Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Mr. Gibbons was a curious case, he delighted in discovering small old relics he had lost from days previous. However in order to continue this creation of small happiness he had first to lose the item in question, and thus began to purposefully misplace items in order to stumble upon them later. This pattern was much to the disgust of his wife, Mrs. Eldis Gibbons whose unfortunate love was creating order out of chaos. One might question how these two might even have become married in the first place given the recent facts and their purpose for existence. One evening the idea of divorce arose, however the important documents for such a transaction, though neatly placed, were soon to be lost among endless supply of papers in Mr. Gibbons’ drawers. He made a habit of placing these papers then into the pockets of his trousers that were soon cleaned and thus the papers disintegrated into Mrs. Gibbons’ wash tub.

            Mr. Gibbons was born into the wealthy estate of Mr. George Gibbons, his great uncle. After the untimely death of the latter Gibbons, Mr. Gibbons inherited the profession of a lawyer as well as fifty thousand pounds a year. Mr. Gibbons had always wanted a partner and found a good match in Eldis as a young woman. It was not passion or uncanny fate that drove them together, but a much more powerful and potent source. Eldis’ Mother.

 It has just so happened that Mr. Gibbons frequented that unfortunate street every morning at 7:35. Mr. Gibbons liked to admire the cracks in the street and think about the continuous sound his shoes made upon the red brick path. He particularly admired the way his heel brushed the cornerstones as he turned. It was in this moment of unperturbed profound thought that Mrs. Phyllis Whittlesburg, Eldis’ mother, mournfully wailed out her front window for the twenty-second time this morning. Mr. Gibbons was keeping count. Mr. Whittlesburg, a renowned d- of excellent mirth, was recently deceased, or so it announced in London’s Daily Obituary last year. Mrs. Whittlesburg had a talent of ghastly prowess for finding audiences whom would lend an ear. She had it down to a science in accordance upon gender and pitch as well as age and wavelength to incite the most empathy. It was quite commendable, Mr. Gibbons had to admit. This skill must not go unrewarded, and thus, Mr. Gibbons turned to greet the fair lady and lend his heart to be weighed amongst the other contributions. Mrs. Whittlesburg found this charity to be considerably charming, and after reviewing the vital contents of his pocketbook entreated him to meet her daughter, Eldis. Such a pair were of utopian value.

            And so it became reality for the pair. Eldis Gibbons set about her chores in the morning reorganizing the furniture paying particular attention to the lace doilies above the stripped linen tablecloth. The cloth never seemed able to cover the entirety of the table, which constantly plagued Mrs. Gibbons’ thoughts. She knew all that was crucial to her and her husband’s survival, and prided herself quite endlessly upon the topic. For example, the stoic novellas are to be placed in accordance to height of the binding as to result in a perfect degree of decline in height. It is a common fact that the Oxford Atlas is always to be placed before the inconsequential History of Europe and the King James’ Bible before Darwin’s On the Origin of Species due to its height. Although, Eldis was constantly confounded with the width dimensions of the books as they never fit uniformly. The length of the shelf in Mr. Gibbons’ storage library was never adequate space for his numerous sheets of paper. Mrs. Gibbons was out of sorts when her design failed to even perfectly out upon either side. Frustrated, she would begin again rearranging the bottom to fit the top and the top to be placed upon the bottom as now from the angle at which one stands the bottom is not quite as noticeable. Mrs. Gibbons could not understand why they could not just print all books the same size and spare her the trouble.

            Mr. Gibbons, still counting the crevices in his floor began to slowly trace his eyes along the top corners of his study around the book cases. He liked to think that he could hear time go by as his grandfather’s clock slowly turned around his universe. He would like his life to be a clock. The study and certainty of small repetitive motions and thoughts that ebb and flow as a tide. Each second passed and he felt the vibration of the mechanical object within his hand. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. How wonderfully constant the world seemed. He slowly stood from his deep armchair in the corner of the room and meandered to the center of the room, placing his clock in his pocket. It was the one item he always kept with him and never lost. His clock. Tick. Tick. Inside his trouser pocket. Tick Tick. Mr. Gibbons smiled at himself and reached for the news paper. He liked to peruse the paper’s photographs and hold the paper within his hands. He peered over the top of the fringed edge to spy a teapot of freshly brewed Earl Grey tea on the mantelpiece as was customary. Mr. Gibbons counted the thirty-fourth strike upon the clock within his pocket and headed to his desk for the governmental receipts needed for his client that day. Unfortunately, as is always habitual, Mr. Gibbons had only placed half in his drawer and thus stood in silent speculation for a moment as to where he had placed his other half the previous night. Mr. Gibbons delighted in this small thrill, he thought himself a great adventurer or detective. His clock ticked away as he retraced his steps and his eyes twinkled as he reached into a volume of The Oxford Book of Essays and withdrew a handful of papers. With a great sigh, and the strike of the fifty-seventh notch in his clock Mr. Gibbons sipped his tea and embellished himself with the pin of the Tudor Rose and Scottish Thistle, as was his style, upon his overgrown tweed jacket and matching vest. Mr. Gibbons placed his spectacles within his briefcase and straightened his back in preparation for a new day. Mr. Gibbons liked this feeling, the brand new start of a stable and predictable day. The same smells of old oak, leather bound books, old ink, and hot tea. Tick. Tick. Eighty four seconds. He approached Mrs. Gibbons in her normal flurried state of distress over the nonchalant criminal behavior of the cat, Mr. Barlowe. Mr. Gibbons slightly kissed her upon the forehead and turned smiling to the front door admiring the simplicity of his life. Four full strides to the door and then the slow turning of the brass handle as he smoothly opens the door to a brisk English wind and then quickly closing the door behind him. Mr. Gibbons thought, how typical, how perfect. A short three steps down the front marble stairs and the slight cuffing of his pant legs in the process offered him a mien of sangfroid. Back onto the red bricks with innumerable cracks. Mr. Gibbons stood for a moment and stared at the old bricks thinking of their history and lineage. His first step was courageous and each after that building a smile upon his face.

Mr. Barlowe was the house cat of a cherry disposition only occasionally. He often adopted an air of an understanding pompous snicker which put Mrs. Gibbons out of sorts. This morning was just one occasion of many in which Mrs. Gibbons threatened Mr. Barlowe with her most fearsome weapon- the wooden stirring spoon the maid had seen fit to equip her with. Mr. Barlowe stared with indignation at the spectacle she created, then carelessly crossed to the marble hall between the dinning hall and butler’s pantry.

Mrs. Gibbons fretted over the now paw-printed linen upon her table. The pale yellow crepe was ruined, and Lady Morris would surely recognize this. Sadly there was not enough time to change the linen before Lady Morris’ arrival and thus Mrs. Gibbon exhibited her flawless taste and wisdom by placing the cucumber sandwich platter right over the markings eliminating them from existence. All was perfect, and out of sight. Mrs. Gibbons was thoroughly pleased with her creativity.

The doorbell rings. Out of her corner of her eye, Mrs. Gibbons checks the linen and platter in fear they would spring up out of inanimate rebellion to spite her. Mrs. Gibbons always feared that when she was not watchful, the world turned to chaos as she turned her head.

Lady Morris enters fully garbed and beaded in her lavish extravagance. Mrs. Gibbons always thought she put on to much of a show of appearances. The corner of Mrs. Gibbons’ mouth curved downward slightly to show disapproval, though this went unnoticed by her distinguished guest. Mrs. Gibbons exchanged light pleasantries with Lady Morris and led her to the drawing room for tea and sandwiches for more serious discussion. This serious discussion was of the utmost importance.

“My dear Lady Morris, how wonderful it is to see you in good health. I cannot express the happiness I feel also at the fate of your daughter’s recent marriage to Colonel James Pittenburough. He is quite a fine man.”

“Oh yes, quite. His father was an official ambassador to the king himself.” It was customary for Mrs. Morris’ responses to be concise, as she was a Lady after all. And ladies only speak when they have something meaningful to say. Mrs. Gibbons checked the cucumber platter again with a slight glance while also lifting her head as if looking through the window as not to attract attention to her movement. After she had made this development in motion, she realized it may seem that she was expressing boredom to the conversation. Mrs. Gibbons solved this by turning to the face of her guest and slightly nodding to the phrase she was in the process of saying.

“My goodness, that is a fine pair. And what a fine name he has, Pittenburough. It is quite distinguished. Lady Morris, have you merited and invitation to the Agnleton’s ball soon to come? I hear it shall be the event of much speculation. Mr. Moterison and Sir Walter Chepin are to be present, and one can always expect a falling out whilst those two are together.”

“The matters of such frivolous men are inconsequential to me. It is my opinion that neither should take offence, as there is naught to fight about unless one is certain of an argument.”Mrs. Gibbons nodded wisely in agreement. This clearly was soon to become an intellectual discussion with such language.

“Quite right Lady Morris. If all men understood this wisdom, why fighting would not exist. And if it did, it should be on matters of consequence. It is from my own personal experience that I can say men’s arguments are of little value to England.” Mrs. Gibbons speculated that her reputation would be tarnished if the paw print upon the linen was seen. She took another glance towards the cucumber sandwiches. She felt that Lady Morris had already seen it, and that was the cause of her glance resting upon the floor in disdain. Mrs. Gibbons hated her, she had resolved to this at that moment. Her marked linen does not compare to her fox leather cloves, why no, it could never. Mrs. Gibbons thought of Lady Morris’ arrogance wearing those gloves while knowing of her marked linen. Mrs. Gibbons raised her chin slightly and also turned her eyes downward.

“Precisely. My, are those cucumber sandwiches? How delightful. You must permit me a sample Mrs. Gibbons.” Mrs. Gibbons smiled with her lips and chin slightly protruding forward. Mrs. Gibbon knew this lie was to draw her attention to the fact that Lady Morris had in fact seen the marks and was disgusted by them.

“Of course Lady Morris,” Mrs. Gibbons felt the name roll of her tongue as ink does porcelain. “I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have abruptly received a letter this morning of grave intelligence, I must end this conversation as I must attend to my nephew’s letter.” Mrs. Gibbons had a nephew, whom had written her a letter the prior morning stating his decision to move to London for a short time and requested accommodation. Mrs. Gibbons liked leaving Lady Morris in speculation of this letter, and amused herself in thinking of Lady Morris’ aggravation and curiosity at lacking sufficient knowledge of current affairs.

“Of course Mrs. Gibbons, I myself have matters to attend to and shall be leaving. I look forward to our next meeting.”Lady Morris rose with grace and eloquence equal to that of Mr. Barlowe the cat whom was sprawled lovingly in the sunlight atop the oak bureau above the table with cucumber sandwiches. His keen green eyes followed the long ostrich feather protruding from Lady Morris’ hat with interest, but were soon caught by sight of the soon to be abandoned plate of cucumber sandwiches. His ear twitched in anticipation.

Mrs. Gibbons lead Lady Morris to the door and enamored upon her a goodbye of true friendship and respect. After the exchange was made and Lady Morris had stepped into her carriage, Mrs. Gibbons embarked upon her daily walk.

Mr. Barlowe enjoyed a platter of delicious cucumber sandwiches unperturbed. 

While upon her walk Mrs. Gibbons liked to think herself flowing though the streets of London, a vision splendid in her furs and minks. She felt that if music was applicable to life it would have been created in her image as she walked. Mrs. Gibbons chuckled inwardly at this slight exaggeration of herself and continued her petite stride. For a moment she doubted her footing, thoughtfully wondering if her stride was too large for her status. She attempted shortening it, but it began to feel uncomfortable. She was sure this was the proper length, and thus determined upon her set course remained at the shorter stride. While walking, Mrs. Gibbons noticed a figure upon the opposite side of the street matching her pace with due attention and sangfroid of a masculine nature. She ventured a side glance out of the corner of her mink trimmed coat catching the adventurous man whom was watching her with interest.

Mr. Barlowe had finished his meal and noiselessly headed into the servant’s cooking quarters in search of more to satisfy himself as was customary. Keeping to the shadowed areas and maintaining a watchful eye upon the butcher, Mr. Barlowe resolved to reach the pantry were the French delicacies were being prepared for the evening meal.   Hidden behind the tall cooking pot Mr. Barlowe spotted his prey.  An éclair of exquisite proportion filled with crème and topped with a raspberry sauce. His ear twitched.

Mrs. Gibbons returned her gaze forward and turned the corner to her favorite morning French café, Le Petit Cochon. This café was of refined taste and extreme formality amongst its guests. Mrs. Gibbons took her regular place at the corner of the café and ordered Jasmine tea and a raspberry scone with lemon glaze and mint leaves. The young man whom had been following her took a seat at a table across the veranda where she could eye him coolly without drawing attention. For a moment their eyes met, and quite suddenly he looked away towards another approaching womanly figure, Miss Amelia Chintren. Mrs. Gibbons was betrayed. She and the mysterious young man had flown on the sidewalk together silence with secret passion. It had been a small affair, but one of great consequence. Mrs. Gibbons herself had told the young man in a look as cold as ice that although they shared a common path, she could never cross the avenue towards him. The tension that had been building down the street could equate to a public scandal, and yet he was now eating quite calmly as though the walk had been simply just that. Mrs. Gibbons was jolted, jaded and offended but decided to break of the secret relationship herself by looking back to her tea and milk saucer. Mrs. Gibbons then noticed a small sequence of ripples quivering repetitiously from the saucer.

Mr. Barlowe pawed at the smooth oak cabinet upon which he was mounted, still peering at the raspberry éclair. The was a strange clatter from within the hallway and Mr. Barlowe knew his time was limited. Mr. Barlowe made a leap of faith and as heroic as it was, it was also miscalculated. Mr. Barlowe’s trajectory was off by the length span of a teapot landing him into the bread flour bin. The plume of white air rose after his landing creating a semi-circle of flour spill onto the floor. Mr. Barlowe rose from the ashes of his defeat proudly and sauntered of with pride intact.

Mr. Gibbons entered his office precisely on time, as always, and opened the book satiated with papers to page 53 where he had left off the previous day. The book seemed irrelevant and futile after thirty-four minutes of reading. Mr. Gibbons could determine the value of a book after reading exactly one hour into the pages. The office was silent for the day, and having finished his legal finance reports, which were investigated for his current case, Mr. Gibbons felt entitled to his mid-morning nap in his deep leather armchair. Mr. Gibbons always took a short moment of peace at this time and set his watch’s alarm for exactly two hours. Mr. Gibbons disliked the pocket watch’s long hand as it was continually becoming stuck after eight minutes resulting in the net gain of five minutes and fifty-two seconds. With faith in his pocket watch Mr. Gibbons began his mid-morning nap.

Mrs. Gibbons enjoyed her tea and scone, though still unsettled by her most recent escapade with the opposite gender. Mrs. Gibbons resolved that Lady Morris was correct in her assumption that men are extremely delusional. There was yet another ripple in the saucer with milk. Mrs. Gibbons set aside her jasmine tea and honey to witness the disorder that she was sure to find. It was a small fly trapped within the sweet milk of the saucer. It struggled to become free of its liquid prison without success. Mrs. Gibbons was disgusted with this lack of cleanliness, but could not but state at the pitiful disfigured creature. She feared its death, but mainly because it would spoil the milk. The meager fly continued to combat its situation. Mrs. Gibbons pondered as to the current emotions of the fly. She resolved that it should die with some decorum and looked away towards her scone. The mint leaf above her scone trembled in the slight breeze and Mrs. Gibbons was feeling slightly perturbed. She glanced again at the saucer, and again her gaze lingered. The fly’s movements were becoming shallow and slight. Mrs. Gibbons felt the impulse to leave her table and continue with her daily duties, but she neglected this option of action. Instead, Mrs. Gibbons’ thoughts were fascinated upon the inconsequential fly in the saucer.

Mr. Gibbons’ alarm rang pointedly upon his desk. After a slight yawn and flattening of his waistcoat, Mr. Gibbons reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of scotch and a small crystal glass cup. After his mid mid-morning nap, it was customary to have a mid-morning drink to reawaken his vitals. After having taken a drink, Mr. Gibbons peered down at his pocket watch and realized the time was off. Mr. Gibbons was fixed in his chair unable to move, troubled by his lack of time-management. He had only taken a twenty-minute mid-morning nap. Mr. Gibbons repacked his bottle of scotch and cup into the drawer and resolved to regain his lost sleep resetting his pocket watch. Tick. Tick. Mr. Gibbons did not sleep well. Tick. Tick.

Mr. Barlowe, with paws covered entirely in bread flower padded across the black marble foyer with agility and uncanny speed. Mr. Barlowe spied the large grandfather clock in the corner of the room and slowly edged away from the constant swaying of the pendulum. Mr. Barlowe was not fond of this clock. He had once gotten in the habit of napping within the chambers of the clock only to realize with frustration that it emitted a loud noise every hour which would cause partial deafness for twelve minutes. Mr. Barlowe headed downstairs towards the laundry as the morning shift was just beginning. Mr. Barlowe curled into an unidentifiable tabby fur ball atop the heated vibrating laundry drier. Mr. Barlowe purred ever so slightly to himself as he starched his paws.

Mr. Gibbons’ alarm rang resolutely upon his desk. Once again Mr. Gibbons awoke and believing this was the first time he had awoken after his mid-morning nap, Mr. Gibbons opened his desk drawer and retrieved his Scotch bottle and glass. After his daily mid-morning drink and nap Mr. Gibbons began to undertake his case. Mr. Gibbons opened the file and reviewed the first paragraph of his opponent’s speech. Tick. Tick. Mr. Gibbons sensed a discrepancy in his rhythm. He glanced at his pocket watch and realized his mistake of awaking to soon from his daily mid-morning nap. Mr. Gibbons frowned at his error of judgment and slightly irritated began to tap his forefinger upon his dark mahogany desk. Tick. Tick. With a slight sigh and whimsical ironic snicker at himself Mr. Gibbons retied back into his leather chair for another nap. An odd feeling crept upon Mr. Gibbons as though he had already had this experience before. Tick. Tick. Mr. Gibbons feel back into a discordant sleep.

Mrs. Gibbon’s gaze had not altered. She tapped her long slender fingers nervously upon the porcelain tea cup that rested peacefully in her left hand.

Mr. Gibbons’ alarm rang willfully upon his desk. Mr. Gibbons awoke and realized to his discomfort that the clock in his pocket had fooled him into a cuckold. He was once again jilted early in his mid-morning nap and thus not entirely fit for his required duties. Mr. Gibbons silently cursed his irresponsibility and gingerly opened the pocket watch to view the havoc within. Mr. Gibbons then, realizing he was agitated, resolved to take his first glass of scotch early instead of after his long nap as it would help to “calm his nerves”, or so the doctor so meticulously put it. As the cricket ball sized swallow traveled down his gullet, Mr. Gibbons has the curious sensation that he had done this once or twice before, not five minutes ago. Shaking this improbable sentiment off the shoulders of his worn tweed jacket, Mr. Gibbons placed his scotch and glass back into his desk’s side drawer. Mr. Gibbons’ calculated aim missed the drawer and sent him sprawling, as an elephant does in a washbasin, towards the left of his desk onto the oriental rugged floor due to the misplaced centrifugal force. In bewilderment Mr. Gibbons stared at his old desk drawer which now seemed an assembly of mocking faces with ornate mahogany tongs spurting sap from their cherry stained veins. Mr. Gibbons closed his eyed utterly befuddled. Mr. Gibbons thought it strange that his desk should have gown tongues and yet he had not ever noticed them until that moment. Mr. Gibbons rose to close the drawer with both hands and carefully set his pocket watch for twenty-six minutes and an estimated few more seconds to awaken him from his mid-morning nap.

Mr. Gibbons’ alarm rang indeterminately upon his desk. Mr. Gibbons woke in a haze from his mid-morning nap, feeling quite unsettled. The strikes of the short hand in his pocket watch discomforted him as they were unparallel in their time sequencing. Utterly puzzled, Mr. Gibbons reached into his tweed waistcoat pocket and pulled out the now seemingly slippery pocket watch. The cover seemingly jeered at him. Mr. Gibbons blinked in rapid succession. With considerable effort Mr. Gibbons opened his pocket watch and stared at the time. It seemed illegible. Disgruntled, Mr. Gibbons placed the pocket watch upon his desk and opened the side drawer of his mahogany desk. Withdrawing the bottle of scotch and his customary glass, Mr. Gibbons poured himself a drink as was he was accustomed to after he awoke from his mid-morning nap. Mr. Gibbons then noticed the large brass clock in the corner of his office. It upheld a long obtrusive golden nose which was placed upon a grotesque sneer of capacious proportion. This scornful mask scoffed at the travesty of time injustice. Mr. Gibbons’ worn flabby fingers scrambled for the pocket watch upon his desk, his eyes still fixated upon the brass mask. After reaching the sanctuary of the chain, Mr. Gibbons grasped the pocket watch and fixed the time to its proper place with approximately twenty-something moments for his mid-morning nap. The  clock stood judgmentally, but silently in the corner. Mr. Gibbons could not understand the tumultuous nature of his morning, he resolved to take one last glass of scotch to relax himself. Mr. Gibbons lulled back to sleep, eyes still focused upon the clock. Mr. Gibbons fell into a torpid slumber.

Mr. Barlowe awoke to uncover the laundry was completed and stood confidently, striding towards the kitchen cook. Mr. Barlowe continually manipulated her affection towards velutinous creatures to his advantage. Unfortunately, Mr. Barlowe must barter his time, of which he held in the highest value, for his prize. Throughout a small therapy session during which the cook rambled on speaking of her most recent list of atrocities against the house lady, Mrs. Gibbons, Mr. Barlowe sat coddled against the woman’s abnormally large stomach and cooking apron. After a lengthy hour of uncordial and unprecedented impropriety Mr. Barlowe was rewarded with a fresh saucer of milk. While indulging in the euphoric laiche, Mr. Barlowe peered at his newest cure for lethargy.

            Mrs. Gibbons, having completed her tea and scone, rose from her usual place at the café and determined to arrive fashionably late to the Women’s Feminist Assembly in S-. By usual account, proceedings did not begin until half past eleven at which time most of the women had completed their greetings and fastening their patriotic baubles. Mrs. Gibbons took two small steps from her table and then unconsciously turned back to glance with a raised eyebrow at the fly within the saucer. After a slight pause and an upturned chin Mrs. Gibbons strode confidently forward leaving nature to its course.

            Mr. Gibbons’ alarm rang pointedly upon his desk. Mr. Gibbons was awoken by the obstreperous snore of an elderly man whom had seemingly disappeared as he lifted his eyes from his slumber. Mr. Gibbons realized at this moment the ceiling had become circular while the oaken floor remained in a rectangular form. Mr. Gibbons was curious at the feat of architecture which had accomplished this within a single office room. Mr. Gibbons attempted to stand and found the motor muscles within his legs to be guilty of faulty machinery. Mr. Gibbons began to amount a court case against the improper servitude of bodily limbs and then thought better of it. Supporting himself by his desk, Mr. Gibbons rose to a standing position and observed that the distance from his desk to the office door had greatly increased in distance. Embarking courageously upon this newfound journey, Mr. Gibbons took a proud stride forward which resulted in a wayward curve of nautical short steps veering left and right until Mr. Gibbons found his center of gravity sprawled upon the oriental rug . Mr. Gibbons was quite perturbed at the outcome of his venture and proceeded to the door. Having reached his destination, Mr. Gibbons groped at the handle and pulled which resulted in the door hitting Mr. Gibbons squarely upon the nose sending him aeronautically in the direction of his rear. Landing quite briskly upon his posterior, Mr. Gibbons seemed to have lost the capacity to breathe regularly. Collecting himself, Mr. Gibbons reached for his walking stick and lumbered out of his office.

            Mrs. Gibbons had reached G- Avenue and continued upon her way toward the Feminist Awareness Assembly. Mrs. Gibbons strolled briskly and feared that she would arrive too late to be fashionable would better represent unseemly and distasteful. Thus, Mrs. Gibbons’ pace quickened slightly as she allowed her heels to touch the ground for the first time in the week. After reaching South W-Avenue, Mrs. Gibbons rounded the corner and moved onward to the third house upon the left which imposed a lofty stature of elegant white marble with the idyllic historical ivy placed upon the bottom left feebly clinging to life upon the side of the home. Trotting up the steps, Mrs. Gibbons rapped twice upon the resolute door.

            Mr. Gibbons had made it out of his office and onto the street of L- with all of the delicacy of a rhinoceros reciting Homer while balancing upon tortoise shell. Mr. Gibbons having regained little of his motility and maneuverability descended the T- Avenue and following a small crack in the pavement found himself toe to toe with a man seemingly twice his height with a large protruding nasal implement and keen eyes. Mr. Gibbons squinted at the man whom seemingly took up his entire field of vision. The man possessed quite a remarkable smile which is not to say it was handsome, but more inquisitive as he only smiled at others in condescension. Mr. Gibbons wrinkled his nose at the audacity of this fellow’s irreputable quick judgment of his own situation and attempted to grunt in disapproval at the man which resulted in a regurgitation of an alien substance into his mouth which he then reswalloed out of common courtesy. The man opposite him merely frowned with the same condescension that to him was so pleasing a moment ago. Mr. Gibbons finding no avenue for improvement of his situation moved onward down the avenue until he reached the Rose and Crown pub. Mr. Gibbons entered the sanctuary and collapsed upon the nearest chair falling into a deathly slumber.

            Having finished his milk, Mr. Barlowe was inclined to saunter down the stairs and greet the mail being brought to the door. After the maid had placed the letters upon a silver platter to be delivered later that evening, Mr. Barlowe leapt onto the mantelpiece and with great inconspicuous elegance removed a letter from the pile sliding it onto the floor and under the fireplace quite by accident.

            Mr. Gibbons was awakened by another man who seemingly intended to joust with him using an oversized forefinger. Mr. Gibbons opened his weighty eyelids to discover another man of elderly physique whose eyebrows were the most prominent feature upon his rotund but energetic face. The man was in quite a frenzied monologue about the state of the modern man. As he spoke the newly drunken ale had not the ability to be completely consumed and dribbled down his beard most likely attempting to escape the ravenous noise which ushered out of this man’s mouth. The man, having awoken Mr. Gibbons introduced himself as Mr. Tiggen. Mr. Gibbons responded in kind and looked upon this unwanted companion again in an attempt to deduce his character. 

Reviews

[Todd Mc' Callough]

great work, and i love the quirky tone in the lines. The humor is great and it shows your well developed background of knowledge.

[Sigmund Eeley]

Thank you! I really want my writing to mature in its humor and it is a long journey!

[C. L. Aemon]

Fatigue prevents me reading it all, but thus far, I have found it to be captivating. I presume your d- represents a search for a word not yet found- distributor perhaps? Either way, I rather like your writing style.

[Sigmund Eeley]

Thank you very much! I really do appreciate it! And yes, all of the dashes are searches for the right word, I have been trying to be historically accurate and it is proving slightly difficult!