Tahiti Dreams and Virgin Drinks
Off. He?d felt off lately. Not great but not awful. Just?off. With no other way to describe it, the tree biting imp sits up in the middle of the night with his journal in his lap and too many thoughts in his head.
Soreness had become a usual companion, what with this longshoring business. ?It?ll pass,? they all say. Maybe it will.
We?re leaving soon?
To where? When? Why?
Questions remain unanswered.
Faith, Imp. Faith?
They?ll come back from wherever they intend to go. Perhaps they will go to this Tahiti and bring back stories of adventure or silliness. Preferably silliness. They are too good at being silly!
That path of thought makes the imp smile in the dark. Up here on the third floor, he could hear almost everything within these walls. The walls of Home.
Fancying for a moment he might feel what the walls feel, Renne puts pen to paper.
Sir and ?Chee,
It is hoped you are safe when it is time for you to go on your next adventure. I will not do a bad thing and tell an untruth. I will miss you. I even wish to go with, to learn to sail proper and speak proper and learn other things you are wise with. I will not go. I will stay and watch over Home for you.
I may try to find a boat to teach me, if you think it is good. I wish to learn many things you know already. You are wise to me, very wise.
Please keep your trees; they might still bring luck. Please come back home and be safe.
You are friend to me, much friend.
-Renne
S.P. You said you wished for a thing called a ham. You shall have one.
He won?t let himself cry. Even writing this, he won?t let himself cry.
Crying means giving up. Crying means ?never again?.
He won?t cry.
At the crack of pre-dawn, Renne crawls with a strong dose of his ?stealth-crawl? downstairs. Failing miserably ? or succeeding delightfully, depending how you look at it ? at the temptation of cooking, Renne locks the kitchen door tight-shut.
Yes, he locks himself in the kitchen.
No use spoiling the surprise, eh?
It takes a decent amount of work and a brief sneak-out-the-back foray, but soon enough, the Maritime is bloody well filled with the scent of a feast in the making.
No use locking the door now.
Click.
Finally, after a good three-ish hours, the Maritime?s bar is set with that veritable feast. A platter of honey-baked ham as the centerpiece, it?s accentuated by plates of eggs, fresh-baked bread, cheeses of a few sorts and of course, a small variety of those fruits from the imp?s homeworld. All right, so the coffee?s there too. Bloody staple, that.
So too however, is a peculiarly-coloured bottle of something. The bottle?s clear but the stuff inside sure isn?t. It?s bluish, almost teal in its colour and has a light sweetness to it.
And Harry need not worry. All drinks the imp offers are virgin.
Off. He?d felt off lately. Not great but not awful. Just?off. With no other way to describe it, the tree biting imp sits up in the middle of the night with his journal in his lap and too many thoughts in his head.
Soreness had become a usual companion, what with this longshoring business. ?It?ll pass,? they all say. Maybe it will.
We?re leaving soon?
To where? When? Why?
Questions remain unanswered.
Faith, Imp. Faith?
They?ll come back from wherever they intend to go. Perhaps they will go to this Tahiti and bring back stories of adventure or silliness. Preferably silliness. They are too good at being silly!
That path of thought makes the imp smile in the dark. Up here on the third floor, he could hear almost everything within these walls. The walls of Home.
Fancying for a moment he might feel what the walls feel, Renne puts pen to paper.
Sir and ?Chee,
It is hoped you are safe when it is time for you to go on your next adventure. I will not do a bad thing and tell an untruth. I will miss you. I even wish to go with, to learn to sail proper and speak proper and learn other things you are wise with. I will not go. I will stay and watch over Home for you.
I may try to find a boat to teach me, if you think it is good. I wish to learn many things you know already. You are wise to me, very wise.
Please keep your trees; they might still bring luck. Please come back home and be safe.
You are friend to me, much friend.
-Renne
S.P. You said you wished for a thing called a ham. You shall have one.
He won?t let himself cry. Even writing this, he won?t let himself cry.
Crying means giving up. Crying means ?never again?.
He won?t cry.
At the crack of pre-dawn, Renne crawls with a strong dose of his ?stealth-crawl? downstairs. Failing miserably ? or succeeding delightfully, depending how you look at it ? at the temptation of cooking, Renne locks the kitchen door tight-shut.
Yes, he locks himself in the kitchen.
No use spoiling the surprise, eh?
It takes a decent amount of work and a brief sneak-out-the-back foray, but soon enough, the Maritime is bloody well filled with the scent of a feast in the making.
No use locking the door now.
Click.
Finally, after a good three-ish hours, the Maritime?s bar is set with that veritable feast. A platter of honey-baked ham as the centerpiece, it?s accentuated by plates of eggs, fresh-baked bread, cheeses of a few sorts and of course, a small variety of those fruits from the imp?s homeworld. All right, so the coffee?s there too. Bloody staple, that.
So too however, is a peculiarly-coloured bottle of something. The bottle?s clear but the stuff inside sure isn?t. It?s bluish, almost teal in its colour and has a light sweetness to it.
And Harry need not worry. All drinks the imp offers are virgin.