Wednesday, May 22, 2013

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.


The task at hand, though not to be overlooked by the duty already completed along the alley walls behind Bartholomew stretching to the edge of Bowman’s Bakery, was a scene of blue green sea painted on an alabaster brick wall. In a single motion Bartholomew stashed the green can in his satchel and withdrew another, this dark red, and, in swifting streaks, etched a stencil of icicle-like burgundy tears on a the façade’s phantom face.

Proud, admiring eyes, Bartholomew, satisfied, stood in momentary reverie. Only to be disentangled by an unruly commotion treading water from the opposing end of the stout alley. A bouquet of voices erratically barraged Bartholomew, who, growing nervous and desirous not to be caught quite so red handed, scrumidged to conceal the lingering cans in an old grimy barrel beside him. Finishing the deception and looking up, he just precisely saw the source of the aforesaid hullabaloo.

Remarkulously, of the group of ten or fourteen persons crowding by, notevenaone made their surefooted way down the alley towards Bartholomew. Instead they appeared to be huddled protectively around a singular someone, safely tucked in the center of the corpulent corps of humanity. Intrigued, though perhaps against the best of judgments, Bartholomew approached the horde which had passed on across the alleys opening and into the bakery conveniently stationed at the street corner.

Peak-spying inside the bakery’s windows unveiled a panorama of continued confusion, though now Bartholomew determized the person of extreme interest in this matter. It was, of course, the baker’s daughter, Harriet. She was clearly quite attractive, if skinny, in Bartholomew’s eyes, even conceding two or three years to her as he was. However, today she seemed steeped in a conundrum and her disconcerting eyes fluttered anxiously from face to face as she was bomblasted with inquiries from all sides.

Bartholomew slithered inside the door, ajar still from the tumult racing inside the shop, just as the baker blustered down the stairs, clearing aside the snippeting men around his daughter. In a moment the truth spilt out of the nerve struck girl, grasp-falling in her father’s arms.

“It was so horrible! Her body, daddy, it was so awful!”

Bartholomew edged closer. A body? Someone dead in Bradbury Heights? Nothing like that could ever happen here. Unable to constrain curiosity he peeked, “Whose body, Harriet?”

Spotting him through water saturated eyes the girl voiced the name with shrill disbelief, “Barty, no… Missy… Missy May. She’s dead.”

Shockling murmurs ignited through the crowd of bywatchers, and their attention shifted upon the sighing youth who asked the fatal question. Yet for poor Bartholomew Flavius Hughes ‘twas if the sun and moon fell out of the sky, never to shed light or love or warmth again.

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