What a pretty picture! The drab color and beautiful detail makes for an interesting looking stylish piece! I'll try to do better this week. I pick prompt 2, although I admit I was pretty loose about this one. I did have a lot of fun, though! I hope y'all enjoy.
***
It was beautiful that time of year in Hawaii, with the playful, frothy waves caressing the soft-sanded beaches, the sun kissing the skin of every happy-hearted islander that had not taken shade under the loving coconut trees, ocean birds with beaks full of fish, floating through the sky as little dots against the blue. A refreshing breeze pushed them on. The islanders grilled their catches where they caught them and laughed as their voices danced with the wind. Everything was beautiful in paradise.
Meanwhile, in London, it was raining.
“One day, my lad, we’ll be off to Lalaland.” Dr. Writ announced triumphantly up at the sky, water splashing against his mustache dramatically. “Lalaland with coconuts and Hawaiian babes, and those darlinful umbrellas they stick in drinks for presentation. They do know a bit about presentation in Hawaii.”
Babel nodded in agreement, trying to keep up with his master.
“One day, we’ll be off from this fascist slaughterhouse excuse for a city and we’ll be sipping virgin Pina coladas under God’s good glory.” The doctor swung his cane about like he was in a movie and, while nearly knocking over the low-lady’s fish display, performed a spin in the streets that ended with a dazzlingly soaked finishing pose. Babel would have dutifully clapped if it wasn’t for all the bags he was carrying.
Dr. Writ grinned mysteriously and pulled his top hat further over his eyes. He adjusted quickly after, as the brim made it actually pretty hard to see. “Practicality does win over presentation in some respect, Babel.” He admitted. “But do never forget that there are sandier things in life.”
Babel, who was not completely listening, walked onward and jerked his head at a suspicious poster:
WANTED: UNDOCUMENTED ALCHEMIST ILLEGALLY PRACTICING
Aloysius Derulius Writ, a public enemy, may be spotted with a runaway urchin and insidious mustache.
If spotted, contact authorities and promptly restrain him. Non-dangerous and physically unfit/ flimsy.
REWARD: £200
“Who the devil wrote this callous buffoonery? I am perfectly fit!” Dr. Writ reached over Babel’s fluffy head and ripped the poster off the wall, balling it up and tossing it to the side for the dirty urchins to scavenge later. “Absolutely despicaful. Unfit and flimsy? That’s a personal attack. Babel, do me a favor.”
The boy nodded obediently and produced from the bags printed paper, a worn paintbrush, and a can of paste. In a few minutes, his work was done:
NOW PRESENTING THE WONDAZING ALL-PURPOSE ALCHEMIST ALOYSIUS DERULIUS WRIT (and his assistant)!!
PAINTER OF WORDS AND ARTIST OF IMAGERY!
INTELLIGENT! SKILLFUL! HANDSOME!
Let all your literary and ludicrous impossibilities be possibilified by his world-class service! Solves all alchemic and otherwised problems.
(Please contact via pigeon or fax)
Dr. Writ stood impressed. “Much better. Now, onward, boyo, we have the impossible to solve!”
Mrs. Manther brought her hands to her mouth at the sound of the clinking under the sink, and then gave a little gasp as she heard what she thought to be the sound of the gentleman’s head slamming against the pipes. She was teetering between concerned and confused as she peeked from the door frame and into the scene at the kitchen.
“Are you sure you’re an alchemist?” She squeaked shyly.
Dr. Writ, who was lying half in the cabinet, under the sink, and covered with water made a sound that was not unlike that of a wounded animal. “Miss, for the last time I am indeed an alchemist, and if I wasn’t one, I would certainly be a terriar.”
“A dog?”
He grunted and motioned for Babel to hand him the wrench. “No, not a terrier. A terriar. A terrible liar.” There was a notable clank as he whacked his elbow against one of the pipes. He took a second to hiss appropriately. “My area of alchemic expertise lies in the complicated and noble art of verbal and written conjunctions, definitions and compiling. Where other alchemists choose to combine chemicals, I choose to combine that of the written word.”
“If you don’t use chemicals, then what are all those fancy bottles you’ve got there?”
“Oh, those are for lunches. Chicken Dumpling Chowder does quite scrumptable in those!”
“...So what can you do about the curse in my sink?”
“This curse you speak of is but an orange peel headed the wrong way. A bottle brush and a well-trained eye is all the alchemy we need here. Babel!”
The boy handed him a tissue and returned his attention to the petri dish he was eating out of.
Mrs.Manther waved at him and was met with no response. “Shy fellow you’ve got.” She said.
The doctor scooted himself out from under sink, entire upper half dripping wet. His drooping mustache and apparent orange smell provided for a very strange picture. “Oh? Mute, actually. His parents were killed in a mysterious fire and now he’s positively traumatazzled.”
While drying himself off with a neckerchief, he mistook Mrs.Manther’s look of horror for confusion. “It’s a combination of the words traumatized and frazzled.” He added kindly.
The lady nodded politely. Babel threw a few napkins onto the wet floor. The doctor grinned and let out a mighty sneeze.
Mrs.Manther felt quite the rush of relief when she heard the door open. She turned to meet the face of her tall, muscular, do-good husband who would know what to do when two awkward strangers were dripping wet all over her floors. She had invited them but she hadn’t expected there to be as much mess. Normally, city alchemists were more tidy and quiet.
“What’s going on here?” Mr.Manther asked, squinting into the kitchen.
“Oh, deary, the pipes were cursed. Except they weren’t. It was really just orange peels, dear. We’ve got be careful about those.” She presented the scene, complete with a boy munching quietly and a grown man sitting in a puddle of sink water. “They are alchemists, dear! Er, literary alchemists. I think.”
Mr.Manther squinted even harder.
Dr.Writ felt a tingle up his spine and elbowed Babel, a loogy swinging from his nose. “Boyo, I think we ought to make like a hyphen and dash. That’s right, don’t forget the dumplings…”
“You there!” It was if the damning voice of death itself had shaken the room. Mr.Manher pointed at the two, as if condemning them to the chair like a judge at court. “You’re Aloysius Delirious Write, that undocumented chap!”
“It’s Derulius, dear.” His wife whispered hurriedly.
“No matter! The Unlicensed Hardly Alchemist. Me an’ the folks at HQ have been looking for your raggedy pants everywhere.”
Dr.Writ stood up indignantly, yanking Babel’s collar up along with him. “My pants are in perfect shape, thank you!”
Mr.Manther paid no mind and reached into his waistcoat, pulling from it a large piece of official looking parchment. The very sight of it made the doctor’s mustache twitch.
“Aloysius Derulius Writ, aged approximately thirty-two, unlicensed and unruly alchemist, has been charged with the following:” Mr.Manther’s beady eyes flicked over the page with a dutiful coldness. “Vagrancy, vagueness, vindication, unforgivable fraudulence, blackmail, laundering, lautering, laziness, loitering, unsupervised and illegal practice of undocumented arts, misleading advertising of unlicensed services, and aggravated wordslaughter of the highest degree. Do you own up to your crimes against the English language?”
The doctor frowned. “I’m bilingual,” he growled. “Ni mama duì ni hen shiwàng!”
Babel picked up the doctor’s case, flung it at Mr.Manther’s head, and ran.
The sound of Dr.Writ’s labored gasps were only washed out by the sound of salty waves crashing together, ramming into the pilings like angry bulls. The boy and his master listened tiredly for any footsteps above, shivering under the docks. Babel stared blankly at his own icy hands.
“Q-Q-Quite a chase, wasn’t it, b-b-boyo?” The doctor chattered, his mustache plastered and ragged on his face. “I don’t think th-th-they’ll ever think to find us h-h-here. To think we’d have such a sneaksterious s-s-streak in us!”
There was clack from above, and he fell silent. Froth and chill. It seemed to go away.
“...B-B-Babel. You’re a clever boy. You know I haven’t got a license or any of that. I haven’t got a penny to my name…” He searched for some kind of response in Babel’s face, but it only looked blue-ish and blank-ish. The doctor treaded carefully. “...I...Well, the alchemists don’t fancy me at all. The other ones. They don’t think i’m a real alchemist and that i’m just a John too run-on for my sentences. I do admit to talking big. I think myself to pieces and I simply don’t know what to make of the picture put together. Does that make sense?”
Babel only gave him a sad, far-away look.
Dr.Writ smiled and sighed. “I’m sorry, boy. I think it’s about time I gup. It’s a combination of give and up. Why don’t you swim ashore and get adopted by some street urchin brotherhood while I let myself get overtaken by the sea?”
“Cheer up, Doctor.” Babel said.
“You’re words are kind, but…” The shivering, blue man’s head snapped to the side, eyebrows raised nearly off into the air. His mouth hung open. “...But Babel, you dear, darling delightable angel, you! I thought your tongue was ruled down and out after the trauma of that terrible fire! Well, now that I think about it, I don’t know how the whole mute conundrum really works. How does it work?”
Babel shrugged questioningly.
“It’s no matter, I suppose.” The doctor’s cheeked flushed once again with spirit and bobbed up and down in the water as if he were a happy seal and not a freezing fugitive. His mustache even seemed to have retained some polish. “But what are we doing here? Instead of the sea, maybe i’ll try being overtaken by a few Hawaiian beauties or duck-fluff pillows. Mopeyness does not suit my charming features does it now? Babel, have you ever seen my backstroke? No? Let’s make it to shore and you can observe along the way. You see, boy, backstroke is all about presentation..."
