How does it feel to pretend?

"It couldn't possibly get any colder," Second was saying jovially, leaning back in his wooden chair. It was one of those hard-backed chairs that made him sit upright and proud.

"There is proper moisture in the air to suggest possible rain," Watt countered with a little scowl on his face. His dark eyebrows moved up and down as he ran his light blue eyes critically over each of the framed paintings hanging on the wall. His chair did not have a hard back. His chair had a green velvet seat and arched, curly feet.

"Are you the weather man?" Second asked with a jeer.

"I have always been told that I have a face for television."

"Ha!"

Avery coughed and both boys turned to her. She was knitting something long and twisted, and rather blue, and she hummed very quietly to herself while she did this. Her light tangerine-coloured hair fell about her cheekbones and her long eyelashes kissed each other every once and a while.

"Back me up!" cried Second.

"About what?" asked Avery.

"Do your butlers not bring herbal anymore?" complained Watt. 

"They bring whatever they like," replied Avery, not looking up. "This time I believe it to be Earl Grey."

"Earl Grey is not herbal, Aves. It appears I cannot even have pleasure within my closest companion circle."

"It comes in a bag," Second said, with a hand motion not unlike that of scooping, which confused Watt.

"Are you trying to move something?" he asked with brows furrowed. 

"Am I?"

"Something out of thin air?"

Second sighed and leaned back again, tired. (His hand gestures had always bewildered his mate, if truth be told. It was like baking a cake with instructions written in a foreign language. Like elvish, Second thought, it is exactly like deciphering Elvish while trying to create a decadent masterpiece for an ethereal wedding).

"Brunei," Avery said suddenly, jerking Second out of his strawberry-swirl fantasy. "You're home."

The two boys watched as Avery carefully put her knitting on the table and rose silently and elegantly. Second narrowed his eyes, picturing her in Elvish dress.

Watt said, "Hello Brune. How goes the weather up at the peak?"

Brunei looked dishevelled and slightly slumped forward, as if he had carried a heavy load for long hours without breaks or mugs of hot chocolate. The snow sprinkled in his dark hair made him look like a coconut cupcake.

"'Up at the peak'," Second mimicked, looking like a spoilt Prince. "You don't make any sense, Wattary!"

Brunei said, "Hello chums," fairly cheerfully for someone who was missing most of his tapered hat. He put his arms around Avery, she murmured something at his ear that made him bend further, and Watt turned to Second and muttered, "All these pictures, you see them all? Why are they all blue?"

Second didn't have time to be concerned about the blue of pictures. The choice of hanging house decoration didn't interest him in the slightest! He leaned back- because his chair was at the end of the table and he couldn't see the pair- and called out to Brunei, "Mate, did they find the silver?"

"Oh, they have silver now?" Avery inquired, surprised and grim, and in need of a good polish. Her clothes and skin and hair all appeared a bit dull. She could have made a superb bell, Watt thought admiringly, his eyes slipping back to scrutinize the pictures in secret every now and then, if she had not been born a person.

Brunei smiled and it lit up his face. Second frowned. Watt pulled his eyeballs back to the activity and frowned as well. 

"They found a tidgy tippit o-"

"Tidbit," cut in Avery as she moved to the kitchen. She walked with an air of someone who wasn't paying any attention to her surroundings but she also carried herself lightly, like someone who thought they would fly away at any moment, and who was, possibly, ready for it.

"-of copper! Nothing else worth mentioning though."

"That's a shame," Second said, his heart pounding in an escalated way. He drummed his fingers on the table to hide the sound. 

Watt was fearful that the volume of his own increased heart rate would be discovered, only he was not so adept at covering it up. He leapt up at high speed, overturning the milk jug and plate of almond biscuits, announcing in a hurried voice, "I have to meet with the toilet, at once! Or else my bladder will fail and I will spill all over the furniture! Not that this chair is the most comfortable or the most lean- yes, I have seen lean chairs, I have seen gleaming and quivering chairs that couldn't possibly hold the buttocks of man and woman even though that is their life aim! I am sure, in the fullest, that they are sombre and in the practise of attending museums for the post-modern art, I am sure they critique! But, as I say!-" before sprinting from the room.

Second hid his teasing grin by pressing his lips together in a thin line. Brunei said, "Righto," in a noncommittal way and plopped himself into a chair. Second drummed louder.

Brunei called over the drumming: "HOW WAS AVERY TODAY?"

Second averted his gaze to the blue pictures. "WELL," he responded. How blue they were! He'd spent a lot of his time in a hazy belief that Watt made up half of his daily observations. But now, having seen the evidence with his own two eyes, he called out (careful to keep his eyes on the wall): "WHY SO MANY BLUE ONES?"

"BLUE ONES?" Brunei asked, sounding puzzled for sure. 

"THE PICTURES HERE ARE ALL A MIGHTY BLUE AND I CANNOT UNDERSTAND WHY THEY NEED TO BE SO. IS IT A TRICK? ARE THEY ALL ACTUALLY DIFFERENT COLOURS BUT YOU'VE MANAGED TO PUT SOMETHING IN THE LIGHTING?"

"AHH, NO, THEY ARE ALL BLUE."

"IS IT MY EYES? YOU'VE ADDED A MAGICAL INGREDIENT TO THE FOOD SERVED, SPECIALLY, LIKE A LIQUID POISON OR RESTORATIVE?"

Avery appeared at that moment carrying a large silver tray piled with grapes. Second stilled his fingers.

"Avery, thank god," Brunei said in a voice overflowing with gratitude, and Second had to wonder if he'd matched it entirely to the plate of grapes, and how he found the time. Was there nothing Brunei couldn't do?

"I thought you might be hungry after a long day at work," she placed the tray on top of the scattered cookies.

Isn't it bad enough that he's so damn good-looking? Second thought, still staring blindly at Brunei. He's like an irresistible bowl of melon. Exactly. Second felt his heart start up again, but he was too far gone. Like dipping a coffee spoon into the ravishing, impossibly cold, crisp yet moist, flesh of green wonderment...

Was he drooling?

"Your hand-towels are twelve thread-count!" Watt came in like a verbal ambush. "Twelve! That is almost one thousand less than I expected of you, of both of you!"

"What needs to be counted twelve times?" Avery asked in a voice like a gush of rushing air. 

"No, no, butternut, it's to be counted by a thousand, twelve times, and then taken from a thousand by twelves..." Brunei looked up at Watt's face of injustice. "Isn't it?"

Second laughed. "Better with a twist of lemon!"

Watt closed his eyes and put a finger in between them, on his nose ridge. "I cannot express-"

"Then don't!" called out Second. He stood up, swiping a handful of grapes and thrusting them at Watt in a form of alliance and gallantry. 

"Oh," Avery turned, admitting the cloud of boredom to descend once again. "They were talking about our towels, Brunei. We have substandard quality and it terrifies them."

Brunei popped a grape into his mouth and chortled around it. "They have the same fear down at the gates. They worry over underwear stretch and belt shine and how to correctly add cinnamon to pancakes."

Avery laughed. She touched his shoulder. Watt and Second stared. The bunch of grapes lay forgotten by their shoes.

That touch is not sacred! Second thought, aghast. How small her hands are to be able to apply the right amout of pressure, the pressure only a man can make! 

How cold the tents must be down at the gates, thought Watt, in a practical and highly motivational take on elemental temperature. There must be all sorts of ways to keep warm. He praised himself for thinking like a weather reporter in this time of stress.

"Why not try the hands of man?!" Second called out desperately at the same time that Watt declared, "Men give off TWICE the amount of body heat compared to a recent study conducted in Poland and revised in America, once over, just try it!"

Brunei asked politely, but with concern and mild apathy just to keep things interesting, "Have you both caught a chill?"

Avery said in a wispy, whispery voice: "It just won't do." 

She placed her small hand on the door knob and pulled it open, letting the wind rush in, dash around the room and jostle the pictures on the wall, rattle cups on their saucers and overturn the biscuits so their almonds showed.

Brunei rose slowly. "Avery!" he called.

"Avery!" Second and Watt shouted together.

They stood very still and watched her step gently out into the night.

~

avery

I think of you only,

avery,

won't you come home.

"...A scone with your tea?"

"GOD DAMMIT, CLARENCE! WHY DO YOU INSIST ON NAMING ALL OUR CHILDREN WITH J? That woman and her five children, the absolute DEATH of me..."
"All 'J', hah! You'd know them all by now if you put things back where they belong-"
"Eh?-"
"The SPOONS, Harold, the SPOONS?"
"Spoon? Good-"
"Look at that over there! Just look at this mess. Soup spoons in mixed with the dessert spoons, how I ever manage to find the right one I'll never know..."
"Who's worried about the dishes? This is all to do with your bleeding singing in the shower-"
"Oh! MY singing-"
"That's right-"
"And I suppose you think you're some Saint. Saint Harold, from the church of 'Sorry Your Worship, These Sock Are From Last Friday'-"
"Saturday church service is allowing day old socks!"
"Not Tuesdays."
"THEY'RE ALL DOING IT!"
"AND WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT IT? Since when is Church time your regular? You never."
"I always!"
"The only time I ever saw you in a church was at our wedding, and even then! You were out of there faster than- is that my pie you're eating just now?"
"This? This is-"
"Harold..."
"Hold off, you angry bat, this is from Macy-"
"Next door's Macy?"
"Macy from that house with the green fence-"
"FROM NEXT DOOR! Give me-"
"Quit chasing me!"
"You think my singing is bad, just wait until I add a little SOMETHING into your next meatloaf. Now give it!"
"Poison!"
"GIVE IT!"
"OW, that was my knee you ung-"
"Ow!"
"God send you to hell-"
"Give. me. the.-"
"If I can't eat rhubarb pie in my own KITCHEN, CLARENCE, MY OWN KITCHEN! Where does that leave our marriage?"
"You think I'm going to let you eat HER baked goods?!"
"Better than that hideous dress you made me wear two weeks ago-"
"That was SILK!"
"IT WAS HIDEOUS AND MADE MY THIGHS STICK TOGETHER!"
"Oh, go iron your hair, you little sissy."
"Make me! Oh, forgot, ma'am, I'm eating next door's pie..."
"ARGHHHHHHH!"
"GOOD GOD-"
"OW!"
"PUDDINGTON!"
"MY PIE!"
"...well, technically.., it's Macy-"
"YOU LOUSY MONGREL!"
"Clarence!... Stop!... Can't breathe!... Please, I love you.... I've... always loved you. They meant nothing, all that.... Water. All water under the bridge, eh?..."
"Harold..."
"Yes. Yes... I'm here. Just loosen... the grip..."
"Oh... Oh, Harold. It's... It's just... it's the mats!"
"..."
"So wet, all the time!"
"...Eh?"
"I come out from the shower and there they are, sitting neatly- because I fold them straight away out of the dryer, you know. They don't come with those lines already in- all arranged in a row, and then I STAND ON THEM, with my WET FEET! And they get WET!"
"Clarence, love. Come here."
"Oh Harold!"
"Have you always worn this scented powder?"
"Today's my first try. I only put it on my neck because it says on the packaging it could upset the thinner skinned areas."
"It's a lovely rose scent."
"Isn't it?"
"Mmm."
"Harold? Are you working out again?"
"Quite. I do get a few bench presses in after work most afternoons."
"You can surely tell."
"Can you?"
"Oh, yes, very muscly and strong."
"Good."
"Harold, dear? Will you help me clean up after I blow my nose?"
"Of course, love. Here, I'll set this chair right and you can sit down a while."
"Oh, my knight in shining armour!"
"Well... I can carry ten cans of paint at a time..."
"So strong and handsome! It's a marvel every day!"
"Marvel at yourself, Clarence. The wonder of beauty and elegance that shines upon you is everlasting..."
"Oh! God! Take me here, in the kitchen!"
"Yes! let's..."
"We can have another..."
"Another?"
"Another baby, Harold, oh, thin-"
"Now hold on a minute!"

~

Which song is on constant repeat?

Maurice sat in his sunny spot on the window sill, sneering. His first thought this morning had been about the peace and quiet he would experience once The Girl left for the day, but alas! She had not left! She had opened the curtains so the sunlight spilled away from his dry, cracked skin and into her room, warming up her dirty carpet and rouge-coloured clogs and pile of dusty papers that had been sitting on her bar-heater since the dawn of time, probably.
Psh!
Then she had bounced around with an ungodly amount of energy, using that white, vibrating square non-stop and dazzling with brightness and sparkles that- in his world- should mean she had some toxic illness preceding death, but here, in this upside down mad world, merely meant she was 'busy making plans for the day ahead'.
Well! Sorry if he didn't believe a word of that! Maurice scratched his eyebrow as he watched The Girl play around with another, larger, silver square. Her attention was admittedly absolute. He narrowed one eye (the eye that could see her), uncomfortable with the act of throwing niceties to undeserving people, even if This Girl would never hear his compliments. Look at her,  he grumbled in is head. Look at the way she sits with her legs crossed. Are we in a type of prayer meeting? Does she know her blazer is on backwards?  
He focused back on the lump of ceramic shit that commanded his attention most days.
Maurice is a gnome. He went to those YIG meetings and took the flyers in his thick, grasping hand, because he had wanted to know more and his hands always wanted to grasp. He liked to do things. He was industrious. Some days, when he wasn't staring at this monstrous ballsack, he liked to imagine he was really a dwarf who had been kidnapped and forcefully brainwashed into becoming compliant and perfectly-painted. He liked to believe there was an alliance forming, a rescue mission arising, perhaps somewhere in the East as that is where most good things rise.
"We can take the underground railroad! It should be round in twenty," came a voice and Maurice jerked his seeing eye to the activity.
Oh, The Boy is here. Maurice fumed quietly. Now they're going to start that jig again, as if I haven't seen enough bloody Kilts!
"The underground!" retorted The Girl in a dismal voice, "Yeah whatever. I thought they closed that ages ago."
"Closed?" asked The Boy as he wandered up and down the small amount of carpet place available. The Girl sure did know how to keep guests uncomfortable and pacing.
"Went down for repairs, you didn't know? They found a body, half an arm, and no teeth-"
"Wait, no teeth?"
"None."
"Hmm." The Boy stared at the piles of shoes and display-flamingos crammed around the bookcase, as if they would give him some inspiration. Maurice chuckled mildly. "What about ninth?"
The Girl shrugged, "Could do."
"Come on! We can take a gnome and blow it up!"
What now? Maurice blinked. He watched as The Girl looked over her scattered collection of gnomes. He squinted. She didn't look the least bit apprehensive! Hadn't She spent hours upon hours painstakingly painting each and every one of them, only to set them some place high where all they could do was stand and stare? Didn't she know how tiring that was?
"Come on..." wheedled The Boy. Look at Him, all wired up and restless. Maurice glared at His thin, shiny belt. He used to have one exactly the same!
"Yeah, alright," The Girl said, getting into the rhythm. "Let me make a few calls."
"Which one?"
What fucking traitors. Maurice tried to look for each gnome but couldn't due to his position, and he wondered for the thousandth time why She had placed him sideways on this ruddy windowsill, and he cursed Her stupidity, Her spontaneity, Her relaxed opinions and Her constant sleep-talk of magic hats and enchanted pumpkins. For god's sake, didn't She live in the real world at all!?
"Ummm..." The Girl glanced around pleasantly. The Boy glanced also, but in a shifty manner, and Maurice swore He shot a glance his way. "The fucking tards", Maurice muttered aggressively. Pick the pink one! The pink one! All he does is sit and smile and it's fucking LUDICROUS!
She did look up at the gnome with the pink jacket and glittered, yellow hat. Maurice tensed. His seeing eye started to water as he stared as hard and as furious as he could up at The Girl. His other eye gazed unseeing into a wall of red.
For the love of every unholy dick out in the world...
She stood up and Maurice almost yelped. "The monochrome gnome! Take that one."
You fucking cuntstop.
Maurice felt Her cool, thin fingers enclose his head as She picked him up lazily and without respect and handed him over to warmer, longer fingers that gripped his torso. Colours flew around him and he had to admit, he felt a little motion sick.
"The black one!" The Boy exclaimed without originality. "The best one!" claimed The Girl lamely.
They both deserved to rot in the furthest pit of hell, the darkest cave of Hades, the painfulest-
"So ten then?" said The Boy happily, suddenly flipping Maurice about, ignorant of his sensitive digestion issues and eczema patches on both legs.
The world whirled and bounced. His head swam. His mouth was unused to this movement and he, embarrassingly, started to drool but doubt The Boy noticed so he didn't worry. The Girl said something and The Boy stopped flipping long enough for Maurice to catch sight of his lumped-up window-sill companion. How happy and peaceful he looked. Maurice tried to focus between woozy blinks at this real garden gnome with whom he had never spoken to. All those sandwich lunches in the sun, all those bird-watching games seen with one eye, all those midnight conversations under the moon and fits of giggles while listening to The Girl rave on about a potted Geranium losing its spark or her 'Durnham' dying before she could finish reading it more crack stories of madness.
Durnham, thought Maurice as he lay rather comfortably, if a bit stiff, in The Boy's hand. Probably code for obscene sex. He should make an anonymous call and have Her locked up.
"Yeah, he's the worst one... ugh."
Blasphemey! Maurice perked up at the injustice of this conversation. She had painted him entirely black because She was bored of colour. She had the real problem here, not him. She was 'ugh', whatever that was. No doubt more code for how incompetent and utterly obscure She happened to be.
The Boy laughed at something unfunny and walked off. Maurice caught a last glimpse of the marvellous gnome he called lumpy, the gnome who had actual curves and shades, with real features, wrinkled hands, folded boot fabric and a belt with visually genuine buckle holes. The realest garden gnome who sat there smiling but never talked or ate or giggled because his realness didn't extend past his exterior.
Well! Maurice thought, as his world turned and turned so the real and unreal merged together like different flavours of melted ice cream in the same bowl, he may be the realest gnome around, but I am going on an adventure! I am going to see the underground and the body without teeth and the-
He stopped, horrified.
"Come on, then!" called The Boy from a dark area with fluffier carpet and immensely more paper piles than that air-headed female. "Get a move on!"
"Yeah yeah, keep your hair on!"
Maurice was distracted by a book titled: 'How tall is my grass? and Where to put my spare awning?... Household hints you never knew you needed!' and he thought, What the fuck is this shit?
The Girl appeared carrying a large backpack that was outrageously too big for her weak little arms, The Boy bounced on his feet in some form of excitement or mental retardation, and Maurice suddenly remembered Their earlier conversation.
Good lord. These lousy moronic fuckwits are going to blow me up!


[All language and representations are extremely fictional due to the 'voice of Maurice', who is a very angry, cynical gnome and uses verbal profanities as often as a coffee addict would drink finely brewed coffee (which is often, as I happen to be one).]  (4__4)v