Under The Johannes Lake

chapter one

The wind blew in a howling manner. My sister laid solemnly in her bed - unaffected by the natural noise. Our father was not home. I could tell, there were no vibrations of his long snores.

I looked out of the window, the sky was shrouded in white cloud and slight flakes of snow fell down. My eyes were weakened, plagued by the strong light of the morning.

I stared at my sleeping sister. Her blanket was a light blue - like a sunny, spring sky. She mildly shivered, but nothing too abrupt. I used my elbow to help myself stand up. I pulled the blanket over just so that her shoulders were covered.

The wooden stairs creaked for every footstep I laid upon them, seemingly on purpose. I tried to keep quiet - stepping down on my tiptoes to avoid her being woken up, I stroked my hand down the merely splintered banister. The skies seemed to show that it was roughly six-in-the-morning, the crisp air flowing into my face from the open window. I pulled the tap up, splashing the sinuous water on my face - it's starting to have black specks within it again.

I sighed, knowing my father would not be happy with having to continuously do this job per week. Of course, it would be much easier if my mother was here. I think about her sometimes, and how I couldn't see her for the couple of weeks before she passed. We still don't know what she died from. Illness or not, she was taken from us. To where? The Church. Bunch of sick people who couldn't care less for our wellbeing.

After that little moment, I grabbed my jacket and headed outdoors. Spring was almost here. I took the shovel in my hand and lifted the sewage grate; a heap of waste had piled up again. It seemed to get worse and worse every winter. Luckily, we won't have to deal with it this bad for at-least the next seven months.

I shovelled everything I could - hopefully the waste will disintegrate within the next couple days. It was scraggly, seemed to be from a tree. Our town, Mennatel, suffered with these heaps of withering tree in our grates and everyone equally worked to get rid.

For us, the highest income was the butchers and only the youngest could get in, or those who were a part of the Lanson family - they usually got those jobs. Next best was just gardening The Church, the government merely paid you minimum wage. The Church was everyone's best hope of quality life but I think it's all a lie, and everyone is oblivious to it.

I wasn't sure when my father would be home, but I was certain it would be soon. He had a night shift which, if I recall, ends at seven, so nearly time.

I zipped up my jacket before heading towards the forest, leaves crunching beneath my boots from the frost-bitten night air. The trees shared creaks between the canopy. I hid my hands in my pockets - my warm breath wafting back into my face in the form of vapour. I wasn't sure what I was thinking about, all I did was stare aimlessly at the leafless trees and the few dead animals I came across.

The squawks of crows reminded me. I repeated the calling. One came lightly gliding down, resting on my shoulder.
"Hey, buddy." I shakily drew my finger from my pocket and scratched his chest - he let out odd, garbled sounds that I had heard often. This was probably my sixth encounter with him.

When we first saw him, my father and I had seen Beedy almost lifeless on the floor, luckily the clement temperature of our house could suffice enough for his little heart to start beating again - I suppose I'd made a lifelong friend during that moment. My mother would've loved him, she loved any kind of black bird. Freakishly fascinated by them.

I took some small, rounded berries and handed them one by one to Beedy. We rescued him almost four months ago. He's a sweet boy. We called him Beedy because he has larger, rounder eyes than that of a regular crow, and so he looks 'beady-eyed', but I prefer it spelt with a double letter.