87 Vhalar, 723
.
He pressed his palms into his eye sockets until he felt pain, until the blackness exploded with glowing shapes and neon patterns. Kotton had been asked by his estranged uncle Jorge, to transport a unique and unusual contraption from his place to his fathers’. The young man wasn’t too eager to reach the doorstep of a hoarder, but the fascinating conversation from a good-hearted soul encouraged him to increase his speed, his stride eating up distance.
The porch was as dilapidated as he had remembered, wet and rotted wood hanging from thin threads of cedar. Holes had annihilated the surfaces of the steps up to the front door. The railing that was meant to keep people from falling several feet onto the lawn had long since given up, retracting from their role of being structural support and deigning into mere curb appeal. They dipped violently from the moisture of several storms of continuous rain.
Kotton tried the door, knocking precisely three times with his whitened knuckles. No one came to greet hom. A surprising footnote, but something that didn’t sway him from his quest. He prodded at the door with his index finger, noticing it gave way all too easily. Unlocked. He pushed it open with the back of his hand, not hearing the squeak that origination from the motion.
Greeted, was he, with the same ridiculous heaps of… stuff as he had the first time he had been invited over. But Jorge was nowhere to be seen. Kotton strode in, calling his uncle's name with his infamous lisp, “Jowge?” There was no response. But of course there wouldn’t be, at least none that he could hear. Kotton took a few more lengthy paces into the centre of the foyer, surveying every corner in case his uncle was hiding admidst the rubbish that adorned the rooms.
Still nothing.
The young man called his uncle’s name once more, for perhaps he hadn’t heard the first time, but still there remained no appearances of a man with intense adiposity. A satisfied smile ghosted Kotton’s lips but faded rather quickly. He rubbed his nose with the heel of his hand. He was alone and therefore unable to be reeled into awkward conversation. However, this turn of events was something that was un-planned.
How was he supposed to know what contraption his uncle wanted to give his father? In order to fully expunge all doubts, he had to investigate. Maybe it had been placed somewhere with a note fastened to it?
Kotton closed the door behind him, keeping the cold at bay. He scoured the room past the foyer. He proposed the room he currently stood in was the living room based solely on the overstuffed couch heaping with gadgets and gizmos. There was also a coffee table rife with pamphlets and other documents. Nothing seemed to scream ‘take me to your father’, so Kotton progressed deeper into the house.
Past the railing that guided the ascension of steps toward an upper floor, past the alcove stained with gods who knew, and past the very dead plants that rested peacefully (or maybe not) on tiny, circular tables- finally, Kotton was able to recognise familiar ground. He was standing at the precipice of where the hallway met the kitchen.
The last time he was here, he and Jorge had spent a decent amount of time sitting at the dining table in the kitchen talking strictly about doomsday prepping and various forms of field craft- mechanisms with multiple purposes and designs far superior for the young man’s brain to appreciate.
The tile flooring was muddy with scuffed shoe prints, almost as though there had been haste in the owner of the shoe's' leaving. Kotton glanced at the prints for a lengthy amount of time, hoping to come up with a reason for their existence, but nothing happened.
He instinctively grasped onto the backing of a wooden dining chair and pulled it so he was able to take a seat. On the dining table in front of him was a conglomeration of everything in the kitchen sink. There was a void of interest in the contents that cluttered the table, but Kotton was in no rush to go back to his father with empty hands. He saw a corner of a brightly white piece of paper and pulled it out from underneath a box filled with metal contrivances.
He recognised his uncle’s penmanship right away, especially after he had looked it over multiple times during their previous get-together. The penmanship was hurried, rash, the corners more like curves, and the punctuation completely absent. Regardless of these faults, Kotton was able to make out the lettering, and boy did they hold a lot of fascinating information.
Kotton read,
‘Traps meant to intimidate are threatening to predators. They’re designed to scare things. These traps are ‘specially useful when trying to protect somethin’ worth somethin’. Traps that are set with alarms are very practical, too. Tie a bell to a string and the string to a part of a trap and once that baby is triggered, you know you have something. Another important trap is one of bait. You stick something yummy thing on the end of one of these bad boys and it’s sure to lure your prey in a heartbeat.’
Kotton smirked at the use of his colloquialism. Very informal, very to the point and very easy to read. He made mental notes. Maybe someday this information would prove applicable to him, although he genuinely hoped not to hurt an animal or any other living being.
He glanced out the window in the kitchen, a small sphincter not clouded with excess items. The sky was a smear of rotten grey, and Kotton no doubt predicted the ocean was a cold soup of bitter salt and temper tantrum. Since his attention had waned, his senses had quickly picked up the slack. They laboured under fresh assault, acknowledging the smell of body odour and decay, of ripe sea air and… socks. Whatever the smell was, it was bad. He pinched his nose, wondering why he hadn’t smelt it until now.
There was more to the entry he had started to read and he wanted to conclude the task he had originally started. So,
‘Apparently user-friendly, manual traps are terrible because they require someone to activate it so it fires correctly. There can be levers or buttons, plates or switches- it all depends, really. Automatic traps are so much better- trust me."
Kotton noted this as well. And yes, he trusted him. He wondered if his uncle had utilised many automatic traps based on his documentation. If they were incredibly user-friendly, then why did manual traps exist? Had innovation not outsourced the old with the new use of automation?
It wasn’t until now that Kotton’s peripheral gaze caught onto a unique object. It was boldened by deep red paint and a note written in his relative’s ungodly scrawl. He looked at it, observing its obscure features before reading,
‘Sorry Kotton ol’ lad for my absence, but here is the doohickey your father asked for. Hope to see you again soon!’
Kotton ripped the note off its its hold on the object and stuffed it into his jacket pocket with a smile. Jorge had his quirks and interesting tastes toward storage, but in the end, he was a fun guy, an uncle none-too-embarrassing to declare as immediate family.
He stood from his chair and observed the contraption Jorge had created. There was absolutely nothing that gave away what it was but then again it wasn’t meant for him- it was meant for his father. He was simply the delivery boy. He reached for it and lifted it off the dining table with caution. He pulled it close to his chest, noting the heaviness. He could carry this to his fathers’ without problem.
Kotton took one last look at the paper his uncle had diligently written and smirked. He would have to come back and have a conversation with him. His intrigue had been piqued time and time again during every encounter he had with the man. And maybe, if his energy was ample, Kotton could help Jorge sort out his house, purge the things he didn’t need and organise those he did. The place was a pit, and Kotton couldn’t get over it.
A step towards the front door, and the young man's eyes found a multitude of other mechanisms and accessories all supervising metal gismos with dormancy. Kotton wished he could be this creative with the raw sciences. Instead he was in the clouds with words, crafting tales of prose and fiction, oblivious to tangible and mechanical purposes of things. Sometimes inspiration would dawn on him with an idea for experiment that demanded physicality, but for the most part, his ideas were intangible, only viewed from the scope of an imaginary conjecture.
Kotton exhaled and walked from the dining room into the living room. Masses of metallic objects and unfinished projects greeted him with the hopes of being finished. Maybe someday he could come back and help Jorge with his journey toward the future. There were so many works in progress and like Kotton, he could use a loving hand to fit the final pieces into the places they belonged.
Out on the front stoop, the grass was still wet, the railing still limp with moisture, and the wooden panellings that made up the porch still rot with dew.
Disregarding any intention, Kotton would make sure to visit his uncle again. And as soon as he could.
The porch was as dilapidated as he had remembered, wet and rotted wood hanging from thin threads of cedar. Holes had annihilated the surfaces of the steps up to the front door. The railing that was meant to keep people from falling several feet onto the lawn had long since given up, retracting from their role of being structural support and deigning into mere curb appeal. They dipped violently from the moisture of several storms of continuous rain.
Kotton tried the door, knocking precisely three times with his whitened knuckles. No one came to greet hom. A surprising footnote, but something that didn’t sway him from his quest. He prodded at the door with his index finger, noticing it gave way all too easily. Unlocked. He pushed it open with the back of his hand, not hearing the squeak that origination from the motion.
Greeted, was he, with the same ridiculous heaps of… stuff as he had the first time he had been invited over. But Jorge was nowhere to be seen. Kotton strode in, calling his uncle's name with his infamous lisp, “Jowge?” There was no response. But of course there wouldn’t be, at least none that he could hear. Kotton took a few more lengthy paces into the centre of the foyer, surveying every corner in case his uncle was hiding admidst the rubbish that adorned the rooms.
Still nothing.
The young man called his uncle’s name once more, for perhaps he hadn’t heard the first time, but still there remained no appearances of a man with intense adiposity. A satisfied smile ghosted Kotton’s lips but faded rather quickly. He rubbed his nose with the heel of his hand. He was alone and therefore unable to be reeled into awkward conversation. However, this turn of events was something that was un-planned.
How was he supposed to know what contraption his uncle wanted to give his father? In order to fully expunge all doubts, he had to investigate. Maybe it had been placed somewhere with a note fastened to it?
Kotton closed the door behind him, keeping the cold at bay. He scoured the room past the foyer. He proposed the room he currently stood in was the living room based solely on the overstuffed couch heaping with gadgets and gizmos. There was also a coffee table rife with pamphlets and other documents. Nothing seemed to scream ‘take me to your father’, so Kotton progressed deeper into the house.
Past the railing that guided the ascension of steps toward an upper floor, past the alcove stained with gods who knew, and past the very dead plants that rested peacefully (or maybe not) on tiny, circular tables- finally, Kotton was able to recognise familiar ground. He was standing at the precipice of where the hallway met the kitchen.
The last time he was here, he and Jorge had spent a decent amount of time sitting at the dining table in the kitchen talking strictly about doomsday prepping and various forms of field craft- mechanisms with multiple purposes and designs far superior for the young man’s brain to appreciate.
The tile flooring was muddy with scuffed shoe prints, almost as though there had been haste in the owner of the shoe's' leaving. Kotton glanced at the prints for a lengthy amount of time, hoping to come up with a reason for their existence, but nothing happened.
He instinctively grasped onto the backing of a wooden dining chair and pulled it so he was able to take a seat. On the dining table in front of him was a conglomeration of everything in the kitchen sink. There was a void of interest in the contents that cluttered the table, but Kotton was in no rush to go back to his father with empty hands. He saw a corner of a brightly white piece of paper and pulled it out from underneath a box filled with metal contrivances.
He recognised his uncle’s penmanship right away, especially after he had looked it over multiple times during their previous get-together. The penmanship was hurried, rash, the corners more like curves, and the punctuation completely absent. Regardless of these faults, Kotton was able to make out the lettering, and boy did they hold a lot of fascinating information.
Kotton read,
‘Traps meant to intimidate are threatening to predators. They’re designed to scare things. These traps are ‘specially useful when trying to protect somethin’ worth somethin’. Traps that are set with alarms are very practical, too. Tie a bell to a string and the string to a part of a trap and once that baby is triggered, you know you have something. Another important trap is one of bait. You stick something yummy thing on the end of one of these bad boys and it’s sure to lure your prey in a heartbeat.’
Kotton smirked at the use of his colloquialism. Very informal, very to the point and very easy to read. He made mental notes. Maybe someday this information would prove applicable to him, although he genuinely hoped not to hurt an animal or any other living being.
He glanced out the window in the kitchen, a small sphincter not clouded with excess items. The sky was a smear of rotten grey, and Kotton no doubt predicted the ocean was a cold soup of bitter salt and temper tantrum. Since his attention had waned, his senses had quickly picked up the slack. They laboured under fresh assault, acknowledging the smell of body odour and decay, of ripe sea air and… socks. Whatever the smell was, it was bad. He pinched his nose, wondering why he hadn’t smelt it until now.
There was more to the entry he had started to read and he wanted to conclude the task he had originally started. So,
‘Apparently user-friendly, manual traps are terrible because they require someone to activate it so it fires correctly. There can be levers or buttons, plates or switches- it all depends, really. Automatic traps are so much better- trust me."
Kotton noted this as well. And yes, he trusted him. He wondered if his uncle had utilised many automatic traps based on his documentation. If they were incredibly user-friendly, then why did manual traps exist? Had innovation not outsourced the old with the new use of automation?
It wasn’t until now that Kotton’s peripheral gaze caught onto a unique object. It was boldened by deep red paint and a note written in his relative’s ungodly scrawl. He looked at it, observing its obscure features before reading,
‘Sorry Kotton ol’ lad for my absence, but here is the doohickey your father asked for. Hope to see you again soon!’
Kotton ripped the note off its its hold on the object and stuffed it into his jacket pocket with a smile. Jorge had his quirks and interesting tastes toward storage, but in the end, he was a fun guy, an uncle none-too-embarrassing to declare as immediate family.
He stood from his chair and observed the contraption Jorge had created. There was absolutely nothing that gave away what it was but then again it wasn’t meant for him- it was meant for his father. He was simply the delivery boy. He reached for it and lifted it off the dining table with caution. He pulled it close to his chest, noting the heaviness. He could carry this to his fathers’ without problem.
Kotton took one last look at the paper his uncle had diligently written and smirked. He would have to come back and have a conversation with him. His intrigue had been piqued time and time again during every encounter he had with the man. And maybe, if his energy was ample, Kotton could help Jorge sort out his house, purge the things he didn’t need and organise those he did. The place was a pit, and Kotton couldn’t get over it.
A step towards the front door, and the young man's eyes found a multitude of other mechanisms and accessories all supervising metal gismos with dormancy. Kotton wished he could be this creative with the raw sciences. Instead he was in the clouds with words, crafting tales of prose and fiction, oblivious to tangible and mechanical purposes of things. Sometimes inspiration would dawn on him with an idea for experiment that demanded physicality, but for the most part, his ideas were intangible, only viewed from the scope of an imaginary conjecture.
Kotton exhaled and walked from the dining room into the living room. Masses of metallic objects and unfinished projects greeted him with the hopes of being finished. Maybe someday he could come back and help Jorge with his journey toward the future. There were so many works in progress and like Kotton, he could use a loving hand to fit the final pieces into the places they belonged.
Out on the front stoop, the grass was still wet, the railing still limp with moisture, and the wooden panellings that made up the porch still rot with dew.
Disregarding any intention, Kotton would make sure to visit his uncle again. And as soon as he could.
