3 o-clock storytelling.
(To read the prequal, go to This archive page and head down the bottom for the unnamed short story post on the 12th of June.)



She passed by his desk around noon. Bran always felt a cold chill wash over him when she walked past, although she’d never been anything but nice to him. There was something about her that made him have to fight the urge to watch her move – and it wasn’t because of any attraction or sexual interest, that was blatantly obvious to even his confused mind. She made him think of the cemetery in a way, just stormier, windier… That might be it; she seemed to be followed by her own personal cold breeze. Metaphorically speaking.

Bran had spent the morning working on the files – categorising the legitimate, burying the less legitimate – and manoeuvring between his computer’s database and the hard records. It was menial work, but he found it rather soothing, especially given he allowed himself breaks every half hour for various computer games and the moving of decorations. And he now had a small array of paper-cuts to go with the multitude of still fresh scratches he had all over him. So far, she’d been the only one to interrupt him.

For a while she just watched while he worked, until he simply became too uncomfortable and stopped working. She took this as her cue to speak.

“The groundskeeper didn’t tell me. It’s nice to have someone looking out for you, isn’t it?” She said pleasantly. Bran looked back, not yet convinced he wasn’t going to get punished.

“I’m sorry…” he began, “I didn’t mean to do it… But he was shouting and he threatened to call the police and…” Bran paused and took a deep breath, attempting to steady himself and not cry like some pathetic little boy. “Angel… I’m sorry…”

The young woman smiled at him. “Hey, chill kid. It’s already been fixed. And he’s not dead, although he’ll never see colour again and probably won’t ever be able to use his left hand…” The smile faded and her face turned stormy. “You can’t keep this up. That’s what, the third one in as many months?” Her tone took on a more dangerous edge. “I know you’re off the medication now. You know I don’t want to have to get a stronger leash… You won’t be allowed to go out anymore. And I don’t think either of us wants you to become that way.” Bran looked down, abashed and on the edge of tears still. Angel sat on the side of the desk. “Why were you on his property at that time of night anyway? Didn’t I ask you not to go out late any more, after last month’s incident with the punk and the oak tree?” She asked, more conversational.

Bran looked up, eyes wide with shock as he attempted to shift from prey to show-and-tell modes. A moment later he smiled and opened one of the desk drawers, pulling out a small denim bag. He opened it up, carefully reached in and pulled out a long, sharp thorn. It was red at the tip, brown towards the base and smooth, as though it had been sanded down. He showed it to Angel with a touch of pride.

“I’ve never seen any others like them. They’re bigger then they usually are and they only grow in his yard, behind the roses. I don’t know anywhere else to get them. But I can only get them in the early morning when I thought no-one could see…” He put it away, a little embarrassed. Angel seemed impressed.

“I suppose I can hardly punish you for collecting.” She said, picking up a birds-wing lying on his desk and playing with the feathers that remained attached to the frame. “It’s what you do, after all. And it’s why you’re with me, now isn’t it?” She looked up at him, which Bran took as his cue for enthusiastic agreement. “So maybe what you need Bran, is a short holiday.”

Bran’s mouth began moving before he could find anything to say, so for a moment he stood with his mouth open like some wild fish. “But there is a condition.” Angel added quickly before he managed to get his bearings. Bran nodded his acceptance. “First, you have to go talk to the priest of the church that you seem to have nominated as your crash site. You’ve been putting it off for too long.” She held up one finger to demonstrate and then pointed to a small package almost hidden by feathers and preserved bird-claws tucked behind a dying pot-plant. “Secondly, deliver this to the cemetery’s groundsman.” Angel pulled a folded business-size envelope out of her back pocket and handed over to an already protesting Bran. “And no arguing with me, understood?” She added dangerously, immediately silencing Bran. “I’ll get someone else to man the desk for a while.”

Bran nodded meekly, not sure what to make of this but certain that he was being punished this time. “What about… my other duties?” He asked tentatively. Angel placed the wing back on the table and stood up.

“What did you think the envelope was about Bran?” She asked flatly. “Just finish up and get moving. Someone will be there to pick you up when you’re done.” She turned to walk away.

“Wait!” Bran called out, moving around the desk. He hesitated as Angel turned back, and clearly decided to change what he’d been intending to say. “How… how will you know when I’m done?” He asked meekly. Angel waved a hand dismissively.

“I won’t. But your keeper for your holiday will. Try not to get into too much trouble, hey? But don’t you go loosing that edge.” She added half in jest. With that, she continued on down the hall.

Bran looked at the letter in his hand. “I knew it.” He said to himself before turning back to the filing.

That evening, Bran took the box down from behind the plant, brushing off his collection of appendages and the occasional chocolate wrapper. Both were placed in a plain canvas backpack that Bran shrugged onto his shoulders before heading out to where his bike was almost permanently parked. Some swearing and coaxing later it started up, and Bran took off, headed in the direction of evening mass.



PS - every guy should have a pair of these boxor shorts!


"Work hard and strive to reach the power of bland."
~From a pair of shorts.
- posted by Washi @ 3:03 pm