Albert Huffington lives alone. His home reeks of isolation. Tacked to the recliner chair, peeking at the outside world through one lifted slat in the blinds, he judges. Scowling, he maligns the married couple pushing their baby carriage on the sidewalk. He curses the neighbors for irritating his ears with their leaf blowing. He thinks of ill omens for the boy on the bike.
Albert Huffington is lonely. He doesn't hesitate to vilify the world, to blame everyone else for his own misfortune.
Relieved to be standing on solid ground, supported by 2 wobbly legs, his mind spinning, Terrence could truthfully declare "That was a dilly of a roller-coaster ride!"
Albert had done his research, as usual. The natives of the island had a common cultural heritage, and generally were a homogeneous folk. But some time in the not too distant past, a rift among the inhabitants lead to a state of diglossia with the native language, creating 2 distinct dialects.
While most backyards in the suburbs consist mostly of manicured green grass with a little bit of concrete for a patio, Jim's place was quite the opposite. His backyard was entirely one massive concrete patch, adorned with a tiny sward juste outside the back door. That way Jim only had too mow a few squarespace feet in grass.
Sean John knew all about the customs of the island nation. Weddings were the grandest events. It was tradition for the mother of the groom to provide the bridal clothing. This bridal dress has cultural and religious symbolism, containing meaningful patterns and material. It is, ideally, the very same dress used by the groom's mother on her wedding day. Thus, it was generally a point of pride for these people to keep this trousseau ironed, starched, sealed in a clothier bag, and locked away in a closet for years.
Sean John walked along sandy surfaces daily. The special resistance of beachy sand was no deterrent for him. But for the unlucky elderly woman he was escorting along the shore, it was quite a trachle.
The musical instrument lay on the table, taunting Sean John. With his mouth sealed by Dr Pantigal's poison, his only chance of making enough noise to attract help wouldn’t be told play the zither as loud as he can. But was the zither booby-trapped? A wire was running from it into the wall, and where it went from there was anybody's guess.
Sean John stared at the mangled creature swimming around the tiny tank. Dr Pantigal's research and charts were posted on the wall, spread on the table. This shark was butchered, it's brain replaced. It did nothing but receive and enact orders transmitted by Dr Pantigal. It had been turned into an automaton. It looked like a normal shark, but it had no mind, no free will.
Little Bryan stared greedily at the pie. It sure was a lunker - it hardly fit into its carrying case, and the baker had to squeeze down the lid, pressing against the fresh, steaming curves of the baked good.
David had spent too many hours alone. The tears had long since dried up, and it was only through involuntary biological procedures that he remained a living sac of meat. He could no longer move, could no longer bring himself to expend the energy to leave his bed. Bathed in sweat and sorrow, he existed de profundis.
Yurivich walks home, just like he does every day after stepping off the bus. His feet crunch along eternally packed snow, a solitary figure walking across an icy plain. The wind wuthers fiercely, and his black figure pushes against it.
