Ronninflea: Chapter I

An Eternal Guardians Continued Story by Mire, Guilbeau, Angelle, & Boudreaux                    


               I.

If there was one thing Ronninflea wished not to be, it was an elf.  Though he could name a few good reasons for despising this heritage--the poor socio-economic status being one good one--what Ronninflea rued most about elves was their height.  Very, very tall, they dwarfed the other races, though they completely lacked the muscle to back up any rights they would have been able to glean in this might-makes-right world.  And Ronninflea, unfortunately, was a textbook example of this fault of the elves, being among the tallest anyone in the region had seen, and lacking what anyone, anywhere, would call a healthy figure.  In fact, the only pleasant thing that Ronninflea could say about being elven was his excellent hearing.  It allowed him to know when danger was about long before he would have known otherwise.  However, even this advantage was rather lost, for his six foot seven inch frame made hiding from danger a very difficult task.  And hiding--preferably in small places--was imperative to Ronninflea's survival.  How else was he to avoid...
  
"Flea!"

Ronninflea cringed as his elder brother's voice cut through the dense atmosphere, irritation pulsing through the short, one-syllable nickname.  

"Coming!" Ronninflea cried, emerging from his corner, swerving as a waitress carrying an over-piled tray of glasses passed within an inch of his nose.  "Sorry," he said without stopping, rushing to meet his brother on the other side of the room, behind the bar.  Mikelvic looked angrier than Moose's old, fat cat when someone pulled its tail, aggravated at having to drag his younger brother from the corner, again, when said brother should have already been doing what Mikelvic was about to tell him to do.

"Have you dusted the barrels yet?" Mikelvic asked, rhetorically.  He knew the job assigned to Ronninflea nearly an hour ago had not yet been started.  Ronninflea tried to cower, but that proved ineffective since even in this state his brother was still shorter than he.  

"But, the cat..." Ronninflea faltered, knowing that his brother would never understand how truly terrifying it was to have an evil cat stare you down.

"The cat!  You are insane!  I have more than half a mind to lock you in the broom cupboard with that cat..." Mikelvic began in a whisper that slowly began to rise to a shout.  

"Alright, okay.  I'm going," Ronninflea said quickly, just trying to avoid the scene that Mik presented the bar's customers nearly every day.  His words were quicker than he was, however, and Mikelvic felt the need to push him toward the cellar door.  Ronninflea stumbled toward it, anxiety slowing his steps.  He hated dusting the barrels of mead, but Madame Rock kept a tight ship, insisting that it must be done.  Oreollivan often did it for him, but right now she was nowhere in sight, and hadn't been all afternoon.  Ronninflea steeled himself and opened the cellar door.  He took a deep breath.  There were lights down there; it wasn't like he was going into complete darkness.  He could do it. After a minute more of this sort of pep-talk, he made it to the base of the stairs.  Unfortunately, right there waiting for him, was the demonic cat.

It was truly a repulsive animal, by anyone's standards.  It was mottled black and orange, not in patches, but in sprinkles--as though it had gotten in the way of two fighting painters and the droplets had permanently discolored its fur.  Its eyes were green, large and lantern-like; they glowed in the dim cellar.  Ronninflea had tried, once, to refrain from judging the cat's character by its looks, but its personality was so glaringly evident in its shorn tail and deformed ear (remnants both of an epic battle with some powerful adversary) that it was simply no use.  The cat was a monster, surely.  And as if that weren't bad enough, it had the most eerie way of constantly watching Ronninflea and following him around as though it was just waiting for Flea to grow big enough to pop into a stew.

The young elf stood there for a moment, staring back into the green eyes, trying to convince himself that he could so this.  That is, until the cat winked at him. Ronninflea bolted back up the stairs, taking them two at a time.  Thanks to his incredible sense of timing, he arrived at the top just as Oreollivan passed with a large tray filled with ice-water (a rare commodity much demanded by those who partook a bit too liberally in the mead).  Ronninflea flew headlong into his older sister and the tray crashed to the ground.  Water pooled and broken glass and ice skittered across the polished wooden floor.  

Ronninflea's eyes widened in terror as he realized what this meant: in a word, Madame Rock's wrath.  Oreollivan looked torn between feeling sorry for her brother, annoyed that her clothes were now soaked in cold water, and frightened.  She hurriedly retreated through the side door to the ice house, making a quick twirling motion as if to say, "Flea, clean this up!"  Angry voices began to filter through the smoky air to Ronninflea's ears.

"Where is it?" one deep voice called.

"We're dying of thirst here!"

"Sorry!  Sorry!" Ronninflea yelled back, hastily picking up the cups and trays.  It was inevitable that the shouting draw Madame Rock, and he was not surprised--though his stomach sunk to his toes--when the toes of a shiny pair of black leather shoes appeared under his nose.  

"What is going on here?" she bellowed in her ever-overly-loud voice.  One of the customers, who had nothing at stake in the accident but who was close enough to have witnessed the entire event, saw fit to answer the bar owner's question.

"That tall, gangly fellow over dere done run up dem steps and knocked over all our whiskey!" he cried with a surprising amount of energy for someone who could barely manage to sit up on his own.  

Madame Rock gave Ronninflea a stare menacing enough to scare the demon cat.  Ronninflea stammered a few phrases in his defense, but Madame Rock wasn't listening.  "Ronninflea," she said in thunderous tones, "go home."

The dismissal had something final about it; Madame Rock's words held more implications than they seemed to, and everyone within ear-shot knew it.  The customers who weren't completely senseless began to laugh, and Ronninflea rushed out the door, with the memory of his brother's angry face and his sister's shocked expression branded upon his mind.  


**********


Oreollivan looked toward Madame Rock with a pleading expression upon her sweet face.  The bar woman gazed at her with a certain amount of pity, but shook her head slowly.  Oreollivan's heart sank.  Was this really Ronninflea's last chance?  Had it just been blown?  If so, it was a long time coming.  But, still, it just couldn't be!  She had to be more understanding than that!  Oreollivan continued to stare at Madame Rock, who gazed back at her young elven friend, looking very perplexed.  Not a word was exchanged, but Madame Rock finally made a shooing motion with her hands: Oreollivan could go talk to Ronninflea.  The elf handed the newly refilled glasses to another service girl and went out the door after her little brother, Mikelvic hard on her heels.

Oreollivan rushed into the busy, dusty street and glanced up and down its length.  Had it been herself in Ronninflea's situation, she would have gone to a secluded spot and hidden away from everyone until she was able to calm down.  She was not Ronninflea, however; he would have gone straight home, seeking solace in the unshakable affection of their baby brothers and sisters.  Knowing this, she shot off down the main road leading out of town toward their house, and didn't stop until she saw Ronninflea's figure far ahead, about to disappear beyond a bend.

"Flea!" she cried, her voice clear despite being out of breath.

Ronninflea stopped and turned.  From this distance he seemed small, and the innocent, hurt expression upon his face and the way he hunched his shoulders forward in misery exacerbated the impression.  She slowed, and quickly realized that it was a mistake.  Mikelvic raced past her toward their little brother, already yelling at him.  His angry incoherent shouts could probably be heard for miles, but by the time she neared, Mikelvic was in such a rage that his face was nearly purple.  His words--too many to be either contained or released--bubbled up inside of him to the point that even his features seemed to swell with them.  Ronninflea looked anxiously to Oreollivan as she came up behind Mikelvic, his green eyes asking her violet ones for help.  She sighed and placed a slender hand on Mikelvic's shoulder.

"Brother, I think I hear Madame Rock calling for you to return to the bar."

The excuse was absurd; even with their excellent hearing, there was no way Madame Rock could be calling them at that distance.  Mikelvic glared, but Oreollivan gazed calmly back, making a small gesture toward Ronninflea as if to say, "Let me handle this."  After a moment, he allowed her to win the stare down, and stalked off muttering under his breath.  His sister always "handled" Flea, for all the good it did.

Oreollivan watched him go.  She couldn't really blame him for being angry.  He wasn't a naturally patient person, and Ronninflea did not help to cultivate such a virtue.  Oreollivan was trying not to become angry herself.  She had worked so hard, so many times, to find a job that worked for Ronninflea.  When she finally realized that he was incapable of fulfilling any responsibility without assistance, she made certain to find employment where they could work together and she could keep an eye on him.  Oh, they had been rejected from so many places!  From craft makers' shops to house cleaning services, everyone, everywhere, had eventually seen fit to throw Ronninflea out.  The bar had been the last option, the only place which opened its doors to them, partly because it did not require much skill on the part of its employees, and partly because Madame Rock was the most compassionate--if brutally honest and unyielding--human Oreollivan had ever met in her eighty years of life.  She had kept Ronninflea and paid him, despite the hours he wasted sitting in the corner or running outside to avoid everything that made a sound.  And now Ronninflea had ruined that, too.  Oreollivan thought of all the work she did and time she spent over the long years caring for her baby brother; yet nothing had helped him.  His abnormal phobias had only worsened and he was able to function less and less in society.  He had caused her--the whole family, really, for everything depending on everyone bringing home as much income as they could--so much trouble.  It was enough to make the best of people curse and swear, and Mikelvic was far from the best of people.  No, she couldn't blame him for being angry, not really.  

Ronninflea relaxed as Mikelvic walked away.

"Flea, what happened?" Oreollivan asked wearily.

Ronninflea did his best to explain what happened, and why.  As always, it only left Oreollivan more confused.  It made no sense to her reasonable, sensible self, and though he put a lot of effort into explaining just what frightened him, Ronninflea never was able to do it sufficiently.  If he was, maybe then she'd be able to understand him, and fix him...

"Flea, things can't go on like this," Oreollivan said when he finished.

"I'm trying, Oreo.  I'm really trying."

She sighed.  Flea was standing there, shoulders folded forward, his head down, his eyes--usually a sparkling green, now dull and lackluster--refusing to meet hers as he stared off to the side and away into the trees.  The breeze ruffled his unkempt, coal-black hair.  His feet were bare, his shirt short in the sleeves, and torn; the knees of his pants were worn through.  He was the picture of all things pathetic.  She sighed again.  As difficult as their life already was, it just didn't seem fair that Flea had to be this way.  

"I'll try to fix things with Madame Rock, and talk her into letting you back.  You go home now, and help mother with the little ones.  I'll handle things."

Yep, that was her.  Oreo.  The one who handled everything.

Flea looked at her and smiled hopefully, sure of her magical ability to fix every situation he got them into.  He had a wonderful smile... Oreo couldn't remember the last time she had smiled.  She watched Flea turn and walk off, fast-paced despite his not trying to be.  Sighing a third time, she turned and went in the opposite direction, back to the bar, back to work, back to the never-ending "handling." 

She caught up with Mikelvic on the edge of town, a short, brisk jog from the bar.  Noise could be heard from all directions, a colorful ocean of angry tones, laughter, children screeching, sing-song languages, and guttural tongues.  A haze lay over the town from coal-burning homes and businesses, a heavy, dreary darkened cloud which had ensconced itself in the sky.  

Tabar was little more than an island.  Once the rim of an ancient volcano, the ocean had risen up the side of the monstrous mountain until Tabar was nothing more than one in a triad of miserable, half-sunken specks of dirt.  Like its sister-islands, Vinturion and Noigler, is was a smelting pot.  Upon it could be found all the major races of Yendys, thrown together by various circumstances, living precariously under a lax government--when there was any government at all.  It was a difficult life for just about everyone, but especially for Oreollivan's family, and especially for Oreollivan.  

"What happened?" she asked Mikelvic when she was close enough.  

"Ah, he was supposed to be dusting.  When I went down an hour later to bring up some bottles, I realized he hadn't done it yet, and I went to look for him."

"Where was he?"

"In the corner, again!  'The cat!' was all he would say.  I made him go down there, anyway, and the next thing I know he's charging back up like the devil had bit his behind and..." Mikelvic fluttered his hand in the air.  Oreo knew the rest.  

"Why didn't you go down before him and just get the cat out?"

Mik blinked at her as though her words were foreign to his vocabulary.  

"It was a mangy, mongrel of a cat!  If he doesn't learn to conquer even the smallest of his fears..." his voice trailed off as Oreollivan stared at him accusingly.  Her violet eyes were hard, her jaw locked.  It was clear that she thought the entire affair was his fault, since he could have prevented it.  Mikelvic thought about that for a second, and then brushed it aside.  He wasn't Oreo, and he wasn't going to take responsibility for something that wasn't his problem.  

"You coddle him too much, Oreo, and you know it," Mikelvik said, steeling himself against a confrontation he did not feel like having.  "He is never going to change if no one gives him the chance, and you are taking away every chance he has to get over his fears.  You are sheltering him, and making it worse."

"Because leaving him on his own worked so well just now, didn't it?" Oreollivan raised her voice.

"It's been a long time in coming and you know it.  And even if it never came, well...things are going...it wasn't like he...it's not like he's going to be here much longer anyway."

All the color drained from Oreollivan's face, but Mikelvic didn't see it.  He had looked away, refusing to meet his sister's eyes, when he dropped his hint.

"What do you mean?" Oreollivan finally managed to say, faintly.

"Oh, come on.  Don't play simple.  Mother and father are at their wits' end with him.  They've been considering sending him away and you know it."

The Adventures of Brianskin II: Amateur Antique Dealers

Brrrinnng!

The door swung open with such force that it slammed into the wall.  Everyone inside the Prickly Thistle Inn’s small common room started and turned to stare at the newcomer.  He was a slight lad of no older than fourteen with straight brown hair, strikingly green eyes, and a ruddy complexion.  His clothes were sleazy and mix-matched: the uniform of a runaway.  The strange boy fit right in at the disreputable inn.   

          Spending a single glance on the people gathered around the few tables scattered about the room, the young boy shuffled forward, lugging along a battered old leather trunk.  He walked up to the front desk, his movements jerky and dramatic. 

          “A room here.  Can I get one?”  He inquired.

          “What’s yur name, boy?” the innkeeper, old Mr. Frizzle, asked. 

          “Brianskin,” the lad replied promptly and with a large smile, as though he was proud to have remembered that slight detail.  Mr. Frizzle studied the boy intently with beady brown eyes, a slight smile upon his thin lips as he considered this potential customer.  Brianskin shuffled uncomfortably under Frizzle’s rude, unsettling stare.  The innkeeper grinned, the gaps in his yellow teeth shockingly apparent.  

          “And what can I be doin’ fer yu, Skinny?” Frizzle asked.

          “One room and dinner.  How much would that be?” Brianskin questioned, continuing the conversation of inquiries and ignoring Frizzle’s insult. 

          “Er, only ‘bout fif’ten zinks.” Frizzle drawled.  Brianskin abruptly slammed his leather case onto the counter and opened it.  Frizzle attempted to peer over the lifted lid, but he was too short to obtain a satisfactory glimpse of the lad’s belongings without making it glaringly apparent that he was trying to do so.  The innkeeper settled back on his heels with an unhappy sigh as he glared at Brianskin.

          Brianskin pawed through his clothes and knickknacks, spilling half of the trunk’s contents in the process.  He mumbled and muttered to himself constantly as he searched.  The customers at the table nearest the counter glanced at Brianskin in annoyance.  The only well-dressed people in the inn, an observer wondered why on Yendys such well-to-do persons would choose the Prickly Thistle Inn for a rest stop.        The man leaned over and whispered into the ear of an old—very old—woman sitting next to him.  The grandmotherly person’s attention brought to Brianskin, she merely stared at him curiously with large glazed eyes.  Then she leaned over and loudly whispered in the direction of her son and daughter-in-law, “He looks familiar.  I know him from somewhere, I know I do.”

          “Yes, mother,” the son said absentmindedly, the unruly-looking lad forgotten as he conversed with his wife of other matters.  The old woman continued to stare.   

          Eventually, Brianskin snapped the lid of his case shut quickly, slid it off the counter nearly as fast, and retreated to a corner, his face drawn in thought.  Frizzle snorted, knowing that look all too well; the boy didn’t have the money.  Oh, well.  That wasn’t Frizzle’s problem.  No money, no service.

          “Fifteen zink.  Fifteen zink!  Where am I going to get that?  Three.  I only have three!” Brianskin whispered inaudibly.  He idly reached into his pocket and pulled out a bright yellow yo-yo.  He began to roll it up and down its string as he pondered his dilemma.  He started in surprise as the old lady at the table by the counter jumped up from her seat with more energy than any woman her age had a right to possess.

          “I know you!” she cried loudly, and everyone in the inn’s common stopped whatever it was that they were doing and looked in her direction.  The old woman was undisturbed by this fact, and went on unperturbed.

          “You’re Brian!  Brian Skinnely, the son of Duke Skinnely!” the elderly lady shouted; nearly stone deaf as she was, she was in no position to gauge the volume of her own voice, and Brianskin, who was, unfortunately, standing only a few feet from her, winced. 

          “Mother, please be seated,” her son tugged on her arm in a vain attempt to make her calm down.

          “I know who you are!” the woman continued to cry, “You’re…. a yo-yo!”

          More than a few of the inn’s customers snickered.  The son put more effort into restraining his mother’s outburst.  Brianskin, however, saw nothing unduly outrageous in the accusation. 

          “I’m sorry,” Brianskin said calmly and politely, “You must be confusing me with someone else.  I’m not a yo-yo.  I’m a human.”

          “No!  No!” the elderly woman said impatiently.  “Is that a yo-yo?”  She gestured to the bright toy in Brianskin’s hand.  Brianskin glanced at his precious treasure, which he had forgotten all about at the beginning of the absurd conversation.

          “Yes,” he replied hesitantly, not liking something in the woman’s eager expression.  “A yo-yo.  Yes, it is.”

          “And it’s of Brambolini make, is it not?” the woman stated her inflectionless query.  Brianskin, not particularly knowing what a Brambolini was, and not really certain how to reply, merely shook his head in a gesture which the woman took to mean “yes”.

           “Do you know how much that yo-yo is worth?!” the woman shouted hysterically.  Brainskin shook his head in the negative, clearly confused.  He knew the yo-yo was special.  But how was this woman aware of its magical powers?

          “IT’S AN ANTIQUE!  Why, it must be worth at least thirty zink” the woman said, pulling the number straight from her over-active, befuddled imagination.  She yanked on her son’s arm and whispered harshly, “Buy that Brambolini from the lad, my boy.  It’s an investment!”

          The agitated son merely sighed dramatically and, pulling his wallet from his pocket, offered Brainskin thirty shiny golden zink.  “Is this enough for the yo-yo?”

          Brianskin looked from his precious treasure, to the man, to the elderly woman, and back at his precious treasure.  He thought of the room which he didn’t have the money for, and of the storm raging outside of the inn’s walls.  He considered the old lady’s big mouth and the secret he had to keep.  His green eyes filling with tears, Brianskin hastily made his decision and roughly shoved the bright yellow yo-yo into the strange man’s hand.  He practically threw some of the coins, which he guessed to be about fifteen of the thirty, at Mr. Frizzle and raced upstairs, not even asking which room was his.

          Mr. Frizzle smiled gleefully at the twenty golden coins in his hand as he and everyone else in the common room watched the teenager flee upstairs.

          “It’s an antique!  Do you know how much this is worth?” the old woman continued to say loudly, though not quite as loudly as before. 

          “Thirty zink,” the son growled in aggravation.

          “Why!  It’s worth at least three times that amount!” the woman went on, ignoring her son’s anger.

          Everyone in the inn was listening to the old woman now.  The gamblers and the homeless began to eye the woman’s nice, expensive, and fashionable clothes.  They stared at the yo-yo she held aloft.

          “She just might know what she’s talkin’ ‘bout, that one.” one disreputable customer hissed, pointing his grimy finger at the rich family, “She’d be a knowin’ what nice things’ll be costin’.”

          A hesitant expectancy settled upon the common room, Brianskin’s yo-yo the center of attention as all the inn’s customers considered its value.  After a while, one man made up his mind.  Rising from his chair, he offered to invest his spending money (seventy-five zink) in the yo-yo.  The son watched the man with a bemused expression as he made his offer.  The old woman stared at her prospective buyer suspiciously before agreeing to the sale. 

*****

The man’s purchase of the yo-yo immediately set off an avalanche of offers, and the yo-yo changed hands many times that night, its worth rising with every sale.  The last buyer— a middle-aged, over-weight man with red-tinted eyes, who went by the name of Carlisle— purchased it for nearly two-hundred and fifty zink.  He pocketed the yo-yo, refusing to sell it to anyone in the inn, and, whistling, made his way home, making plans for the morrow.  It was an excellent night for him, full of high hopes. 

          Brianskin, however, had a harder time of it.  He mourned the loss of his beloved— not to mention magical— yo-yo.  It had been his greatest treasure.  That night, after he had finally managed to cry himself to sleep, he was subject to disturbing dreams of his yo-yo getting farther and farther away from him until it was a mere yellow speck in the distance.

*****

“And how might I be of service to you today, Mister Carlisle?”

Carlisle placed the polished yellow yo-yo upon the worn counter of the town antique store. 

          “I have it on the best authority that this is an original, genuine Brambolini yo-yo,” Carlisle announced proudly, tapping the counter by the colorful toy. 

          The antique dealer leaned forward and examined the magnificent yo-yo as Carlisle continued to show off its wonderful résumé.

          “Look at that smooth surface.  Just look at that beautiful paint, of the best quality.  Do you know that this wood is pure Catalpa?” Carlisle asked, continuing in this manner for several minutes.

          The antique dealer, who had bent over to examine the yo-yo at eye level, stood up.  He wore a look of pure disgust upon his face.

          “First of all,” he said, holding up a single finger, “There is no such thing as a Brambolini yo-yo.  A Brambolini is a type of harp.

          “Secondly, this…. thing….. is not an antique; it is so smooth because it is quite new.

          “Thirdly, this is not a coat of fine paint; it’s a nice crust of mustard.

          “Fourthly, it is not made of Catalpa wood.  It’s from a pop-corn tree!”

          Carlisle stared blankly at the antique dealer.  “So how much is it worth?” he asked.

          “It isn’t worth my dog’s dinner!!” the antique dealer cried.

*****

There was a roar followed by a loud crash.  A large display window shattered.

          “OUCH!!” Brianskin yelped as something small and round whizzed through the giant pane and hit him in the head.  The force of the blow sent the boy sprawling.  Shaking his abused head to clear it, Brianskin sat and began looking around for what had hit him.  There, lying in the mud beside him, was his yo-yo.  Brianskin was speechless.  After a few minutes of complete silence, he jumped up and grabbed his yo-yo, yelling wildly, “Oh! Oh! OH! I knew you would come back!  I knew it!”

          After reuniting with his beloved—not to mention magical—yo-yo, Brianskin gathered his trunk and began to make his way down the main street of Ninya, whistling happily as he made his way.  It was a beautiful day, if a bit cloudy, he had his yo-yo, the open road was before him, his secret was still safe… Ah, yes!  It was a wonderful day.  Brianskin ignored the stares and chatter of the townsfolk as he left.

“Momma!  Momma!  How did that boy teach that squirrel to follow him like that?!”

THE END

…OR IS IT JUST THE BEGINNING?

The Adventures of Brianskin I: The Runaway

The dingy room was dimly lit; a lone beam came from a small lamp set on the low table.  Shadows danced across the wooden walls, making everything uncertain in the half-light.  The room possessed the musty, dirty aura that only a teenaged boy could give it.  A series of taps, raps, and crashes issued from the closet, where the figure of a young boy could be seen.  The boy was about fourteen in age with round hazel eyes.  His short dark brown hair hung straight on his forehead, wet with perspiration.  The lad was stooped over a crate, muttering incoherently to himself.  Suddenly, a loud crash was followed by the words,

            “Oh, what’s this?  Oh yes!  I will need this!”  The boy abruptly stood up and dashed to his bed, carrying an indistinguishable piece of cloth.  He quickly stuffed it into a small leather case which lay open upon his coverlet.  The boy looked around the room.  His wild gestures were slightly jerky and dramatic, of the kind that made one wonder if he had full control over his movements.  Like a child who is not all there—if you take my meaning—it seemed as though he would never stop his incessant muttering or motion.

            He began to count his fingers, ticking off the items he had already packed.

            “Shirt—got it.  Pants—got ‘em.  Underwear—well, I never use it.  But what the heck, I’ll pack it anyway.”

            After this astonishing revelation, the boy returned to his closet, where he once again began his absurd search for traveling items.  His mumbling had not ceased; rather, it was definitely more audible at this point.

            “Where is it?  Where is it?!  I know it’s around here somewhere.”  The boy began to throw clothes, pillows, and all manner of objects over his shoulder in his hunt for the missing and unknown valuable item.  

            “Ah-ha!” he finally cried, his hand deep within a small sack of flour lying on the floor, “Here it is! Boy!  I definitely could not leave home without this!  This will most assuredly come in handy… most important.  Couldn’t have forgotten it!”  He pulled his hand out of the powdery baking ingredient and held up a small round object for inspection.  It was a bright yellow yo-yo, freshly painted and shining beneath its coat of dust.  He smiled at it fondly before shoving it roughly in his pocket.

            The brown-haired boy went back to his trunk.  His animated expressions and movements ceased for only a second.  He glanced almost sadly around the wrecked room, with its various toys, clothes, and other junk scattered all over the floor.  He let out a sigh, and with that sigh passed his melancholy appearance.  He jumped slightly for no reason whatsoever, if just to put a spring in his step.  Hurriedly grabbing his trunk, he closed it and clasped it, and headed toward the door.

            Once outside, the boy stopped on the steps.  He peered up and down the dusty road and looked up at the stars.  The house behind him lay dark and silent; it was asleep just as its other inhabitants were.  The boy mumbled to himself again.

            “Well…well….well,” he said, putting a different inflection on each one of the words, “This is it.  It’s all over.  I am free.  No more work.  No more nagging.  No more school.  No more picking.  No more weird looks (it’s like people think I am crazy).  That’s it.  It’s all over.  Good-bye home!  Good-bye family!  Good-bye annoying little sister!  Farewell!  Adieu!  Say good-bye to Brianskin, for you shall never see him again!”

            A spectator, at first glance, would have said that the boy was happy.  But the cicada and the squirrel sitting on the roof were close observers.  As the boy traipsed down the road, the two animals heard him whisper to himself,

            “Oh…but he will miss you.”

            And that was it.  The house never did see Brianskin again, though we can’t say so much for the cicada and the squirrel.  As his silhouette disappeared into the night, the two animals raced off to report to their superiors.

THE END

…or is it?

If Only More Were Clowns

It felt later than six o’clock.  Surely it was closer to noon, and the unseasoned eggs at which I was picking should certainly have been a food more suitable to both the tongue and the time.  But no, it was six o’clock in the AM, dad said so; I merely felt chronologically displaced because we had awoken so very early and I was not used to doing so.  Early indeed!  At one in the morning the annoying bird outside my window was still dreaming of his early worm.  I most definitely should not have been awake!  But, I did not really have a choice.  Little sister insisted on coming at an ungodly hour, and Mom and Dad had rushed her three siblings—myself included—out of their beds and into the car, with nothing to pacify them except a box of dry cereal.  So here I was, picking at fake food when I was starving for real sustenance, and trying not to drop dead into my grits.  It had been a hard night, but it was worth it.  At least, it was supposed to be.  A new baby is always supposed to be worth it, right? 

                Shoving my plate of rubber-and-plastic food away, I looked about the hospital cafeteria.  There was no one in it except for myself, my father, my brother, and my oldest younger sister, who was still a baby herself.  We had been the only living things in the dreary, eerily quiet room for the past half hour.  Nothing except the sound of the littlest eating and our breathing had marred the silence, and now on top of being comatose tired, I was exceedingly bored.  Oh, no, wait…here were some fellow humans…

                A troupe of elderly men entered the cafeteria, served themselves at the counter (a cafeteria lady had magically appeared) and seated themselves three tables over.  They were dressed in blue overalls and sported white tags.  Not a one was a day under sixty.   I turned my sleepy attention back to my plastic-filled plate, only to look up again as a shadow fell over me.

                “Are you going to be here for a few more minutes?”

                I looked up at the old man, who had come behind me to address the above query to my father.  His face and hair were thin, the skin about his mouth marred with fine lines.  His eyes were of the palest blue, and sparkled like the water they resembled.

                “I think so,” my father replied, nodding at my sister, who was shoveling her eggs into her mouth as though everyone in the room was intent on stealing them off her fork at a moment’s notice.  “We are waiting for the little one to finish.”

                The man’s face brightened, his smile grew larger.  “I’ll be right back,” he said, “I’m going get my balloons!  They are downstairs in the pick-up.  I’ll just be five minutes.”

                As I stared at him in surprise, he walked out of the cafeteria with an energy that did not suit a man of his years.  “I’ll just be five minutes!  You wait here!” was his parting refrain. 

                I tried to imagine what the old man was up to, but could not conceive of anything.  His fellows were still at their table, nibbling away at their food.  Did they even notice he was gone?  Probably not.

                In less than the predicted time, he was back, carrying a little dark blue bag.  Placing it on the table right next to us and pulling up a chair for himself, he said proudly “I used to be a clown.  Yup, I’m a professional clown.”

                What a lovely thing to aspire to, my fourteen-year-old self mentally remarked, sarcasm as thick as mayonnaise slathered on a sandwich.  My little sister, however, was quite excited by this declaration, especially when she saw what the retired clown was pulling out of his bag: a little pouch filled with brightly-colored balloons just waiting to be inflated.  A small air pump followed and in almost no time the old clown was pumping air into a long pink balloon.  In rapid succession, he constructed a black wiener dog and a pink poodle.  She was delighted with this new pair of pets, and happily absorbed herself in making them trot across the tables and chairs.  I was intrigued now.  I certainly did not know how to make figures out of balloons, and paid close attention as he taught my brother to twist the fragile latex into a bright red parrot.  Okay, that was cool.  It would definitely be neat to learn how to do that…and then my eyes went from the parchment-like skin that covered his hands to his face.  His eyes were sparkling like a toddler had poured an entire bottle of glitter into them.  He talked the entire time he turned those uninteresting, ordinary balloons into fanciful creatures and funny flowers. 

                “Are you listening to this?” he asked my sister as he taught her his trade.  “You’ll be quizzed on it later!”

                “Do you have a sharp knife?” he inquired of a passing cafeteria lady.  “My finger is caught in this balloon and I cannot get it out.  I will have to cut it off.”

                Every time he made such a joke, he would look around to see who had heard it and who was amused by it.  There were more people in the cafeteria now; many did hear, and smiled at his open, frank manner and kind expression.  And he grinned right back, not unlike a kid himself.

                In between his jokes, he conversed with my father.  I learned that he usually volunteered at the hospital on Mondays and Fridays but that he was there on that particular Tuesday because his wife had been admitted that night.  He was going to go visit her in a minute, as soon as he was done showing the little ones his balloons.  By the way, did we want his balloons?  And his how-to books?  And his pumps?

                “I’m going blind, and I’m allergic to latex.  I don’t need them anymore,” he said.  Eventually, my sister finished consuming her eggs, and we had to leave.  The old man gathered up his belongings, assuring us that we could keep what he had made, and left to return his things to his truck.  As I watched him leave, his step slower than before, I thought that he was a very nice man.  He made a good clown, always trying to make others happy, his only concern seeing the smiles of children before he could see no more.  And I wondered what had made me think his was a profession to scoff at, and why I could not be a clown myself.  

-February 2008

The Walk of Dennis

He had a terrible, splitting headache.  Holding his head in his hands, he stumbled along the dusty road, placing one weary foot in front of the other.  Tears dripped down his cheek and his bruised fingers, splashing onto his dirty feet, where they transformed grime into mud before being dried by the brisk autumn wind. 

                Why, Lord, why?

                Rusticus and Eleutherius had never left his side.  He and Rusticus had shared a childhood friendship which had eventually bled over into adulthood.  They had always been a rebellious and adventurous duo, spiting authority, breaking rules, taking all the risks that teenage boys are wont to take.  It was no surprise to their families—though it was an outrage—when together they joined that then-strange community called the “Christians”.  It was a phase, their fathers said; they would recant before they got into too much trouble.  But they had not.  They merely came to a deeper understanding of and commitment to the Truth which they found there, and eventually joined Eleutherius, who, before them, had dedicated his life to service of that Truth. 

                The work had been difficult and strenuous.  Instructing catechumens, administering the Sacraments, and evading the tyrannical rule of Emperor Decius had been taxing, physically and mentally and spiritually.  Yet they had gotten through it, greatly appreciative of the fact that they were able to serve Truth side-by-side in the most powerful and pagan city in the world.  Rusticus, Eleutherius, and Dennis—the ever-devoted trio, always jumping into the thick of things.  Yet even this perilous life was not to last long.  One day Pope Fabian called them before him to impart terrible news.

                “Our brethren at Lutetia have been brought to the Lord.  Those whom they served have been scattered before the wrath of Decius.”

                A look of ineffable sorrow had crossed Eleutherius’ features.  The Christian community in Gaul had been very small—positively infantile—yet it had faced same the savage persecution that the Church in Rome had been suffering.  “A universal Church with a universal suffering under a universal empire,” he thought with a bitter smile before asking his martyred friend, who had led Lutetia, to pray for him.  Rusticus and Dennis, however, were still focused on their Father; the spark in his eyes, his intake of breath that signaled further speech.  They exchanged glances and were not surprised by the Pope’s next words. 

                “You must go to Lutetia and rebuild the Church there.”

                And so they had bid farewell to their spiritual children in Rome and begun the long trek from Italy to Gaul, eventually stopping at the Ile de la Cite to rebuild the Church there.  Oh!  How many people!  Traveling along the road in terrible pain, Dennis could, even now, see in his mind’s eye the numbers which had flocked to them, eager for Truth, eager for Baptism, longing for Christ.  It was not long before the trio had a following such as Lutetia had never seen.  Countless people were brought to the Truth of the Christian faith.  Such success, however, came at a cost.  Part of that cost was the headless bodies of his two friends slumped at the bottom of the hill.  The soldiers of Decius, frightened at the phenomenal growth of the Christian community, had sought to put a quick end to it.

                Why, Lord, why?

                Rusticus and Eleutherius were gone.  The Romans had finally caught up with them, tortured them, and then granted them peace by relieving them of their heads.  After years of toil among the poor, the ignorant, the souls thirsting for God, they had finally been allowed to see that God.  Yet, though the Romans had been all too eager to send him after his friends, he, Dennis, was not to follow them.  Why, Lord, why?  Can’t You grant me peace?  Rest?  An escape from this life of exile?  Why may I not follow my friends; why may I not be with You?

                “I want you here for now, My son.  You can best serve Me here for just a while longer,” said the Lord.

                “What do You want of me, Lord?  How may I serve?  I am broken!”

                “No matter.  You are, by My grace and power, whole enough to serve me still.  Go forth and tell my children one last time of My greatness and My Love.”

                “How?”

                “Walk.”

                And he did.  And as he did so, the children he was just remembering, the ones who had come to he, Rusticus, and Eleutherius to hear of the Christ, flocked around him one last time.  The soldiers of Decius had sought to make a show of Dennis, to frighten the people with the fate of their Bishop.  There were many spectators.  One little boy cried out in terror and averted his face from the hidden face of Dennis, burying himself in his mother’s skirt.  An elderly woman cried tears much the same as Dennis’ own.  An overwhelming love for these people whom he had led enveloped him.  What would they do without him?  Would they stay strong?  What could he do to give them hope, to serve them one last time?  Some Roman soldiers stood by, staring in horror and disbelief.  And as they watched, and as the crowd grew larger, Dennis began to preach. 

                He spoke again of Christ, of His Love for mankind.  How that Love had led Him to an excruciating death on a Cross.  He spoke of the virtues of Peace, Hope, and Charity.  He encouraged the people to continue growing in their knowledge and love of the Lord.  He would never abandon them, so they should not abandon Him, no matter how difficult following Him became.

                At this point, one of the Romans threw a rock at him.  Dennis stumbled, losing his balance; letting go of his aching head, he fell to his knees.

                “Lord, I know not how much longer I can go on,” he sobbed.

                “Courage, My son; after the battle there will be peace.” 

                 Dennis rose again, once more clutching his head.  His vision was fading now; colors were distorted, the figures of his spiritual children getting farther and farther away.  He forced one foot in front of the other, battling gravity and death, to finish the mission that the Lord had given him.

                At last, the ground evened beneath his feet.  Reaching the top of the hill, he sighed a breath of relief.  He turned about to give one last word of farewell to the faithful who had followed him up the mount; breathed a prayer for those who had beheaded his friends; forgave them for what they had done to him.  And then, turning back around, he walked to the tree that grew in the middle of the hilltop, placed his aching head in the grass at the tree’s roots, and sat down beside it.

                “It is finished, My son,” Dennis heard the Lord whisper to his soul.  And then the faces of the soldiers dissolved, the cries and tears of his spiritual children disappeared, and the world vanished in a single, bright light and a cloud of tangible Peace.  


-December 2012

Preface

In the most cliche of beginnings, I warmly welcome you, Reader, to my blog.  Thank you for stopping by!  This humble corner of the Internet is an online reflection of the book nook in my room.  More specifically, it is a reflection of a single shelf in said nook--the shelf that is home to a line of brown journals, each containing every writing effort of mine over the past thirteen years.  It is not a library filled with professional volumes.  I can and will promise neither quality, nor quantity, nor Garamond point 12.  I do, however, guarantee originality*, authenticity, and coffee**.  I hope you enjoy my writing as much as I enjoyed writing it.  Please feel free to comment with opinions, facts, critiques, advice, etc.  Any and all thoughts are greatly appreciated.  I hope that you enjoy these samples of my work so much that you stay with me in my little nook for the next year as I attempt to post a poem, short story, or chapter from a novel once a week.  So, pull up a chair (or a beanbag if you are that type )and grab a cup of coffee (or cocoa, if you are not that type).  Without further ado, I present my first short story of 2014:

The Walk of Dennis

*All posts, poetry, short stories, continued stories, artwork, etc. are original works by me, Sydney Angelle, unless otherwise noted, and may not be distributed, copied, or saved--electronically or otherwise--without the express written permission of Moi.
**

Here is the promised coffee.  Courtesy of Mystic Monk.