Bradbury Heights: V - Father, Mother!

Father Fleischer padded softly afoot the slate stone stairwell of Saint Andrew’s Cathedral, smoothly stepping straightway towards the upper sanctum where Mother Superior Judith Von Engle would surely be sweeping through her morning studies. The bite of the dawn’s gentle patters of rain had swiftly given way to the lustrous sun now bleeding through the slotted windows of the Cathedral stairway, but Father Fleischer did not require the meager light to guide his feet.

Bradbury Heights: IV – Unseen Persons

Sheer white sunlight finally pierced through the cluster of crusty clouds as Mike took his seat in the blustery classroom awaiting the chime that would indicate the initiation of the day’s didactic activities. Sketching aside the papers littering his desk, the stripling student tediously balanced a pen on his forefinger, pondering upon the inner intrinsic complexities of the lead black chalkboard.

Bradbury Heights: III – Mayoral Assertions

Sheriff Humboldt, meandering afoot a stairy slope, pondering the quirking scenes of earlier this morn, could not quite keep down the strange sensation of a lurking discontinuity that accompanied him wherewithever he walked. Entering the doorway atop the stairs and depositing his satchel alongst a stiff wooden chair, the Sheriff grimaced at the sight of his turbulent troop, depleted of the sentiment of sanctuary proffered by the formerly uneventful duties that squired doldrum Bradbury Heights.

The Memoirs of Colonel Octavian Van Haslinger

GTI 43:89 – 832.3 Sector Alpha 435B; Skirmish with the Faun

‘Twas Brillig alright. When a sun-star ignites like a firepop set off by a twelve year old guinea at the Freedom Parade and you’re standing on the doorstep of a fiery inferno that will spontaneously cook eggs from over 30 parsec away then there’s not much you can do but duck and cover.  As for the Faun, they were expecting this. Their trap sprung, and all of their twelve Satyr Class battlecruisers with full power on their shields such that Zeus’ own lightning couldn’t get through. As for us, well, we weren’t so prepared.

Bradbury Heights: II - Froward Information

Spelunking didn’t quite hardly compare to such frolipherous activity as ‘twas currently engaged one Bartholomew Flavius Hughes. Whilst o’er ‘twix ‘tween a rock and a hard place, while certainly, in such literal context, was exceedingly enjoyable, Bartholomew procured a particular gleam for his present circumsituation. In the one hand he held an aluminum cylinder, ten inches long, green, with a spray nozzle affixt to its end. And in the other, a bottle of equal stature, yet blue as the midsummer sky which would soon grace pristine Bradbury Heights in nary two months.

Bradbury Heights: I - A Tragic Discovery

Drizzle-pouring rain, a flock of tears from heaven's font, one last stretch of icy breath. Yesterday t'was such an sunlit day yet ere this morn all warmth went out in a snuff. Harriet Bowman pludged along the mud slipped path up towards the steeple of Chapel Hill. Father Fleischer would expect the strindgy pews dusted and swept a'fore this even's vigil wenx all the town (at least the more piously natured fellows and madams) would gather to witness the surgical sermon swiftly surmising sin and shame, which the Father would deliver precisely to all and none.

Quagzor Chapter 17

Where off we have ‘ere reached along spot in the time line of events that demand a summation of previous passages and interweaving sutures of plot twists that mayhap the lay-reader has lost his merry way down the path towards comprehension. Thusly, it is most behooving to us to informate you of the State of the Quagzor in this story-to-date address.

Bradbury Heights

Danceling along down the way went little Missy May,
Skip-waltzing through fields of grass grown tall.

Sheer summer song of soul felt joy breaking free from its ice long slumber, t'was the dream of little Missy May to dance and sing. And as her heart leapt o'er stone and log her feet could scarcely keep time. Far down the path from Chapel Hill, through the light strung woods along sweet waters edge. A river running softly in the midst of gnarlsome tree of fir and flee, stray sprouts of greenage sparkling forth anew.

Whisperly in the Willow Winds

Soweth the tyme along before the waves have rolled a-far-ways south for the winter and yet again return for the newly arised summer sun. And so it be for the ones that we once loved have returned from afar off land and now hath settled round yonder bend, awaiting again the distant song that spewed forth alongst the Whisperly Winds, fiddling around the eager bushels of egg-thumps and leafy greens, ne'er once considering the toothy grin that one bumpkin might share so soon. Ergo, a wondrous and valiant soul might venture forth and so ponder, what meaneth this then? Has the sounding trump rung once more in the deep? Alas! No more a feather bed in the woods could have less ease adjusting to the kindling flame than the fairey that lights the way for the foot-strung traveler who needeth such guidance through the billowing bog, yet here she has it. Yes, indeed. The long night is over, a new day has just begun...