted thing of purest evil salvaged from what I must assume was once a bicycle but now leans against an abandoned side of the yellow house with two spiral towers and six chimneys—did I mention before the house is yellow. Well, it is. Anyway, the bicycle is a rusted silver frame that leans against the yellow house in a pile of chrome tubes that appear more to be a pile of bones with it's flesh eaten away by some horrifying predator that surely resides somewhere nearby. I always make a wide circle around that unfortunate pile of chrome bones leaning against the yellow house, just in the prudent caution that the predator might be lurking nearby and waiting for its next meal. My shoulders cringe and I squint my eyes. The honking horn is sounding it's evil wail, which I firmly believe is the captured death cry of a goose that got too close to the pile of chrome bones at the side of the yellow house and was taken for a meal by the horrible predator that must be always watching for the unfortunate to come too close to that pile of woefully ravaged bicycle of bones. I stand and the porch creaks it's protest, or perhaps it is a prophetic prediction of impending collapse. Or perhaps the porch is also attempting to make an escape from the yellow house and intends to join with the sparse clumps of green grass pressing against the grey fence. I pull the screen door open and push the yellow door to the kitchen with a nudge and stomp past the brooms stacked in the corner next to the door. I have often wondered why there is more than one broom. There is only one person that sweeps and that is me and I have yet to master the ability to operate two brooms at once. This is of no matter; the honking horn is impatient and calls again. I continue past the hanging pots, out the kitchen, down the hall and try to elevate myself above the creaking floor and failing that rise on my toes to attempt to steal a silent passage across the parlor. Cat burglars would have been proud of my attempt, but it is a fruitless effort. "Good morning, Jack," says Mr. Hornpickle from somewhere behind his newspaper. "Do you know the good thing?" "Yes Sir, the good thing," I say. "Shouldn't you be in school, Jack?" says Mr. Hornpickle. "School is where a boy should be, I would think, learning the good thing." "It's Saturday, Sir," I say. "The price of Mackerel is up," says Mr. Hornpickle. "Yes Sir, Mackerel," I say. Mr. Hornpickle says nothing further and I hurry through the parlor, past the foyer with fur coats hanging on a tall post next to a bucket of umbrellas, up the stairs with the banister that I would so much like to challenge for a slide, down the hall with framed pictures of long gone Hornpickles, and stop in front of Penelope Cornapeous Hornpickle's door. I do not bother to knock on the door with the ancient macaroni picture hanging crooked to one side, made on some long distant day in the past. I do remember the day that macaroni picture was made, I made one myself and it hangs on the icebox at home. My mother considers it the treasure of the Wrakleday family, and it may very well be the most valuable artifact in the house. The door swings open and Penelope Cornapeous Hornpickle stands there tapping one foot—dressed in a blue ruffled dress with lace down both sides, white stockings, black low heeled shoes, and a massive pink bow on her head. I think she looks like a Holiday Present gone terribly wrong, like the ones you get from a far away aunt that thinks you very much want an over-sized sweater with a baby panda bear embroidered on the front of it. "Bring me a glass of water, boy," says Penelope Cornapeous Hornpickle. She gives me no time to respond but instead slams the door and another three pieces of macaroni fall from the picture as an old dog in April would shed its unneeded fur. I trudge back down the hall, my failing left shoe flapping slightly against the worn wooden floor, down the tempting stairs with the banister, through the foyer, and into the parlor. "It's going to rain later, Jack," says Mr. Hornpickle. "Yes Sir, rain," I say. I leave the parlor and walk through the downstairs hall to the kitchen. The water glasses are on a shelf too high up for me and I push a chair over and climb up to retrieve one, the chair wobbles slightly but takes mercy on me and doesn't toss me on the floor. The water pump on the side of the sink pan is also too high for me and I push the chair over and again climb up and grab the handle to the pump. The pump protests loudly but eventually rewards me with a splash of water that I fill the glass with. Back out the kitchen, down the hall, and into the parlor. Mr. Hornpickle has finished with his newspaper and stands looking outside at the first drops of rain beginning to fall. "It is raining, Jack," says Mr. Hornpickle. "Yes Sir, raining," I say. "You may use one of the umbrellas for your walk home, Jack," says Mr. Hornpickle. "Thank you, Sir," I say. I leave Mr. Hornpickle staring at the rain, head through the foyer with the fur coats and umbrellas, up the stairs, down the hall, and again—stop at the macaroni door. The door opens and Penelope Cornapeous Hornpickle grabs the glass of water, spilling some on the floor in the process, and walks it over to an old bowl with the words 'Precious' on the side. She fills the bowl for a giant fluffy cat. I know this cat. The cat is of the opinion that I should never leave the porch of which I am assigned to wait on the honky horn calls of Penelope Cornapeous Hornpickle. On more than one occasion this giant fluffy cat has barred the door, it's back raised and hissing warnings at me. Penelope Cornapeous Hornpickle walks back and shoves the glass in my hand and slams the door, two more pieces of macaroni falls. I sigh and bend down to retrieve the macaroni and wipe the water from the floor with my sleeve. I trudge back down the hall, down the stairs, stop in the foyer and select an umbrella, and then back into the parlor. Mr. Hornpickle has lit a pipe and sits in his chair puffing white clouds of smoke at the cracked ceiling. "You are a good boy, Jack," says Mr. Hornpickle. "Yes Sir, good boy," I say. "There are not many good boys in this town," says Mr. Hornpickle. "Good boys make good husbands." "Yes Sir, good husbands," I say. "Penelope will need a good husband one day," says Mr. Hornpickle. "Yes Sir, one day," I say. "Good, I am glad we understand each other," says Mr. Hornpickle. I don't understand, but can't think of a single reason why I should point that out. Why should I care in the slightest what kind of husband Penelope Cornapeous Hornpickle will need one day. "How much more do you need, Jack?" asks Mr. Hornpickle. I retrieve the coins from my pocket and count them out. "Eighty-seven cents, Sir," I say. Mr. Hornpickle motions me over, the smoke from his pipe stings my eyes. He reaches inside his jacket and retrieves a wallet. It is a plain and utilitarian thing made of brown leather and worn with age. He pulls a single dollar bill from the wallet and hands it to me. "You may keep the change for a special treat," says Mr. Hornpickle. "Run along now, Jack." "Thank you, Sir," I say and turn to leave. "Oh, Jack, one other thing," says Mr. Hornpickle. "Jack of diamonds after the ace of hearts," I say as I head for the backdoor in the kitchen with the brooms and hanging pots and water pump next to the water pan. I push the door open and step out on the creaking porch and open the umbrella. The rain is heavy now and I head for the gate in the grey fence. I have enough now to buy my new shoes. The soles of the ones on my feet flap as they begin to fall apart, but no matter, I have the eighty-seven cents and some now. Perhaps I'll get a bag of penny candy for my troubles today. Well, now you see why I would rather be Penelope Cornapeous Hornpickle. It would be much better to be the one with the honky horn than the one that trudges up and down the stairs to do her bidding. I can feel the wet seeping through my shoes. Oh, I forgot to explain why they call me the Jack of Diamonds. Well, when I was born my mother said my eyes sparkled like a thousand diamonds. And so, they call me the Jack of Diamonds. That, and also since that day of my birth, I am lucky. It only happens once a day, but the cards I say are the cards that win. Mr. Hornpickle and the other men will gather in a dark smoke filled room in the evening and play a game. I don't know the game they play, only that if I say two numbers from the cards, the one I gave the numbers to will win. Well, that's all. I am the Jack of Diamonds. Maybe I'll see you again soon.