More Than Mischief

Chapter 1: Longing for a Lie

The alarm on the bedstand rung insistently.  A constant, groaning beep sounded from the digital clock, and echoed around the small, navy colored loft room. Outside the window one could look out upon the view of a standard english neighborhood, the kind you would see around the outskirts of London; two-storied traditional english houses, all made of brick, stretching almost as far as one could see. The room itself was cramped, but cozy. By the door to the room was a battered cupoard, red paint peeling and almost gone. next to the bed on the other side of the door was a bedstand with a reading light, the only thing that seemed pristine of dust, a pristine librarycopy of "The Neverending Story" and the afforementioned torturous device. In chorus with it's mechanical screech, Rowan uttered a sound of indignancy and slapped the alarmclock, stopping the sound. The child in the bed squinted at it's number display. It showed 07:02. On a sunday. Rowan groaned again and tossed around in the bed, tried to close their eyes and go back to sleep. It did not work. They lay there for a few minutes while their body still slept, but eventually Rowan concluded that there was no point in doing nothing. they tumbled out of bed and as they fell on the cold floor their body quickened and they suddenly felt more awake. Rowan got to their feet and brushed their long, curly hair out of their eyes, as they opened their cubboard and found their sunday best; a checkered pair of pyjama pants and an oversized- for them- pink t-shirt with a cuddly-looking teddybear on the chest. 

With the outfit complete, Rowan went out of their tiny bedroom and then down the creaky staircase into the sunlit living room. It was carpeted, and in the right corner furthest from the staircase was a large flatscreen TV and a beaten down sofa. Rowan chuckled to themself at the contrast of the old furnishing that had survived what looked like a bombshell, against the new Television Rowans father had bought only a week ago. At that moment Rowan noticed the sounds of sizziling, acompanied by a smell so lovely it made them close their eyes, and almost float in middair like the cartoons Rowan loved to watch. Dad was making breakfast. Rowan hurried through the  dining room and through the doors to the kitchen, almost knocking over the candle on their way inn.

"Ho there!" said Rowans dad as they stumbled through the door. "Hold your horses, there, little Sputnik, you're not doing a spacerace."

"What are you cooking, dad?" Rowan asked, grinning voraciously up at the bubbly man. His hair looked like a pile of black dirt on the top of his head and his fluffy stomach was hidden behind an apron, the colour of joy. Freckles adorned his plump cheeks and nose, complementing his umber skin. At his childs words, his warm smile became mischevious, not in the way one smiles when they have done something wrong, but moreso sympatheticly, as if the nature of the child in front of him  was somehow shared between the two of them. 

"Eggs. " he answered, and his eyes seemed to glow gold in the early morning light, even though Rowan knew they were hazel. "And bacon. Lots of yummy bacon!" The man didn't say, but instead proclaim like knight declaring that "This land is our kingdom!". At that moment the sizzling from the pan increased, and smoke began to ooze from the pan behind the big man who mystifiedly sniffed the air until he turned around and jumped so much that he appeared to be a jack-in-the-box. Furiously he started shaking the pan whilst yelping about there being "Quite the temperature, that's for sure!" and saying that "It's more coal than bacon, isn't it! Lousy cook." Rowan suspected that the last bit was directed at himself. 

After some more mutterings, Rowan had been served a portion of breakfast and was seated in the beaten old sofa in front of the tele, watching cartoons. Their father sat down next to them and as he pat Rowans head, making their curls go everywhere, he said, "You sure have got my hair don't you, bo-" he paused at the sight of rowans disgruntled look. "Child." He continued, "I meant child." Rowan was turned back to their cartoons. Wasn't long before the staircase creaked like an old crone, a sign of someone approaching the bottom of the stairs. Rowan was halfway through shoveling a pile of eggs and black, scorched charcoal strips when he turned around to see his older brother, Jordan. his hair was as straight as his fathers, but had the tinge of autumn of his mother. His eyes were jade and his stature was thin; thinner than Rowan, but he was far taller. As they did, they pointed to their food and tried to speak through a mouthfull. "Iphh phill ood! Dzo yoo wnna teste?"