Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town by Cory Doctorow (e reader manga .TXT) 📖
- Author: Cory Doctorow
Book online «Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town by Cory Doctorow (e reader manga .TXT) 📖». Author Cory Doctorow
“That’s a fraction,” Brad said, chalking “3/4” on a piece of slate by the side of one of the snowmelt streams that coursed down the springtime mountain.
“That’s right, three-over-four,” Alan said. He’d learned it that day in school, and had been about to show it to Billy, which meant that Brad had remembered him doing it and now knew it. He took the chalk and drew his own 3/4—you had to do that, or Billy wouldn’t be able to remember it in advance.
Billy got down on his haunches. He was a dark kid, dark hair and eyes the color of chocolate, which he insatiably craved and begged for every morning when Alan left for school, “Bring me, bring me, bring me!”
He’d found something. Alan leaned in and saw that it was a milkweed pod. “It’s an egg,” Bobby said.
“No, it’s a weed,” Alan said. Bobby wasn’t usually given to flights of fancy, but the shape of the pod was reminiscent of an egg.
Billy clucked his tongue. “I know that. It’s also an egg for a bug. Living inside there. I can see it hatching. Next week.” He closed his eyes. “It’s orange! Pretty. We should come back and find it once it hatches.”
Alan hunkered down next to him. “There’s a bug in here?”
“Yeah. It’s like a white worm, but in a week it will turn into an orange bug and chew its way out.”
He was about three then, which made Alan seven. “What if I chopped down the plant?” he said. “Would the bug still hatch next week?”
“You won’t,” Billy said.
“I could, though.”
“Nope,” Brad said.
Alan reached for the plant. Took it in his hand. The warm skin of the plant and the woody bole of the pod would be so easy to uproot.
He didn’t do it.
That night, as he lay himself down to sleep, he couldn’t remember why he hadn’t. He couldn’t sleep. He got up and looked out the front of the cave, at the countryside unrolling in the moonlight and the far lights of the town.
He went back inside and looked in on Benji. He was sleeping, his face smooth and his lips pouted. He rolled over and opened his eyes, regarding Alan without surprise.
“Told you so,” he said.
Alan had an awkward relationship with the people in town. Unaccompanied little boys in the grocery store, at the Gap, in the library and in toy section of the Canadian Tire were suspect. Alan never “horsed around"—whatever that meant—but nevertheless, he got more than his share of the hairy eyeball from the shopkeepers, even though he had money in his pocket and had been known to spend it on occasion.
A lone boy of five or six or seven was suspicious, but let him show up with the tiny hand of his dark little brother clasped in his, quietly explaining each item on the shelf to the solemn child, and everyone got an immediate attitude adjustment. Shopkeepers smiled and nodded, shoppers mouthed, “So cute,” to each other. Moms with babies in snuglis bent to chuckle them under their chins. Store owners spontaneously gave them candy, and laughed aloud at Bryan’s cries of “Chocolate!”
When Brian started school, he foresaw and avoided all trouble, and delighted his teachers with his precociousness. Alan ate lunch with him once he reached the first grade and started eating in the cafeteria with the rest of the non-kindergartners.
Brad loved to play with Craig after he was born, patiently mounding soil and pebbles on his shore, watering him and patting him smooth, planting wild grasses on his slopes as he crept toward the mouth of the cave. Those days—before Darcy’s arrival—were a long idyll of good food and play in the hot sun or the white snow and brotherhood.
Danny couldn’t sneak up on Brad and kick him in the back of the head. He couldn’t hide a rat in his pillow or piss on his toothbrush. Billy was never one to stand pat and eat shit just because Davey was handing it out. Sometimes he’d just wind up and take a swing at Davey, seemingly out of the blue, knocking him down, then prying open his mouth to reveal the chocolate bar he’d nicked from under Brad’s pillow, or a comic book from under his shirt. He was only two years younger than Brad, but by the time they were both walking, Brad hulked over him and could lay him out with one wild haymaker of a punch.
Billy came down from his high perch when Alan returned from burying Marci, holding out his hands wordlessly. He hugged Alan hard, crushing the breath out of him.
The arms felt good around his neck, so he stopped letting himself feel them. He pulled back stiffly and looked at Brian.
“You could have told me,” he said.
Bram’s face went expressionless and hard and cold. Telling people wasn’t what he did, not for years. It hurt others—and it hurt him. It was the reason for his long, long silences. Alan knew that sometimes he couldn’t tell what it was that he knew that others didn’t. But he didn’t care, then.
“You should have told me,” he said.
Bob took a step back and squared up his shoulders and his feet, leaning forward a little as into a wind.
“You knew and you didn’t tell me and you didn’t do anything and as far as I’m concerned, you killed her and cut her up and buried her along with Darryl, you coward.” Adam knew he was crossing a line, and he didn’t care. Brian leaned forward and jutted his chin out.
Avram’s hands were clawed with cold and caked with mud and still echoing the feeling of frozen skin and frozen dirt, and balled up into fists, they felt like stones.
He didn’t hit Barry. Instead, he retreated to his niche and retrieved the triangular piece of flint that he’d been cherting into an arrowhead for school and a hammer stone and set to work on it in the light of a flashlight.
He sharpened a knife for Davey, there in his room in the cave, as the boys ran feral in the woods, as the mountain made its slow and ponderous protests.
He sharpened a knife, a hunting knife with a rusty blade and a cracked handle that he’d found on one of the woodland trails, beside a hunter’s snare, not lost but pitched away in disgust one winter and not discovered until the following spring.
But the nicked blade took an edge as he whetted it with the round stone, and the handle regained its grippiness as he wound a cord tight around it, making tiny, precise knots with each turn, until the handle no longer pinched his hand, until the blade caught the available light from the cave mouth and glinted dully.
The boys brought him roots and fruits they’d gathered, sweets and bread they’d stolen, small animals they’d caught. Ed-Fred-George were an unbeatable team when it came to catching and killing an animal, though they were only small, barely out of the second grade. They were fast, and they could coordinate their actions without speaking, so that the bunny or the squirrel could never duck or feint in any direction without encountering the thick, neck-wringing outstretched hands of the pudgy boys. Once, they brought him a cat. It went in the night’s stew.
Billy sat at his side and talked. The silence he’d folded himself in unwrapped and flapped in the wind of his beating gums. He talked about the lessons he’d had in school and the lessons he’d had from his big brother, when it was just the two of them on the hillside and Alan would teach him every thing he knew, the names of and salient facts regarding every thing in their father’s domain. He talked about the truths he’d gleaned from reading chocolate-bar wrappers. He talked about the things that he’d see Davey doing when no one else could see it.
One day, George came to him, the lima-bean baby grown to toddling about on two sturdy legs, fat and crispy red from his unaccustomed time out-of-doors and in the sun. “You know, he worships you,” Glenn said, gesturing at the spot in his straw bedding where Brad habitually sat and gazed at him and chattered.
Alan stared at his shoelaces. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. He’d dreamt that night of Davey stealing into the cave and squatting beside him, watching him the way that he had before, and of Alan knowing, knowing that Davey was there, ready to rend and tear, knowing that his knife with its coiled handle was just under his pillow, but not being able to move his arms or legs. Paralyzed, he’d watched Davey grin and reach behind him with agonizing slowness for a rock that he’d lifted high above his head and Andrew had seen that the rock had been cherted to a razor edge that hovered a few feet over his breastbone, Davey’s arms trembling with the effort of holding it aloft. A single drop of sweat had fallen off of Davey’s chin and landed on Alan’s nose, and then another, and finally he’d been able to open his eyes and wake himself, angry and scared. The spring rains had begun, and the condensation was thick on the cave walls, dripping onto his face and arms and legs as he slept, leaving behind chalky lime residue as it evaporated.
“He didn’t kill her,” Greg said.
Albert hadn’t told the younger brothers about the body buried in Craig, which meant that Brad had been talking to them, had told them what he’d seen. Alan felt an irrational streak of anger at Brad—he’d been blabbing Alan’s secrets. He’d been exposing the young ones to things they didn’t need to know. To the nightmares.
“He didn’t stop her from being killed,” Alan said. He had the knife in his hand and hunted through his pile of belongings for the whetstone to hone its edge.
Greg looked at the knife, and Andy followed his gaze to his own white knuckles on the hilt. Greg took a frightened step back, and Alan, who had often worried that the smallest brother was too delicate for the real world, felt ashamed of himself.
He set the knife down and stood, stretching his limbs and leaving the cave for the first time in weeks.
Brad found him standing on the slopes of the gentle, soggy hump of Charlie’s slope, a few feet closer to the seaway than it had been that winter when Alan had dug up and reburied Marci’s body there.
“You forgot this,” Brad said, handing him the knife.
Alan took it from him. It was sharp and dirty and the handle was grimed with sweat and lime.
“Thanks, kid,” he said. He reached down and took Billy’s hand, the way he’d done when it was just the two of them. The three eldest sons of the mountain stood there touching and watched the outside world rush and grind away in the distance, its humming engines and puffing chimneys.
Brendan tugged his hand free and kicked at the dirt with a toe, smoothing over the divot he’d made with the sole of his shoe. Andy noticed that the sneaker was worn out and had a hole in the toe, and that it was only laced up halfway.
“Got to get you new shoes,” he said, bending down to relace them. He had to stick the knife in the ground to free his hands while he worked. The handle vibrated.
“Davey’s coming,” Benny said. “Coming now.”
Alan reached out as in his dream and felt for the knife, but it wasn’t there, as in his dream. He looked around as the skin on his face tightened and his heart began to pound in his ears, and he saw that it had merely fallen over in the dirt. He picked it up and saw that where it had fallen, it had knocked away
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