Here's the first part of my Honors English 3 class short story. It's a mystery. ((And no, the narrator doesn't have a name. That's part of the mysteriousness.))
I'll begin my tale with a question. If one such as the reader of this page stood in a crowd, would that one find a sane individual amonst the teeming throng? Most would say, "What sort of absurd notion is this to wonder?"
If truths be spoken, I have no notion of the meaning of this myself. To the sane, a man may appear not as them, whereas the sane are not as himself. By this ability of discernment is defined the meaning of the mental state, but even at this one must add the crazy are still cognizant.
Ah, but who would come to this conclusino of all peoples other than shunned, child-eating, pocket-thieving, witch-cavorting, clan-dwelling Romani?
I came to be acquainted with such a one on a night far back enough to remember aright, yet meaningless in its distance other than to prove I had known this man by name for more forevers than seemed one lifetime times ten. I stood, at the time, to be starved to death on the cold streets of my home, and he to pocket a few soon enough worthless coins and move along with his band of vagabonds.
That is to say, if he was any other than Pavel Boyko. No, another would have settled in to gut me mercifully when I became too weak to move; Pesha observed my state a moment before drawing me under his coat and stowing me in his bunk. The next morn was as if I'd always stood with them, seperated alone by his single-armed embrace and the odd feeling he exuded that kept even the clansmen a good twenty paces off around us at all hours.
At the time we came in our travels with the band to a foggy, rain logged port town, Pesha was of middling youth. A man not old enough to father a child, though more of an adult than most others of the elder children that could work their trade. I was only slightly younger than my friend, off a few months to a year was my assumption--naught was told to me of his true reckoning. As such I judged by eye and most acts.
This night we wandered out to the outskirts of the town along the ragged, weather worn cliffs. The entire party trudged toward an old mansion house as nearly horizontal sheets began to spatter our huddled bodies violently. None among us wished to enter. It was a gadjay dwelling, obviously polluted.
However, the storm doubled its force, feeling as if the devil was lashing us with his favorite cat-o-nines. After a few hard minutes of pounding, a side door fell open and we were thrust into a dark room, sealed into the eerie space as the entrance blew shut.
It came suddenly that strange noises were heard from the floor above. No one dared make a peep in answer for fear of the evil sound finding us. One low voice swore against the outsiders of the building. I fought to swallow the growing lump in my throat.
Pesha settled his arm in its accustomed place, drawing my stiffening form to him and whispered in my ear for me to sleep. I closed my eyes. Someone prayed.
That's part one. :3 Comments, please.
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