Meet The Talkers

Lorrance Herring
6 min readNov 23, 2020
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“You wanna know what I think?” Mrs. Talker said on an evening walk with Mr. Talker. She didn’t wait for him to answer. Of course Mr. Talker wanted to hear every word that dripped from Mrs. Talker’s lips. “I think men want ultimate power over the universe and to have that is insane. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Give me an example,” Mr. Talker prompted his wife. If he could find some point of contention, he was going to pounce on it like a wolf pounces on an unsuspecting lamb.

“Well, it’s like Jaffar in Disney’s version of ‘Aladdin’ where he wants ultimate cosmic power in a little itty-bitty living space, like putting God in a nutshell,” Mrs. Talker kicked at some crunchy fall leaves and smiled.

“Hmmm. I guess that would be insane,” Mr. Talker conceded.

“I knew it! I knew God was a nut to have created men!” Mrs. Talker laughed. “Well, he was a cute little nut when he was a baby, and now look at him! He’s almost as powerfully insane as I am! Anyway, did you like my barbeque squirrel dinner idea this winter if things get too bad?”

“Yes, that was quite entertaining to think of inviting the Trump family over for a nice bon voyage party where you could thank them for all the comedy material they provided while in office,” Mr. Talker stepped over a stick left in the middle of the sidewalk. A squirrel ran down the trunk of a tree and across the front yard of their quiet suburban neighborhood. “You know, you sure look cute tonight!”

“Hmmph! Not that cute! Not cute like that carpenter over there,” Mrs. Talker pointed across the street to a small house that was obviously being renovated.

“Don’t pop my happy bubble! Look at me,” Mr. Talker smiled his gentle, sweet smile. Mrs. Talker would have none of that. She was still upset over that morning when Mr. Talker committed a grievous crime worthy of hellfire and damnation.

“No, you don’t pop my happy bubble! That carpenter is really cute, isn’t he?” she tugged on Mr. Talker’s sleeve. They walked across the street to introduce themselves. Mrs. Talker told him everything she could possibly think to divulge as she practiced the role she was given as village idiot and local storyteller. She made certain the young carpenter first knew she was a Creative Writer who wrote Bible stories and fairy tales before she launched into describing the magical neighborhood in which they dwelt.

She explained that in the house behind their house there dwelt a Nazi, complete with a Swastika flag in the window who once had to be shut down by the police for spewing hate messages all over the neighborhood. She watched the carpenter’s eyes bulge.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yes. It was awful! And the Wicked Witch of the West thought the messages were coming from my house! I’m still offended over that accusation!” Mrs. Talker continued. She pointed at the two story house a couple of houses away from where they stood. “That is the house where the Wicked Witch of the West lives. I’m the Wickedly Good Witch of the Entire Northwest, because I cleaned Snow White’s bathroom, not her. Snow White lives right smack across the street from me directly in front of my magical Red Wood tree. We live in a magical forest in this neighborhood, got it?” She looked at the carpenter as if to challenge him to say otherwise.

After discovering the young man’s name happened to be Abraham, Mrs. Talker knew their meeting was divine. She reminded Abraham of Mr. Talker’s Biblical name, King David.

“And your name was?” Abraham asked.

“Bathsheba. You can call me Bathsheba,” Mrs. Talker replied. She gave him an endearing smile.

“Bathsheba? Really? Why Bathsheba?” the man chuckled as if he had never heard of anyone named Bathsheba before.

“Well,” Mrs. Talker flipped her hair as she lifted her chin like a queen, “King David here likes hairy legged women just like Bathsheba, from whom I have descended.” She indicated toward her Mediterranean legs hidden beneath her jogging pants.

“Okay, then… Bathsheba. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the carpenter tipped his hat. Maybe he was a true descendant of Abraham. He had olive skin and dark hair like Jesus may have had. Maybe he was Hispanic. It didn’t matter. He seemed very nice and pleasant and that is what mattered. Mrs. Talker tucked her little thought away in the back of her nutshell. She tucked a few other thoughts away in there as well.

“You as well! Have a wonderful evening,” she waved good-bye as Mr. Talker pulled her along talking about the next thing in front of them that caught the Talkers’ attention.

Two houses down the street was Mrs. Talker’s next target. For she was literally on a mission to meet as many of her neighbors as possible within a safe distance due to the pandemic. Since the pandemic, Mrs. Talker had had a terrible time adjusting.

She was not getting to talk in front of audiences as she was accustomed to do.

There were so many things of which Mrs. Talker was not accustomed. Living in the year 2020 when Jesus was supposed to be hiding out somewhere in a real human being was one of them.

But, she was a storyteller, just like her father, and her mother, and her ancestors before her.


“You two have such a cute house!” Mrs. Talker exclaimed to a couple who were hanging Christmas lights. “This is David and I’m his partner. We live right down the street!”

The couple smiled and introduced themselves. They mentioned how long they have lived in the Talkers’ neighborhood and how much they enjoy it. Mrs. Talker chuckled. She had lived in the neighborhood long enough to have the dirt on most of her neighbors. At least she knew who to avoid and who to hold at arm’s length while throwing fresh eggs their direction.

Certain boundaries had been crossed with a couple of the neighbors that involved the police, or the community support services, just in case some family drama gets out of hand. Mrs. Talker had called the police enough times herself, almost as many times as she had had police called on her.

“Are we going to hang Christmas lights this year, sweetie?” Mrs. Talker looked at her partner. She turned toward the couple. “We’ve been so busy renovating that we haven’t really done a whole lot of decorating yet,” she said in explanation.

“Possibly,” Mr. Talker conceded. They spoke with the neighbors about children, holidays, and typical get-to-know you topics. House renovation came up and led to a discussion about dishwashers verses washing dishes by hand.

“I have a poem about washing dishes and how romantic it can be to play with your hands under the suds,” Mrs. Talker’s smile was big and open, like her eyes and her heart. She had already washed more dishes than she could remember. She was just as happy with a sandwich served on a piece of paper.

“Well, it was nice chatting with you two,” Mr. Talker said as they wrapped up their pleasant exchanges. “Have a good evening!” They continued their walk. It began to rain. They ignored the rain and continued to walk. They turned down a side street and talked about the houses and yards.

“You know if we continue to walk this direction, I’m going to want to stop at a store and get a beer or two,” Mrs. Talker stated.

“Well, then we can turn around and head back if you want,” Mr. Talker suggested.

“Fine,” she replied with a monotone. She missed her kids. She missed her freedom to relax like an adult after a hard day’s work keeping up with the Jones’s.

She missed having her WOMEN’S rights upheld in a world full of CHOICES!

She CHOSE to have her children because she had a VISION for her children’s futures that were GOOD, HEALTHY, HAPPY, and located in UTOPIA.



Lorrance Herring

Oregon born, Bardass Poet, Bat-Shit Crazy Stand-Up Comedian, Entertaining Social Activist, Mamadadaist Artist of 8 kids, Weirdo Wonder Woman, Narc Researcher