Home Again, Ernest
Posted: Wed Jan 23, 2019 8:47 pm
<<Continued from Geometry Class>>
Ernest sighed as he walked home from school. One of the games he played was finding triples until he lost count. This was usually around 1162261467 or 10460353203. It was a long walk home. It usually took him 30 minutes. He actually prefered walking to riding home in the car, it got him out of the house and among people. It definately made him feel slightly more human. He did have to take a break or two along the way; he'd been sick as a child and his lungs were permanently damaged. It was a nasty flu virus that had mixed with pneumonia, ending up with some ancient disease called pluerasy. It basically meant that your lung cavity filled with pus, mucus, and scar tissue, slowly but surely suffocating you. Ernest had almost died. He did end up missing about a month and a half of third grade, which at that time, was a plus; he'd gone into kindergarden a year early anyway. His mom had never quite gotten over the experience of almost losing one of her babies. Loosing Clark had been a nightmare.
---
The rain made chrome spatters on the ground. There was a little ghost at the funeral. The rain flicked off of his umbrella. His reflection rippled as the pall-bearer carried the casket to the grave, freshly dug. it was kind of strange that the men put it on a machine to be buried. The last thing that ever touched us in this world wasn't a human hand. This is what wandered through Ernest's mind as his mother wept onto his father's shoulder. Ernest was three years old at the time, and didn't really connect any emotion with this funeral. He still expected his brother to show up. After all, it was his funeral. Clark was late. Ernest would tell mom about it when they got home. Mom would work it out.
To be entirely honest, Ernest wouldn't have reacted much differently even if he had known that life was completely extinguished from his brother's two-part corpse. He just wouldn't have cared. He'd killed a few squirrels before, and didn't reall find the results all that nasty. Actually, he found them quite exciting. The way the muscle wove into itself, the way it attached to the bones, the way the organs seethed; it all was just... beautiful.
He just didn't understad why everyone was crying.
---
"Psst. Over here!"
The voice came from the right, near a couple of trash cans. There was a stall hidden by the dumpster. It was a small tarot reading booth. An ancient old lady sat on a stool. No wonder I didn't notice her. She's the kind of person you step over, thought Ernest.
"Do you want to see what's in the cards for you, little boy?" Her third chin quivered with delight, "I am the mystic Sybil! I have never been wrong yet!"
Ernest smiled slightly, and walked over. Sure, Ernest's opinion on tarot reading could be best summed up by an overfull septic tank, but it was still an interest academicaly and slightly amusing.
"Sure. One can never have enough knowledge, I suppose. "
The old lady chuckled, "Words to live by, sonny, words to live by."
She dealt the cards out in a line, one after the other until seven of them lay on the table. Ernest smiled a little more. This sort of reading was the least formulaic, and could basically mean anything. You'd have to read a couple times to get the trends and patterns of the cards.
The crone paused, and then flipped the first card, an ill-dignified Death, the unumbered 13th card of the Trumps. She gasped a little, belaying her inexperience. Death was a card of change, not a literal translation. Ernest was immediately certain that she hadn't even bothered to read a book on the subject.
The next card was the ill-dignified five of pentacles, followed by The Moon in a curiously dignified position, an ill-dignified two of cups, a dignified Lust, an ill dignified Prince of wands, and finally an illdignified Prince of Swords.
"It appears that your mother will-" the old lady began, but Ernest interupted, "Please, I know what I saw in the cards. I know what you're trying to spin me into thinking. It's too bad that you don't know your trade well, but it's not a big dea,l here's the money. Thanks."
Ernest handed her a ten and walked home.
Ernest sighed as he walked home from school. One of the games he played was finding triples until he lost count. This was usually around 1162261467 or 10460353203. It was a long walk home. It usually took him 30 minutes. He actually prefered walking to riding home in the car, it got him out of the house and among people. It definately made him feel slightly more human. He did have to take a break or two along the way; he'd been sick as a child and his lungs were permanently damaged. It was a nasty flu virus that had mixed with pneumonia, ending up with some ancient disease called pluerasy. It basically meant that your lung cavity filled with pus, mucus, and scar tissue, slowly but surely suffocating you. Ernest had almost died. He did end up missing about a month and a half of third grade, which at that time, was a plus; he'd gone into kindergarden a year early anyway. His mom had never quite gotten over the experience of almost losing one of her babies. Loosing Clark had been a nightmare.
---
The rain made chrome spatters on the ground. There was a little ghost at the funeral. The rain flicked off of his umbrella. His reflection rippled as the pall-bearer carried the casket to the grave, freshly dug. it was kind of strange that the men put it on a machine to be buried. The last thing that ever touched us in this world wasn't a human hand. This is what wandered through Ernest's mind as his mother wept onto his father's shoulder. Ernest was three years old at the time, and didn't really connect any emotion with this funeral. He still expected his brother to show up. After all, it was his funeral. Clark was late. Ernest would tell mom about it when they got home. Mom would work it out.
To be entirely honest, Ernest wouldn't have reacted much differently even if he had known that life was completely extinguished from his brother's two-part corpse. He just wouldn't have cared. He'd killed a few squirrels before, and didn't reall find the results all that nasty. Actually, he found them quite exciting. The way the muscle wove into itself, the way it attached to the bones, the way the organs seethed; it all was just... beautiful.
He just didn't understad why everyone was crying.
---
"Psst. Over here!"
The voice came from the right, near a couple of trash cans. There was a stall hidden by the dumpster. It was a small tarot reading booth. An ancient old lady sat on a stool. No wonder I didn't notice her. She's the kind of person you step over, thought Ernest.
"Do you want to see what's in the cards for you, little boy?" Her third chin quivered with delight, "I am the mystic Sybil! I have never been wrong yet!"
Ernest smiled slightly, and walked over. Sure, Ernest's opinion on tarot reading could be best summed up by an overfull septic tank, but it was still an interest academicaly and slightly amusing.
"Sure. One can never have enough knowledge, I suppose. "
The old lady chuckled, "Words to live by, sonny, words to live by."
She dealt the cards out in a line, one after the other until seven of them lay on the table. Ernest smiled a little more. This sort of reading was the least formulaic, and could basically mean anything. You'd have to read a couple times to get the trends and patterns of the cards.
The crone paused, and then flipped the first card, an ill-dignified Death, the unumbered 13th card of the Trumps. She gasped a little, belaying her inexperience. Death was a card of change, not a literal translation. Ernest was immediately certain that she hadn't even bothered to read a book on the subject.
The next card was the ill-dignified five of pentacles, followed by The Moon in a curiously dignified position, an ill-dignified two of cups, a dignified Lust, an ill dignified Prince of wands, and finally an illdignified Prince of Swords.
"It appears that your mother will-" the old lady began, but Ernest interupted, "Please, I know what I saw in the cards. I know what you're trying to spin me into thinking. It's too bad that you don't know your trade well, but it's not a big dea,l here's the money. Thanks."
Ernest handed her a ten and walked home.