Something Always Goes Wrong

Bringer. Part One (Fliffton). Chapter 3.

Read the previous chapter here:

The Idiots Are Waiting

There was never a day in Fliffton Billy considered a complete success. Something, or things, always went wrong. But this day had started particularly wrong. His head still pounded from the teddy tizzy accident. His body still hummed with hot rage. And, being a Monday, things would certainly get worse. Like all Mondays, Billy had school, which was almost as bad as being at home. School was supposed to be the place he would learn his trade, the same trade he would learn his entire childhood, and the same trade he would practice his entire adult life. But there was seldom any learning involved. Most of the time, Billy’s peers sat around singing songs, eating cake, and hugging each other. The only redeeming factor was that the singing, eating, and hugging wasn’t performed by the Fliffs in his family. As annoying as all Fliffs were, his family were just that little bit more annoying.

Having experienced such an awful beginning to his week, puppy kisses and all, Billy briefly entertained the idea of not showing up to class. But experience taught him it was best to avoid doing anything so out of the ordinary. Such things only provoked Fliffs to become ecstatic, with Billy inevitably as their target. No, he had to attend school, but he’d make sure to frown extra hard.

Billy trudged up the cobblestone path of his family home, running his fingertips over the rose bushes on either side and removing one of the flowers, picking off the crimson petals, and tossing them onto the lawn. He strode through the gate and slapped the candy-cane letterbox with the flat of his hand. The gold badge reading Cunningham rattled loose as always, but still wouldn’t fall off. He continued down Floppy Lane, the sun splashing the pavement so hard he had to squint, which was fine by him. Squinting equalled not quite seeing the rows of gaudy houses, with their generic picket fences, their emerald-green oblongs of lawn, their pastel walls, and bay windows. He felt like their visual absence somehow caused them to not exist, if only until he looked again.

As Floppy Lane came to an end it was intersected by a large avenue. A sign stood on the median strip, reading Happy Avenue in pink letters.

“Plappy Avenue more like it,” he said.

This was a truly dangerous location. The sidewalk was littered with brightly decorated shops, some with polka dots, some with candy stripes, a few with random splotches of paint, almost all of which sold sweets of some kind. Rows of fruit trees festooned the median strip, branches bent under the weight of thickets of foliage and bunches of bulky round peaches, apples, and plums. At regular intervals there were snuffle boxes, glossy orange cubes standing on bright white poles. As Fliffs approached these boxes, the boxes would shoot out puffs of icing sugar, right in their gleeful faces. This was a favourite Fliff pastime, as was the picking of peaches, as was the eating of sweets distributed by the many stores along the avenue. All these factors, and many more, made Happy Avenue the place Fliffs were most likely to congregate. If Billy was not quick, the townsfolk would finish their breakfast banquets and come flooding through.

It was best to run.

He took a few strides, approached a gallop, felt the flowing air start to wet his eyes, and then was halted by a Fliff jumping out from behind Mr Jam Jam’s shop.

“Boo,” said the boy, hands and fingers wiggling in front of Billy’s face before reaching out to play with his hair. For some reason, Fliffs loved to touch Billy’s hair, his shambolic, not-golden, mousy hair. It should have been the furthest from spectacular a thing could get. But it was novel, and novel meant fun, for the Fliffs anyway.

“Byron,” said Billy in greeting, stepping around the boy and walking on without looking at him. He didn’t want to run because he knew it would cause Byron to fuss and become giddy. But he made sure to walk at an uncomfortable pace for the typically short Fliff legs to manage.

Byron trotted behind him, skipping every few steps to catch up.

“Hi Billy. I think I got you that time.”

“Oh yes, Byron. What a surprise.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Oh, well I’m surprised even if you aren’t surprised. It’s funner that way, don’t you think? I thought I’d leave home early today to get Mr Jam Jam’s first cupcake.” Billy could tell he’d already been into the cupcakes because there were sticky red deposits at the corners of his lips. Byron licked them before speaking, making them even slimier than before. “Then I saw you. Which was great cause you’re even better than a cupcake. Or, or, even better than two cupcakes. And now here we are having a smashing conversation, what an amazing surprise. What’s that coming out of your face? Is it jam?”

“No Byron, it isn’t jam, it’s goob. It’s what happens when hard things hit my skin. It doesn’t feel very nice.” Billy walked a little faster and Byron struggled a little harder to keep up.

“Why don’t you do something that feels nice then?” said Byron.

Billy stopped walking. “Because Byron”—he gave the B extra umph—“I don’t like nice things.”

Byron rolled his eyes towards his eyebrows as if trying to fathom some kind of deep mystery. “I don’t get it. Can we walk to class together?”

“Yes.”

Byron stepped forward and craned his neck up to look Billy in the eye. “Can we hold hands?”

“No.”

Byron ran three stubby steps and leapt two inches off the ground, pumping his fist into the air before landing awkwardly and almost falling. He stumbled a few more steps before re-gathering himself.

“Yes. Amazing. I’m helping.”

“No you’re not,” said Billy. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Billy did not want to talk about something else. He did not want to talk at all, but he knew Byron would talk until his head fell off, if only. Something else would be marginally better than talking about how amazing Byron’s help was. So Byron talked and Billy tried not to listen. After ten minutes of walking and incessant jabbering about the fluffiness of puppies, the two boys reached school.

“Yay, school’s back. Two days is a long time to go without school don’t you think, Billy?”

Billy didn’t answer. He looked up at the Conservatory of Pears – a massive pear replica with great green leaves sprouting from the base – and dreaded entry. The odour of pears and the smell of cream from the Creamatorium next door always made his stomach turn. But it turned more aggressively today. It seemed that with every day of school, things got a little bit worse.

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Coming soon: Chapter 4 (Who is the Bringer?)