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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