The Imaginary

Chapter 5: Being a Rockstar Has Its Perks Part 1

THE IMAGINARY

CHAPTER FIVE: BEING A ROCKSTAR HAS ITS PERKS

PART 1

One thing I learned this week: ghost lovers had normal lives. They had no armor to protect themselves from the arrows of the cupids. They had their obsessions, creepy ones. And, they had a bright sense of smell. They could smell the love fragrance of spring. They, too, fell in love.

We were walking at the Lockhouse grounds, us three muse kittens. It was hollow, emptied of people. It felt like we had just walked in on a trap. Classes were called off. Instead, we had to attend three events in the festival. Two men were with us: one was almost tree-tall; the other was grass-short, reaching only to the former’s arm area, or maybe even lower.

"You watched the rehearsals?" I said. "How?"

"Sneaked in, man. Laura helped me." Wow. Ms. President, weren’t you anti-Tom? "Vox was lovely." Okay, I got that already. "Her beauty’s one of a kind, incomparable. Like what those princesses in fairy tales have." Ironic, you were comparing that "incomparableness."

But I could understand. In my case, for example: ever since I could remember, I’d been crushing on my childhood friend. And that felt crushing, so crushing that sometimes, whenever I see her, I’d get this urge to just hug her and say, "I love you."

"'The rabbit does not eat carrots,'" said Mr. Beak. He was excited, very, that his ragged look seemed bloomy. "It eats grass, and it churns holes with trees. Lads, that is my favorite line."

"Nocteyes, that does not make sense," said Mr. Littlepot. Grouchy man, killjoy. He was ill-tempered. I always wondered how Mr. Beak could endure.

Mr. Littlepot was this stout old man. He loved wearing overgrowns, like that formal coat. It had two button-less buttonholes. It succumbed, constantly, to his body’s inflammation--his stomach. His pants were his carpet. Had he not raised them, they would already reach the tip of his shoes. He had a flavor for color motifs, and today, it was purple. A bright choice.

"Exactly, Sir. It is nonsense. Which is why it makes a lot of sense."

"Have you got a crack in the head? This, Nocteyes. Understand well. They associate you with that old crackpot because of this. You admire the sense of the nonsense."

"It’s a free country, Sir. Democracy, as I last checked, extends to the town of the moons." Way to go, Mr. Beak.

"Good lord, you two could be called brothers."

The bushes moved, in that pompom-shake manner, but they had a dark feel to them. Or should I say, jarwick bad? Mr. Tree here by the side was stubborn, yet it was a tad windy. It barely swayed its leaves.

Footsteps drummed, followed by rubbing and slinging noises. They were nuisances to the most sensitive ears. Well, you see, Tom’s were like that. I heard they could even hear ghost whimpers.

"They sound like jumping frogs. It’s Alex, man."

"No, crickets," said Lucas. He was a curious lad. Okay, I just wanted to try that out, that lad thing. "Cricket sounds. They set the mood."

We kept on with the slow march. But the rubbing, now feeling annoyance, changed to zooming sounds. We stopped, but the two men didn’t care. After silence, it became a series of slings, zooms, rapid bumps, and the agonies of crying men.

By the bushes, bunnies were hopping. One jarwick. This guy was an unknown. Two jarwicks. I think this one’s name was George. Three jarwicks. It was Billy the lion. He was a jarwick? Alex, the ringleader, jumped off the tree. Four little jarwicks. These fellows were dancing like happy birds, as they disappeared to the theater building. But, this could be a front. I mean, these same bullies were Tom-types. They were cowards before spirits.