The Ladies Trepanning Society
by Allan Watson
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: A childhood recollection of maternal trepanning and the resultant changes in domestic harmony.
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When my mother reached a certain age, she stopped attending the Women’s Guild and joined The Ladies Trepanning Society, and instead of potting jam and baking scones, she sterilised my father’s largest drill bit and bored a large hole in the top of her skull. She claimed she enjoyed the sensation of a cool breeze playing over her thoughts, and it meant she didn’t have to dye her roots quite so often.
She explained to me that the hole in her head increased blood flow to the brain, leading to many beneficial aspects of her mental health and well being. Creativity in particular, she said, was greatly enhanced by such an operation. There may have been some truth in this as she suddenly discovered a talent for writing poetry and even took up playing the accordion. On the down-side, some of her new found behavioural patterns were erratic to say the least. She began hoarding used light bulbs of a certain wattage, and frequently wandered around the house naked, humming snatches of popular television theme tunes.
My father said it was merely a fad and she would soon grow tired of it. I did not share his confidence. She was enjoying herself too much to stop. Each week brought forth another new facet of her newly found blossoming brain power. She decided that she was psychic and held seances in our front parlour. I once sneaked into one of these seances and witnessed tendrils of dirty grey ectoplasm unfurl from the gaping hole in her head while she charged neighbours ten pounds a time to pass on messages from the dead,.
Every Saturday, she and her friends would meet at Mr Dandy’s Tea Room to discuss new ways of enlarging their cranial apertures with surgical saws, tenon cutters, gimlets and specially adapted power tools. Mr Dandy insisted on their wearing hats, as his other customers complained of losing their appetites due to unsightly bulging membranes and the occasional leakage of cerebral fluid. It goes without saying, that no-one ever bought blancmange on a Saturday.
It ended badly of course. One day while carving a sculpture of the Venus de Milo from a frozen leg of lamb, Mother began convulsing violently and speaking in tongues. Spittle flew from her mouth and her eyes rolled backwards in her head, making her look as if she’d stuffed two boiled eggs into her eye sockets.
She died a day later and was buried along with her accordion and a small book of dirty limericks she’d published. Her friends from the Ladies Trepanning Society attended the funeral and threw tungsten carbide tipped drill bits into the grave as a mark of respect. The rude clatter as the metal drills struck the lid of her coffin displeased the Minister no end, but he never made a fuss. My father cried quite a bit during the ceremony and for a short time after took to drinking heavily. Eventually he reconciled himself to the situation and married an old friend of Mother’s who was still an active member of the Women’s Guild. Once again our house was filled with the intoxicating smell of baking and home-made strawberry jam.
I did notice however, that father took to keeping his power tools under lock and key.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A childhood recollection of maternal trepanning and the resultant changes in domestic harmony.
_____________________________________________________________________
When my mother reached a certain age, she stopped attending the Women’s Guild and joined The Ladies Trepanning Society, and instead of potting jam and baking scones, she sterilised my father’s largest drill bit and bored a large hole in the top of her skull. She claimed she enjoyed the sensation of a cool breeze playing over her thoughts, and it meant she didn’t have to dye her roots quite so often.
She explained to me that the hole in her head increased blood flow to the brain, leading to many beneficial aspects of her mental health and well being. Creativity in particular, she said, was greatly enhanced by such an operation. There may have been some truth in this as she suddenly discovered a talent for writing poetry and even took up playing the accordion. On the down-side, some of her new found behavioural patterns were erratic to say the least. She began hoarding used light bulbs of a certain wattage, and frequently wandered around the house naked, humming snatches of popular television theme tunes.
My father said it was merely a fad and she would soon grow tired of it. I did not share his confidence. She was enjoying herself too much to stop. Each week brought forth another new facet of her newly found blossoming brain power. She decided that she was psychic and held seances in our front parlour. I once sneaked into one of these seances and witnessed tendrils of dirty grey ectoplasm unfurl from the gaping hole in her head while she charged neighbours ten pounds a time to pass on messages from the dead,.
Every Saturday, she and her friends would meet at Mr Dandy’s Tea Room to discuss new ways of enlarging their cranial apertures with surgical saws, tenon cutters, gimlets and specially adapted power tools. Mr Dandy insisted on their wearing hats, as his other customers complained of losing their appetites due to unsightly bulging membranes and the occasional leakage of cerebral fluid. It goes without saying, that no-one ever bought blancmange on a Saturday.
It ended badly of course. One day while carving a sculpture of the Venus de Milo from a frozen leg of lamb, Mother began convulsing violently and speaking in tongues. Spittle flew from her mouth and her eyes rolled backwards in her head, making her look as if she’d stuffed two boiled eggs into her eye sockets.
She died a day later and was buried along with her accordion and a small book of dirty limericks she’d published. Her friends from the Ladies Trepanning Society attended the funeral and threw tungsten carbide tipped drill bits into the grave as a mark of respect. The rude clatter as the metal drills struck the lid of her coffin displeased the Minister no end, but he never made a fuss. My father cried quite a bit during the ceremony and for a short time after took to drinking heavily. Eventually he reconciled himself to the situation and married an old friend of Mother’s who was still an active member of the Women’s Guild. Once again our house was filled with the intoxicating smell of baking and home-made strawberry jam.
I did notice however, that father took to keeping his power tools under lock and key.
About the Author
Allan Watson was born, lives and works in Glasgow, but has never worn the kilt or eaten a deep-fried Mars Bar. He is a comedy sketch writer, a composer/musician and the author of four novels and a collection of short stories. Many more interesting facts about him can be read on his Amazon author’s page here.