CLOCKWORK PHOENIX 2: More Tales of Beauty and Strangeness Read Online Free Page B
Author: Mike Allen
again.
* * *
The next morning, the Boy Who Speaks with Walls left his parents’ house at dawn, before his mom woke up, before she could fill up his tote bag with lollipops, give him a kiss, and tell him that he was her brave little man. Stepping outside without the comforting weight of his tote bag was an unusual experience, but he found that he liked the sensation. He felt both lighter and taller . . . and perhaps a little naked.
The previous evening he had fallen asleep overwhelmed by despair, but the night had given him an idea.
He crossed the street and stepped onto the porch of the Girl’s house, that house that looked so much like something out of Greytown. He stood there for a few seconds and breathed in the cool morning air. Summer was almost over. His eyes were moist with memories of his friends, the Girl Who Eats Fire and the Kid Whose Laughter Makes Adults Run Away.
He didn’t knock. He turned the doorknob and pushed open the unlocked door.
He stepped inside and touched the walls. The Girl’s house spoke to him and revealed its secrets.
* * *
Years ago, when she first emerged from Greytown, the Girl Who Eats Fire barricaded one door of the house across the street from the Boy’s. The door was in the basement, under the staircase. The slanted wall there remembered the hammering and the nails.
She had emerged from that door, five years old, and dirty with blood and soot.
The Boy tried to pull off the planks with his bare hands, but he wasn’t strong enough. He looked around and found a hammer. It wasn’t much of a tool, but it was probably the same hammer the Girl had used. If it had been good enough to put up these planks, it would have to be enough to take them down.
* * *
Crossing the threshold of the long-condemned door, the Boy felt suspended in nothingness, a sensation not unlike what he’d experienced when he first penetrated the smog of Greytown, but then he emerged into a narrow passageway. Nails stuck out from the walls. They kept ripping his clothes and scratching his skin. The passageway smelled like a laundry hamper stuffed with old socks drenched in sour milk and rotten eggs.
To his right, there was a thumb-sized hole in the wall. When he looked through it, he saw an old man and an old woman sitting at a kitchen table. They looked almost the same, except the man was bearded and their clothes were different. They were very thin, much like the Girl, but their backs were crooked, their chins hanging halfway down their chests; their long grey hair was thin and wispy. Their clothes, also, were grey: the man wore a rumpled suit and tie badly in need of mending; the woman, a shapeless dress riddled with holes. Their skin was sickly grey.
The woman stood up and opened a cupboard door. She took a small box from the shelf, closed the door, and sat next to the man.
Together, they opened the box and took out its contents, one object at a time. The Boy thought it looked like a ceremony of some sort.
The first thing they took out was a candle, and then a candleholder, and then a matchbox. The woman placed the candle in the candleholder, and the man struck a match and lighted the candle.
Next, the woman took out baby pyjamas. The man reached in the box and brought out a pacifier. And then the Boy noticed that the old couple was crying quietly, tears slowly travelling down their grey cheeks. They continued to pull objects from the box: a rattle, baby shoes, a small frayed blanket. They laid these objects in a tidy arc around the candleholder’s base. Suddenly, the woman let out a deep sob. The man reached over, put an arm across her back, and tenderly kissed her cheek. His hand stroked her neck and his fingers rubbed her scalp. He held their heads against each other’s, and they cried together.
A lump formed in the Boy’s throat. He wanted to cry along with them. It felt wrong and dirty to be spying on these people, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop watching.
And then they took
* * *
The next morning, the Boy Who Speaks with Walls left his parents’ house at dawn, before his mom woke up, before she could fill up his tote bag with lollipops, give him a kiss, and tell him that he was her brave little man. Stepping outside without the comforting weight of his tote bag was an unusual experience, but he found that he liked the sensation. He felt both lighter and taller . . . and perhaps a little naked.
The previous evening he had fallen asleep overwhelmed by despair, but the night had given him an idea.
He crossed the street and stepped onto the porch of the Girl’s house, that house that looked so much like something out of Greytown. He stood there for a few seconds and breathed in the cool morning air. Summer was almost over. His eyes were moist with memories of his friends, the Girl Who Eats Fire and the Kid Whose Laughter Makes Adults Run Away.
He didn’t knock. He turned the doorknob and pushed open the unlocked door.
He stepped inside and touched the walls. The Girl’s house spoke to him and revealed its secrets.
* * *
Years ago, when she first emerged from Greytown, the Girl Who Eats Fire barricaded one door of the house across the street from the Boy’s. The door was in the basement, under the staircase. The slanted wall there remembered the hammering and the nails.
She had emerged from that door, five years old, and dirty with blood and soot.
The Boy tried to pull off the planks with his bare hands, but he wasn’t strong enough. He looked around and found a hammer. It wasn’t much of a tool, but it was probably the same hammer the Girl had used. If it had been good enough to put up these planks, it would have to be enough to take them down.
* * *
Crossing the threshold of the long-condemned door, the Boy felt suspended in nothingness, a sensation not unlike what he’d experienced when he first penetrated the smog of Greytown, but then he emerged into a narrow passageway. Nails stuck out from the walls. They kept ripping his clothes and scratching his skin. The passageway smelled like a laundry hamper stuffed with old socks drenched in sour milk and rotten eggs.
To his right, there was a thumb-sized hole in the wall. When he looked through it, he saw an old man and an old woman sitting at a kitchen table. They looked almost the same, except the man was bearded and their clothes were different. They were very thin, much like the Girl, but their backs were crooked, their chins hanging halfway down their chests; their long grey hair was thin and wispy. Their clothes, also, were grey: the man wore a rumpled suit and tie badly in need of mending; the woman, a shapeless dress riddled with holes. Their skin was sickly grey.
The woman stood up and opened a cupboard door. She took a small box from the shelf, closed the door, and sat next to the man.
Together, they opened the box and took out its contents, one object at a time. The Boy thought it looked like a ceremony of some sort.
The first thing they took out was a candle, and then a candleholder, and then a matchbox. The woman placed the candle in the candleholder, and the man struck a match and lighted the candle.
Next, the woman took out baby pyjamas. The man reached in the box and brought out a pacifier. And then the Boy noticed that the old couple was crying quietly, tears slowly travelling down their grey cheeks. They continued to pull objects from the box: a rattle, baby shoes, a small frayed blanket. They laid these objects in a tidy arc around the candleholder’s base. Suddenly, the woman let out a deep sob. The man reached over, put an arm across her back, and tenderly kissed her cheek. His hand stroked her neck and his fingers rubbed her scalp. He held their heads against each other’s, and they cried together.
A lump formed in the Boy’s throat. He wanted to cry along with them. It felt wrong and dirty to be spying on these people, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop watching.
And then they took
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