Chapter 7:
Something Like Closure
The dirt was damp with last night’s rain, soft and fragrant with that specific smell—wet grass, worms, and whatever memory felt like when it came up without warning.
Mayor Brindle stood at the edge of the shallow grave, this time with permission.
There was no trench coat. No flashlight. No midnight panic.
Just a city-sanctioned backhoe, a cordoned-off patch of lawn, and a plexiglass time capsule case with beveled edges and a polished brass label.
A crowd had gathered, buzzing like bees in folding chairs. The community bulletin had called it a symbolic re-dedication of local transparency, which was a flowery way to say, “We’re all gonna watch the mayor dig up his emotional baggage in front of children.”
Myrtle arrived fashionably late.
She wore soft white linen and large sunglasses, her dogs trotting ahead like tiny judgmental horses. Capote led, three-legged but faster than most four-legged things. Horny sniffed aggressively at someone’s tote bag. Something wore a baby sunhat and looked absolutely miserable about it.
Brindle tried not to sweat.
He wasn’t the same man who buried the kimono in a manic haze of shame. But he also wasn’t entirely new. More like… under renovation. A slow demolition of denial.
He cleared his throat. The microphone wobbled slightly in his grip.
“This…” He gestured to the hole. “This was mine.”
He held up the kimono. The sequins caught the late morning sun and scattered fractured pink light across the grass. It looked ridiculous. And beautiful. And deeply personal in a way he hadn’t expected to feel in front of his constituents and Myrtle’s pack of mutant purse wolves.
“I wore it. Alone. For joy. For… therapy. For stress relief that may or may not have involved Broadway cast recordings and interpretive movement.”
Laughter rippled. Not cruel. Not mocking. More like people were relieved to see him owning it out loud.
“I buried it because I thought if people saw who I really was, they’d leave. Or laugh. Or worse—document it.”
He looked up. Myrtle met his gaze without blinking. Capote sneezed.
“But the truth is,” Brindle continued, voice softer now, “shame doesn’t rot when buried. It just ferments.”
He turned toward the capsule. The kimono folded neatly in his hands—lighter now, somehow. Not cursed. Just clothes.
He placed it gently into the case.
The plaque read:
To the Secrets We Bury. To the Joys We Dig Up.
— Installed June 13, by Community Vote
The applause wasn’t thunderous, but it was steady. And real. And Brindle didn’t flinch when someone hugged him, which felt like progress.
Myrtle took the mic next.
“My name,” she said, “is Myrtle Grace Ellingsworth. I write under the name Boney LaFleur. And yes, I knew about the kimono before he did.”
Chuckles. Someone gasped. Capote howled once.
“I’m writing again,” she added. “Under my real name. No pen names. No hiding.”
Brindle looked over, lips twitching. “Will I be in the book?”
“Unavoidable,” she replied, and left it at that.
In the following weeks:
- Mayor Brindle resigned. His public statement cited “a need to explore creative forms of cardio and a possible memoir.”
- Capote went viral after biting a TikTok influencer’s ankle during a ribbon-cutting, becoming an accidental icon of personal boundaries.
- Myrtle’s new novel, KIMONOGATE, debuted at #3 on the local bestseller list, just below a cookbook and something spiritual about decluttering.
Its tagline:
One town. One garment. One mayoral breakdown at a time.
The neighborhood settled—not into peace exactly, but into an agreed-upon weirdness.
Lawn flamingos started wearing costumes. Someone installed a Free Little Library shaped like a giant burrito. HOA meetings had a new rule: “No biting, canine or otherwise.”
Myrtle sat on her porch most evenings with her typewriter and a glass of iced tea, Capote curled beside her like a sentient throw pillow.
Sometimes, Brindle walked by, wearing linen pants and carrying a yoga mat.
Sometimes, they waved.
Sometimes, they just nodded—two people who had survived themselves.
Author’s Note:
So… that’s the end.
The kimono has been exhumed. The secrets unearthed. The HOA was left permanently scarred. And honestly? I’ve never had more fun writing something so utterly strange and strangely personal.
KIMONOGATE began as a story about a mayor with a guilty conscience and a pink kimono. But somewhere along the way, it became about more than buried sequins and nosy neighbors. It turned into a love letter to the weirdness we try to hide—and what happens when those odd little truths refuse to stay underground.
Writing this was like hosting a dinner party where every guest brought something unhinged:
— A three-legged dog named Capote.
— A reclusive author hiding in plain sight.
— A man unraveling under the weight of polyester and shame.
And somehow, it worked. They all fit at the table.
If you’re reading this, thank you for joining me in this slightly off-kilter cul-de-sac where glitter is suspicious, dogs have agendas, and no secret stays buried forever.
I hope you laughed. I hope you cringed. I hope you found a little reflection (or absurd escape) in this strange, satirical world.
And if you find yourself tempted to bury something questionable in your yard…
…maybe check for HOA surveillance first.
Until the next neighborhood drama,
— Mangus
Memoirs of Madness 