The newspaper dances down the street, the wind its silent puppeteer. Dipping and skittering, jumping and tumbling, it’s as if the newspaper were a gymnast just released from the asylum. Prancing between the brownstones than line the street, as far as the eye can see. The only breaks being other streets with lines of brownstones. All the buildings appear aged, as if they started off whitewashed, but time has stained them, as if the roofs were mascara running down the faces of the buildings.
The newspaper catches on a grimy bus bench. The pages flipping open until the wind no longer catches a fresh page. Down in the lower right corner of the sixth page of the living section, hidden between advertisements for Barry’s Shoe Repair and Darla’s Home Cooking Restaurant, there is an article circled in pencil.
"The occurrence of missing animals and animal mutilations in Brownstone City is up. A local police spokesman urges everyone to keep their animals inside until more leads have been discovered. Late last night, another cat was found, apparently skinned alive and lacerated extensively. Again, if you see or hear any strange sounds outside, please notify your local precinct."
The wind catches the newspaper again, sending the pages zipping off toward the sewer grate. A cold rain starts again, peppering the newspaper. As the rain continues, the newspaper stops, the weight of the rain making it too heavy for the wind to toss about. The water runs across the paper, the ink running. With the rain increasing, pounding the pavement like millions of tiny footsteps, the thin newsprint begins to shred and tear. The water running down the spouts of the brownstones catches the paper, turning it, once again, into pulp, and carrying it to the sewer.
The rich smell of the Columbian beans wafts up the stairs, alerting those who have yet to stir that good things await them. The sound of food frying in a skillet, with the sudden pop of toast jumping out of the toaster, accompanies the chirping of birds outside the window, as the grandfather clock chimes 7 a.m.
"Timmy! Julie! Time to get down here for breakfast!" The voice is authoritative, yet soft, and comforting. The speaker, a conservative looking woman, crosses back to the stove with spatula in hand. Carefully wiping her hand on her apron, to clean a spatter of grease that just leapt onto her. Her makeup is exquisite, as if she were going to a formal gala. Her hair, already lovingly fluffed into a work of art, stunning in its own right.
"Good morning Dear," she says as a man walks into the kitchen. She sets a plate of eggs and meat on the kitchen table. After he sits, she sets a cup of coffee and glass of orange juice in front of him as well.
"Good morning Hon. Breakfast smells wonderful this morning, as it always does." The man opens the newspaper, and begins reading as he eats.
Two beautiful children appear a moment later, following a sound of footsteps tromping down the stairs. "Good morning Mother. Good morning Father." They say it in unison, almost as if practiced.
"Good morning children. Sit down and eat your breakfast." The lady says as she sets down two plates on the table. She quickly follows these up with a glass of orange juice beside each plate.
"Hmmm. Listen to this Hon. The police still have not found any leads to the whereabouts of Sylvia Donovan, missing for a week now. Isn't that just amazing." The husband finishes his breakfast and scoots his chair away from the table.
"Yes Dear, that is quite amazing." The lady says as she washes the skillet in the sink.
The children finish their breakfast and run upstairs to brush their teeth. "Good breakfast Mom!" They shout as they run up the stairs.
Mere moments later, the kids reappear, ready to run out the door.
"Don't forget your lunches," the woman says as she hands the children brown bags, stuffed like Santa's bag of toys.
"Thanks Mom! Love you!" They shout as they run out the door.
"Well Hon, I have to leave for work. I hope you have a good day." The man picks up his briefcase, and walks toward the front door. As he walks by the coat stand, he picks up his suit jacket and hat, donning them and opening the door.
"Oh. I meant to ask. What was for breakfast Hon?"
"Just a little something I whipped up Dear. Country Hamstrings and eggs Sylvia." She says with a gleam in her eye.
The husband turns and winks back at her before he shuts the door. "Just have to love that Sylvia, don't you Hon?"
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