Read Online Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes by R.M. Grace - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R.M. Grace
Tags: horror dark fantasy
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like she's speaking broken words.”
When
her fingers press into the wallpaper, it creates an irritating noise.
She locates the wallpaper's edge and peels it back without thought.
“ Broken
words?”
“ Yes,
nothing that makes any sense though. Ignore her, Smiles will realise
she's missing from the back in a minute.” Mrs Colby's eyebrows
rise in a visual sign of disapproval, then she reverts her gaze to
the netted window.
Bobby
sits back on the cushion's edge and waits for her to expand on her
request. She glares out the window for a full three minutes. Only the
sound of the wallpaper and the hallway clock ticking fills the
silence. In those minutes, he glares from Mrs Colby to Evie, catching
the full sight of the painting each time he does.
Bobby
is about to question her when she opens her mouth with a dry slapping
of lipstick that forces the corners to lodge together.
“ I
want you to write me a poem. It doesn't have to be long.”
Outside
the window, her eyes pick out a woman on the pavement and follow her.
The baby in the buggy has a raggly rabbit with odd matching materials
stitched together. On the bunny's feet are odd striped socks that are
far too big.
“ We
didn't have much money when Anne was a baby; times were harder back
then. I know people still struggle, but the council fork out for most
stuff we had to work hard to get. John had a simple job in a factory.
He worked all the hours he could, but it was only enough to scrape
by. We couldn't affort to buy Anne toys, so I would sew pieces of my
old dresses together and stuff them with old socks. Washed, mind you.
I made a rabbit like that, although not as grand. The poor thing
didn't even have eyes, but she loved it.”
Bobby
glances back over to Evie, who is on the move again. In her slippers,
she slides across to the corner next to the painting. She still
touches the wall, tracing messy circles over its surface.
“ Anyway,
I don't want to keep you longer than I have to.”
“ It's
no bother, Mrs Colby.”
When
the buggy disappears down the road, she seems composed once again.
“ I
can work on one tonight.”
People
on the Internet ask him if he can write poems for them—not
regularly, but it happens. When a family member dies, they want a
tribute, closure, or something to put their grief into perspective.
Perhaps people are seeking the words to explain themselves—to
be in a context different than what they can manage. Most want poems
to accompany funeral flowers and card inserts. He may have found a
morbid niche for his poetry, but he is happy to oblige.
It
doesn't involve a look at the person and away the pen goes, although
sometimes it is that simple. Sometimes he just clicks with people,
other times it takes understanding, empathy and passion. And it is
baffling that anybody would request him to do any of that.
“ What
I'm after is something hopeful to portray my waiting is not in vain.
Do you understand?”
“ I
think so.”
“ Dear,
I knew if anyone would, it'd be you. I know you'll help them to bloom
before I pass.”
Bobby
nods at the request and sinks into the cushion. Between her and the
woman at the wall, he feels nervous.
He
will need a miracle to produce what she asks of him. If she wanted
bluebells to grow from seeds she hasn't even sown, then he would
stand more chance. What she is really asking is something Bobby
doubts God himself can change.
CHAPTER FOUR
“ Did
you h ave
fun?”
Letting
a loud sigh escape his mouth, Bobby pulls himself onto the wall where
Danny sits in the sunlight.
“ Don't
tell me, it was bathing time so you had to help out.”
Bobby
shakes his head in disgust, but doesn't supply an answer.
“ Have
you ever dreamed something and it's come true?”
Danny
whistles. “The ones of Stacy Stockman never do, that's for
sure.”
Stacy
Stockman was a year above them in the all-girl secondary school down
the road. She also lives at the end of their road in the property
that brims with flowers
When
her fingers press into the wallpaper, it creates an irritating noise.
She locates the wallpaper's edge and peels it back without thought.
“ Broken
words?”
“ Yes,
nothing that makes any sense though. Ignore her, Smiles will realise
she's missing from the back in a minute.” Mrs Colby's eyebrows
rise in a visual sign of disapproval, then she reverts her gaze to
the netted window.
Bobby
sits back on the cushion's edge and waits for her to expand on her
request. She glares out the window for a full three minutes. Only the
sound of the wallpaper and the hallway clock ticking fills the
silence. In those minutes, he glares from Mrs Colby to Evie, catching
the full sight of the painting each time he does.
Bobby
is about to question her when she opens her mouth with a dry slapping
of lipstick that forces the corners to lodge together.
“ I
want you to write me a poem. It doesn't have to be long.”
Outside
the window, her eyes pick out a woman on the pavement and follow her.
The baby in the buggy has a raggly rabbit with odd matching materials
stitched together. On the bunny's feet are odd striped socks that are
far too big.
“ We
didn't have much money when Anne was a baby; times were harder back
then. I know people still struggle, but the council fork out for most
stuff we had to work hard to get. John had a simple job in a factory.
He worked all the hours he could, but it was only enough to scrape
by. We couldn't affort to buy Anne toys, so I would sew pieces of my
old dresses together and stuff them with old socks. Washed, mind you.
I made a rabbit like that, although not as grand. The poor thing
didn't even have eyes, but she loved it.”
Bobby
glances back over to Evie, who is on the move again. In her slippers,
she slides across to the corner next to the painting. She still
touches the wall, tracing messy circles over its surface.
“ Anyway,
I don't want to keep you longer than I have to.”
“ It's
no bother, Mrs Colby.”
When
the buggy disappears down the road, she seems composed once again.
“ I
can work on one tonight.”
People
on the Internet ask him if he can write poems for them—not
regularly, but it happens. When a family member dies, they want a
tribute, closure, or something to put their grief into perspective.
Perhaps people are seeking the words to explain themselves—to
be in a context different than what they can manage. Most want poems
to accompany funeral flowers and card inserts. He may have found a
morbid niche for his poetry, but he is happy to oblige.
It
doesn't involve a look at the person and away the pen goes, although
sometimes it is that simple. Sometimes he just clicks with people,
other times it takes understanding, empathy and passion. And it is
baffling that anybody would request him to do any of that.
“ What
I'm after is something hopeful to portray my waiting is not in vain.
Do you understand?”
“ I
think so.”
“ Dear,
I knew if anyone would, it'd be you. I know you'll help them to bloom
before I pass.”
Bobby
nods at the request and sinks into the cushion. Between her and the
woman at the wall, he feels nervous.
He
will need a miracle to produce what she asks of him. If she wanted
bluebells to grow from seeds she hasn't even sown, then he would
stand more chance. What she is really asking is something Bobby
doubts God himself can change.
CHAPTER FOUR
“ Did
you h ave
fun?”
Letting
a loud sigh escape his mouth, Bobby pulls himself onto the wall where
Danny sits in the sunlight.
“ Don't
tell me, it was bathing time so you had to help out.”
Bobby
shakes his head in disgust, but doesn't supply an answer.
“ Have
you ever dreamed something and it's come true?”
Danny
whistles. “The ones of Stacy Stockman never do, that's for
sure.”
Stacy
Stockman was a year above them in the all-girl secondary school down
the road. She also lives at the end of their road in the property
that brims with flowers
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