The Umbrella

I’ve never liked bikes. I inherited my sister’s as a child, and spent a long summer riding up and down our road until one of the other kids pointed out that it was a girl’s bicycle, which to a young boy was like hearing that the handlebars were laced with poison. I never rode it again, except for an experimental ride in the back garden, where I couldn’t be seen but kept tumbling into the pond.

The evening sun cast long shadows of rich amber across the park, and the heady, perfumed smell of late summer filled the air. But strewed across the well-kept grass were pieces of brown packaging, fluttering gently in the breeze. An empty envelope skittered into a flowerbed, and a scrap of white paper drifted along until it hit an upturned shoe. It strained for a moment against the polished black leather, then gave up and sank to the ground.

‘Did you want a drink, Charlie?’ The boy grabbed the bottle of cherryade from the middle of the table and poured, watching the bubbles build until a pink foam rose just above the the rim of the little plastic tumbler, then waiting for it to retreat before topping it off.

An incredible, eight-foot heap. It stood now tall, misshapen, and blinking stupidly, but it had started with just one mobile phone, cast down into the dirt like a firmly-planted flag. Word spread and more people came, and more devices were thrown down, and cheers were raised, for the people were taking back society.

A ruddy nose emerged in the gap between the curtains. Above, two beady eyes glared at the children who dared to play outside. Then there was a flash. Startled, the children looked towards the window, but it was empty. This would prove to be an unusual day for Andrew Shaw.

The river reflected the city of Northwilde. It fled the mountains and carved dark furrows across the land. It careened through bleak suburbs and crashed into downtown, gathering a scum of polluted refuse and depositing it on slimy banks of discarded fast food wrappers. The squat silhouette of the new bridge jutted out across the water, and the brightest lights in the city had gathered around a twinkling marquee on the shore.

It is an indisputable fact, that heroes and everyday life must never intertwine. However, in every lifetime, unavoidable circumstances conspire to place that fragile world in opposition to the towering ideal of a Venus or Adonis, just as the playwright dashes his doomed cast of players against the rocks of Fate.

The lake was a black mirror, scarred with the shadows of trees, and the moon a bright smudge on its surface. A boy stood on the sand, letting the cool water lap over his bare feet. The air was heavy with the smell of damp earth, and a hush fell upon the world. He looked out, and the dark made the lake an ocean, with the distance to the other shore as unfathomable as its depth.

Russ woke with a start. A screaming whistle cut the night air, and his senses came to. The oppressive weight of the tarpaulin covering him. The smell of sweat. The ache of his muscles, tired from running. He sat up, bundling the tarp aside, and breathed the cool air. A freight train stretched lazily along the tracks nearby, steam blooming from its underbelly and spreading across the ground. Russ swung his legs over the edge of the crate and slipped his feet into the clouds.

The team made a hasty camp as thick, grey clouds advanced over the mountains. And then the murders began. Matthew was first to find the body, splayed awkwardly among its own entrails. Blood crept out of the tent and fled back down towards the valley.

It was a Friday when the storm came. It battered the old school building, shaking the walls and tearing at the roof like a starved beast. Inside, rain streamed from cracks in the ceiling onto open exercise books and abandoned desks.

It was a pleasant spring morning when Mysto the Munificent arrived at the orphanage. The children had probably seen him coming; the top of his pointed hat always bobbed up and down above the garden wall long before he reached the gate. He walked up the path, his heavy blue robes brushing past thickets of unkempt grass. Reaching the grand old doors, he raised a bony finger and rang the doorbell. A great din arose within.