Rainbow

It was only after a string of terrible rainy days that the sun decided to reveal itself. Sol cast its gleaming rays over the village, bringing the much needed taste of hope and joy to all the townsfolk with a beautiful light that happened to blind anyone that was daft enough to look directly into it. The light bounced off the wet streets and buildings and streamed directly into the people's eyes, which surprisingly only made them all the more happier as they squinted and bumped into one another.

It had been a long storm.

However, not everyone in the village was in fact happy. Not happy at all.

Wet droplets of rain still hung about the lush leaves of the maple tree and rhododendron bushes in front of Sir Burrburrish's small brick house. Sir Burrburrish himself could be seen through the front window. His frown was prominently visible from under his flowing mustache; anyone who passed by the window could clearly see the telltale signs of unhappiness. They could also see him lounging in the massive windowsill under several pillows and blankets, never once actually moving.

Inside the house, everything was absolutely silent. Not even the clocks ticked loud enough to hear. "Harrumph!" Burrburrish snorted, yet again for attention. The sunlight poured in through the windows and fell over his dull eyes. He showed no signs of discomfort, blinking periodically. The light also happened to illuminate quite a bit of dust that happened to be floating around in the room. A bit of it collected in his right eye.

"Martisha!" Sir Burrburrish called out. There was no need for a bell, his voice was enough. A young maid slowly made her way in, slogging her feet unhappily to let Burrburrish both know that she was approaching and that she hated her job immensely.

"What is it Master Burrburrish?" she muttered.

Burrburrish looked around the room grumpily and turned his head towards the direction of his maid.

"What has happened to the rain? I cannot hear it anymore."

"That is because the rain has stopped, master." She rolled her eyes. Blind people. The nerve.

"Mmph! Mmph! Well, that is surely a shame," he said, mostly to himself, "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Whatever you wish my lord. It's your house."

He wasn't really a lord. He didn't have to know though.

Burrburrish blinked a few times, absorbing the information he was just given. The collected dust was pushed into two thin lines at the top and bottom of his right eyelid. Martisha winced.

Burrburrish held up a finger.

"I will go out for a stroll then! And stretch my old tired legs!" he declared.

"Marvelous."

"I'll need my Outdoor Coat for this. Get the valet, woman!"

"Yes master." Martisha rolled her eyes for the twenty-first time that day, and began to make loud stomping noises with her feet in place. The master smiled to himself as her stomping became fainter and fainter, until she stopped completely and just stood silent in front of him.

"Good riddance, unhappy wretch," he said to himself.

Martisha almost killed him with her glare.

She then started up again, stomping in place, getting louder and louder until she stopped yet again.

"'Ello masta, going out for a jollie follick today awe we?" she said, this time in a deep scratchy voice.

"Yes, yes I do believe I am, Proobs," Burrburrish told the person that he believed to be the long-dead valet Proobs.

"I will need my walking cane, my top hat, and the Outdoor Jacket."

"Oi! Yo Outdoor Jackeet? 'Aven't seen you use that ol' thing in quite a loong tieme now eh?" It was amazing how much Martisha could get into her role.

"Mm, yes well that is because it has stopped raining after all these weeks, in case you haven't heard."

"Noooo."

"I know. Quite a shame. I enjoyed listening to the water pitter-patter against the glass," he sighed and looked over dramatically at literally nothing. "But we can't have everything we want in life, can we?"

"I s'pose nawt Gov'na- er... Masta. Lemme jus' get yo coat an' yo hat n' cane and I'll send yae on yae weah out." Martisha went over to the closet as she said this and thumbed through the old coats and vests and soiled bathrobes that were contained in it. She pulled out one rather moth-eaten nightgown. In its day it had been a woman's deluxe nightgown with exuberant Japanese patterns and frilly lace around the edges, but in this modern era the lace had rotted down to filthy ruffles and the gown itself had lost all of its designs due to the curse of time and poor clothing care.

From the top of the closet shelf she pulled out an ancient petrified tree branch, as well as a ripped top hat crafted years ago out of construction paper and glue.

"'Ere you awe masta, finest in the town! Ye'll looook like a propa gent." Martisha hurried over with the closet items and set them down next to her employer. Sir Burrburrish held out his hands like a child, and Martisha reluctantly helped him up from his windowsill.

"Oh my, what soft hands you have there for yourself Proobs. What is your secret?" Burrburrish commented.

"Err... Goat's milk, my loord," she replied.

Burrburrish took this in. Everything suddenly became quiet again as the old man paused for quite along time. The clocks were still silent.

Then: "Hmm!"

Martisha quickly draped the nightgown around his shoulders and plopped the paper hat onto his balding head as he continued to think in silence. She handed him the branch. "And yo cane sa."

"Thank you, thank you my good Proobs." The old man sighed. "If it were not for you Proobs, I do not believe I would have held on to my dear life for this long. I simply can not stand that young woman I have employed," he said.

"Ah, me neitha masta... But den again she does do all the cookin' and cleanin' and makes sure yo always comfortable like she proomised 'er dead aunt she would all those years ago for some reason that she's forgotten to be honest..."
She caught herself, but it was too late.

Sir Burrburrish winced after thinking for a bit.

"I suppose."

Without saying another word, Sir Burrburrish felt his way to the front door with his branch, and slowly walked out with a pleasant "Tootle-loo," as he slipped out. The door shut behind him, and after a few seconds Martisha let out a heavy sigh.

In the outer reaches of his front garden, Sir Burrburrish breathed in the crisp petrichor air. The soft wind blew the few remaining clouds out of the clear sky. The rhododendron branches swayed this way and that, releasing several droplets of water onto the nearby grass each time. Burrburrish shivered as it blew through his Outdoor Jacket. A lone butterfly happened to flutter down from the dripping trees, yet another beauty of the world that Burrburrish would never see or hear. The insect flapped around his head a few dozen times without his knowledge, and eventually settled on the tip of his nose. The man panicked at this and promptly crushed it with his free hand while hitting himself in the face.

"Blarst-Fuggles!" he exclaimed.

He quickly hobbled along the soaked stone path with his branch cane, muttering curses under his breath. He would have continued to do so for a matter of minutes if he had not suddenly bumped into another person in the garden that he wasn't aware of. They clashed with an astounding "Oomph!"

"Oomph! I beg your pardon sir! What are you doing in my garden?!" he asked the stranger.

Sir in question happened to be a little girl, a frumpy dress draped over her with designs similar to that of what Burrburrish's Outdoor Jacket had once displayed.

"Sorry mister! I didn't mean to wander into your garden! I was looking up the whole time I was walking! I swear!" the little girl began to sputter out in a panic.

"Hush hush my boy, no need to make excuses. A man does not lie his way out of his faults and misdemeanors, he simply owns up to them with a sense of bravery."

"I... But I..."

"Now good lad," the man hobbled about, shaking his finger in the air, "why do you not tell me of what it was you were looking at in the sky? Is it another raincloud by chance? I would love another storm."

The girl cocked her head to the side, rather confused.

They stood there like that, in the garden amongst the rhododendrons, for a matter of awkward seconds, which felt like minutes. The girl finally found the strength to answer, to own up to her mistake like a well behaved young man.

"I was looking at that rainbow over there sir, it's very pretty," she pointed up to the sky, to a large rainbow that loomed over the house. Burrburrish's head stayed down.

"Rainbow?"

"Um, yes."

"What, by any chance, is a rainbow my dear child?"

The girl withdrew her hand, now using it to scratch her head. What was a rainbow anyway? She was much too young to know the scientific answer to these sorts of things, but old enough to know that such answers existed.

"Weeeelllllll, a rainbow, is... an arch, in the sky, with... a lot of different types of colors streaming through it... yes," she said.

Sir Burrburrish angrily winced.

"Mmph, colors! I can not see colors boy, I am blind! I don't even know what a color is, and frankly I have had just about enough of people using them to describe things to me," the old man complained.

"Ah! Um... Okay. Colors are... Colors are... Different, looking, things... On things... I don't know how to explain it..." She was having trouble with this.

"Oh hogwash!" Burrburrish retorted, "You're the most unhelpful little boy I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. Go run along before I smack you with my cane!"

"What cane?"

"This cane! The one I am holding in my hand!"

"That tree branch?"

"It is not a tree branch child it is a cane! It was my grandfather's, and his grandfather's before it. It has come down a long line of Burrburrishes, and you dare insult it by calling it a tree branch?!"

Sir Burrburrish, in a fit of fury, lifted the branch over his head, intending to strike. The little girl raised her fists in the air, taking a fighting stance in preparation of defending herself. The old man let out a war cry.

"Aaaaaiiiiiieieieieieieeieieiaaaahh!!!!"

The cane quickly lowered, zooming past Burrburrish's head, towards the intended little girl thought little boy, standing his but really her ground, and was directly caught in someone else's hand.
Burrburrish's eyes went wide in surprise.

Martisha, gripping the branch, glared at him.

"Mister Burrburrish!" she exclaimed.

Burrburrish looked over at the maid, confused.

"What?!" he snapped.

The maid promptly yanked the branch away from him, hiding it behind her back.

"I believe it's time for you to come back into the household, 'Master.' You have caused quite enough trouble for today. As well as traumatizing this young girl."

"I'm not traumatized," the girl reported.

"This is not a young girl! This is an unhelpful brat of a boy!" the man exclaimed, "And bug off! You are not my mother! Not my REAL mother!"

"What are you even talking about?!" yelled Martisha back at him.

"I do not even know anymore!! I just... I just... Hhhrrrrmmmmmmmm!!!!!!!"

Sir Burrburrish hunched over himself, cupping his hands into fists. His body began shaking violently, as his face turned a certain color that he had never had the pleasure of visualizing. His hair suddenly stood up on its own, and his mustache quivered like no other. The two women stood back and stared in disbelief as suddenly, in a flash of smoke and mist, Sir Burrburrish snapped out of existence in a rage of anger and frustration, leaving only a darkened scorch mark in the grass amongst the rhododendrons.

CHALLANGE TWELVE

I WAS ORIGINALLY GOING TO GO WITH SPACE WESTERN.
However, I shall save that for another time.

Challenge 12 is to write a descriptive scene without using any colors.
GO.

TRUE TRUTH HISTORY: THE POPE AND TECHNOLOGY

As all of you might or might not have heard the Pope of Catholicism, Pop Benedict Numero Sixteen (as he's known to his friends) has opened a Twitter account. The world waits in eager anticipation to have their ears filled to bursting with 160 characters of Popely wisdom. Already Dicty has surpassed many other religious leaders in number of followers and he has yet to even make a post. The world waits in agony for the long process to be completed. First the Pope writes out a sermon in Classical Church Latin, from there he hands it down to his Cardinal of Translation who interprets the Latin to mean a number of different things. The Cardinal then hands down his translation to a number of Bishops who then each separately interpret the translation and pass it down to their various underlings. However at this stage in the process the Cardinal of Contention usually steps in. This man's job is to re translate the Pope's initial sermon into a totally different, prettier document that he then passes down to the same Bishops. These Bishops then move diagonally to the lay people of the church who condense these thousands of conflicting interpretations into their own 160 character "Personal Pope Grams" which are then returned to the Pope by doves. The Pope then selects one interpretation, declares it to be God's will and hands it to his great nephew to spice up and post on the internet.
This process has many roots in ancient traditions of Christianity, besides the internet bits, this practice has gone on for thousands of years. I personally just sent in my Pope Gram of King Jame's Leviticus Verse 11-18 this morning. I THINK ITS MOSTLY ABOUT ALIENS.
The addition of the internet to this timeless process deserves some speculation however. Throughout history the Church has always had an aversion to technology. We all remember in 1984 when Bill Gates, the inventor of the internet, made his Pilgirmage to the Vatican to receive the Pope's blessing. The Pope refused to see him and simply requested that Gates "purge his body of the vampiric taint of computers." The Cardinal of Exorcism then showed Gates to his hotel room where Gates found "only a magic circle carved into the carpet. There wasn't even a minibar." THERE WASN'T EVEN A MINIBAR. It is hypothesized that the Pope had given specific orders to exorcise the Demon of Progress from Mr. Gates. Although if the orders really came from his Magnificent Popeishness still remain a mystery. Needless to say Bill Gates was exocommunicated.
This attitude can be traced all the way back to the Vampire Wars of the late Renaissance. Where the Medici and Dracula waged a secret War against the Catholic Church demanding that the Pope begin accepting such true truth's as the printing press science and aliens. The Pope eventually capitulated but only once the vampire's had agreed to only wage outright wars in the style of Underworld one of the Pope's favorite vampire woodcuts.

The Plagues of Milton Falls

Molly Brandon was the daughter Lilith Brandon, a waspish and vaguely unattractive woman with prematurely white hair. She worked for Milton Falls' single elementary school, not as a teacher, but an office assistant and the children, as children tend to do, spread stories of her sinister mastery of magic, possibly based on an overheard conversation by their parents on the topic of Lilith's previous career as a "no-good pagan hippy." In truth, Lilith held not a magical bone in her body, and her most pagan tendencies since her early twenties happened to be a propensity for soy products and a large amber stone she sometimes wore around her neck.
Molly, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. And the stories spread across the play ground held with them a kernel of truth dismissed by Milton Falls adult population. The occasional strange occurence around the girl was written off as happenstance: Children's sudden sickness after refusing her a turn on the swings, Jasper Williams ending up in the top of the oak tree by the school yard when the boy could barely climb a staircase without falling... all dismissed. Her teachers, however, all noted her strange, focused green eyes and found themselves uneasy in punishing her frequent misdeeds.
So when Molly Brandon lost the school beauty pageant and swore a plague upon the houses of Milton Falls. only the children took heed.
The next day was Friday, and people across the small town awoke to find their fish tanks recently vacated, not even a stray scale left behind. Lies were consoled to howling children, and stories were swapped and found to be uneasily similar.
Late Friday night, though it had been clear all weak, a loud, heavy rain berated the towns rooftops.
Saturday began like its fellow days except for the preponderance of frogs in the tall grass, and the children had contests of who could catch the most.
At Sunday church, there was an increase of squirming and scratching amoung the pews, even more then then usually provoked by Reverend Tannessy's drawling sermon.
On Monday, the children sat in the school house, still squirming and watching 20 or so fat, blue flies buzz just above their heads. The windows were opened in an attempt to draw them outside, but only succeeded in drawing more in. 
Tuesday, Mr. Landing's old dairy cow dropped dead of seemingly natural causes. The children were diagnosed with a lice outbreak, each one's hair laboriously tested positive by the school nurse and sent home with an instruction sheet directing them to buy certain shampoo's and avoid sharing hats. All of them, that is, save Molly Brandon whose black hair was curiously lose-free. The school nurse send her home with the instruction sheet anyway for good measure.
Wednesday, what had at first appeared to be a strangely simultaneous outbreak of chicken-pox was found to be an inexplicable outbreak of boils. The boils were confined to several members of Molly Brandon's second grade class, though Molly Brandon herself was untouched. The rumors now leaked into the adult community. The newly busied pediatrician prescribed anti-itch cream.
Thursday, despite the mild April weather, a hail storm struck the town. It hailed from 4 am in the morning until 11 that night, and school was cancelled, more out of the shock of the staff than any actual danger to the children. 
Friday, Molly Brandon did not attend class. Not many of the children attended class, and those that did were sent home, as an infestation of locusts had come upon the school during the night and it had been condemned. The pest control men found it odd that locusts had chosen to infest a building, a very out-of-character behavior for them.
That afternoon, a troop of boil-free children headed up to the Brandon's cottage. They pleaded that Molly come out to face them, and, failing to call her out, threw rocks at the windows only to be chased away by Lillith. Lillith, who was not particularly concerned about attending work, but more so about the safety of her daughter and her windows, decided to ground Molly for a month if she refused to fix whatever havoc she had wrecked upon the children of Milton Falls. Molly was despondent. Only when Lillith threatened to repeal her dessert, television and library privileges did Molly give in, and stomp off to her room.
Saturday was quiet. The children not dare emerge from their houses.
Sunday, it was found that nothing had happened the previous day. A scant congregation attended church. The children played carefully.
Monday, the school reopened, to both the relief and sorrow of its attendees.

I wrote a thing.

 He stood perfectly still, a paper cut out against the window. His sharp shouldered suit coat edged like a shadow puppet. The light of day creating an illusion of dimensionlessness to his figure his legs dashed like angry brush strokes against the white blue back drop of the metropolis skyline he faced. As I watched he took a slim black phone from an inner pocket of his suit. I held the imagine of a man of shadow, reaching into himself and withdrawing some strange black souvenir for the pleasure of us normal people burdened to exist in all three dimensions.
 I chastised myself for letting my mind wander, I was already spinning tales of shadow realm creatures and villains. This was a time for focus. One of the most important encounters of my life was about to take place. Reflecting, I had no idea that so much could change so quickly. But I will come to that later.
His conversation finished he snapped the phone closed with a decisive snick. The sound cut the air of the still room and I realized that for the minutes I had stood there I had neither moved nor spoken. I had simply listened to his voice make pleasantries with who I could only assume was a business colleague. It struck me too that I had not paid any mind to the words spoken. Only that a conversation had been held and similarly resolved while I looked on. Like a screen had been brought between me and this man in black, a screen that muffled experience beyond it.
I had answered an ad. Most people don't put any stock in classified ads anymore but I had been paging through looking for a couch when I had seen a small advert cramped into the bottom left corner of the last page that simply said "You are needed." I expected some sort of charity case or religious motivations even a suicide group. But all there was beneath it was a number. It was a Saturday and I had been nursing my third cup of coffee idly planning the rest of my empty day. I would watch television, read, warm up some chili I had in the fridge... (and then a thought came unbidden into my head) I could call that number.
"Please sit." The man had turned. His dark, sharp shoes made a soft click, not unlike his phone, against the marble tile. He made a large sweeping gesture that finished to indicate a pair of white sofas in the right corner of the large dimly lit office. His voice was frightening. I can't explain precisely why but deep in my core something thrilled against those two words. Yet at the same time another part of my, dictated I'm sure by human social consciousness, murmured some variation of "thanks and took a seat."
"Would you like something to drink?" He asked and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. His voice was sonorous, deep and with an almost too careful attention to tone. But something still frightened me about it. Some small voice in my head that could scream nothing but "run." crushed out by the larger more reasonable ones. "No thank you I'm fine."
He made his way over to a cabinet of fine coffee brown wood and poured himself a finger of some amber liquor. As he walked away from the window his features took on sharper focus. He was tall, I could see now. Slim, with slicked dirty yellow hair, flat against his head. He wore a black tie against a starched white shirt.
I had called the number, sitting there at my small kitchen table. And the voice at the other end had belonged to that of a cheery secretary who identified herself as "Sandi" and before I knew it I had set up an interview for that Tuesday evening for a job. The three interviewers had all been very impressed with my previous jobs, the smattering of volunteer work I had done, my degree. I hadn't know anyone could be impressed with a Comparative Communications degree and not sound patronizing. But what these three were really interested in were my stories. I've been to more job interviews than I'd care to admit but no one had ever asked anything like they had. "Tell us exactly how you felt when your first pet died." "What do you remember most about the year you were thirteen and describe it to us." "What is your favorite sound and how often do you use it." I'm not ashamed to admit that more than once I asked them to repeat themselves. It seemed more like a therapy session than a job interview and even more like a bizarre personality test than that.
"Are you sure?" He made his way over to me and sat down on the sofa opposite me. "Its a very good cognac, recommended to me personally by a friend in the business."
"No thank you. I don't drink." saying no to him was like subduing a dangerous animal. Even such a trivial denial felt like a brush with death.
"Really? Now why is that?" He leaned forward, his pale green eyes looking into mine. "Is it personal? Family perhaps? Religion? Or something more bizarre? Go on I'm interested now." A small smile crept up his face.
I thought of lions, of snakes, of the cold calculating predator that humanity has reviled in myth for hundreds of years. My mind flowed like a river into recollections and modifications of Rudyard Kipling, the Bible and Tang Dynasty poetry.
"Nothing like that. I simply feel that anything that could impair my judgement would not be wise now."
"And right you are. But Richard you and I need to get right to it. I think both of us have fairly limited time. Do you have any idea why you're here? What this is even about?"
As soon as the first interview ended they had immediately began talk of scheduling a second. They gave me a  small card, thick paper, embossed, with a signature, a time and an address written on it. No name, no company. Just a scrawl in the corner that could only have been a name.
"I have no idea." I said and I folded my hands in my lap, leaning back against the upholstery.
"Before I explain. I'd like to ask you something. Because once we get underway I can't say you'll feel as you do now."
The unconscious fear that tinged his voice had ebbed to a low growl, a small discomfort.
"Every man draws a line in the sand and says 'beyond this I will not go.'" This strange, dark business man, whose name I didn't even know extended a hand to me.
"Do you ever plan on crossing your line?"
I took his hand. And we shook. Knowing what I do now I can't say I would have done things differently. But he was completely right. Nothing is the same.
"Yes." I said.