City of Souls

The city was aflame. The city was beautiful, glimmering in bright wisps of red and orange. Most all of the city’s houses burnt down to ashes while some stayed standing tall. Wolves fled from the scene, running swiftly through the forest, far away from the burning city.

There were those of the city who were weeping at the sight before them and those of the city who were beyond euphoric. There were those who were trembling with fear and those who were jittery with excitement. There were two types of people in the city of Wildemoor: the jovial and the disconsolate.

The city’s authorities sent out troops to house those without a house and once that procedure had been done, a message was broadcasted via television. Static showed on the screen first, and then there was the chubby, double-chinned mayor. “The city is burning. I repeat, the city is burning,” he announced, as if he weren’t stating the obvious. His shirt was buttoned all the way to the top and his tie was tied too tightly, and the man looked like a stuffed turkey. “There is no need to panic, though. Everything is under control.”

Mayor Flicker was the jovial type of Wildemoor occupants, or so he encouraged people to believe. Mayor Flicker was the ideal mayor, with his rounded belly and too-tight white button-down.

He inhaled deeply and continued his message. “We have sent the firefighters around to put the flames to rest and we have opened the doors to shelters to house our occupants who have lost their own form of shelter.” Flicker brought his fist up to his mouth and coughed. He then proceeded with, “Hopefully, we’ll be able to start reconstruction no later than Friday.” The mayor disappeared from the screen and people engaged into a number of activities. Some people turned off their televisions, some people popped a frozen meal into the microwave, and some people went to sleep.

Porter Wells pulled his notebook from underneath his bed and began to add to his list of senseless quotes. “‘The city is burning. I repeat, the city is burning,’” Porter spoke out loud. He laughed at the mayor’s foolish choice of words. “Couldn’t he have said something along the lines of”—he cleared his throat and prepared himself to speak an octave lower—“‘a tyrant has set flame to the city grounds.’”

Porter’s book of senseless quotes served no absolutely purpose in his life. Why it existed, he didn’t know. It was just a bad, nonetheless odd, habit that he picked up sometime during middle school. It surprised him that it wasn’t full yet, him being a senior in high school. Shrugging his shoulders, he tucked it back underneath his bed. As if on cue, his mother walked through his door, wearing a wrinkle-free button down and pencil skirt. “Dress nice,” she said. “Harold Oaks is stopping by.”

His mother was gone as quickly as she came, leaving behind her smothering scent of roses and apple pie. He sighed and began changing out of his night clothes. Why he had to go from being comfortable to uncomfortable, he didn’t know, but he put on the stuffy button down and dark blazer regardless. She returned when she assumed that Porter was all dressed up in a fancy suit and tie, clearly unsatisfied with Porter’s efforts to please her.

“Your tie is crooked and your slacks are wrinkled,” she pointed out. The middle-aged, dark-haired woman didn’t even offer her son a soft, reassuring smile. “You’ve got twenty minutes to fix that. No more, no less.”

Needless to say, Porter got right to work. No matter how much he opposed to the idea of Harold Oaks, a man who worked too hard to impress Porter’s hard-to-impress mother, coming over. And Harold Oaks wasn’t the type of man to just stop by. He wiped his feet off on the welcome mat, kicked his shoes off once he stepped in the door, plopped a seat on the sofa, and asked for a cup of coffee. Porter didn’t believe that any man that walked inside of his house had that right except for his father. But he sucked up his distaste for the man, enclosed it in a box, pushed to the back corner of his mind.

When Porter’s mother came back, he was standing in the mirror, absentmindedly combing his hair back. “That’s much better,” she said, walking over to where he stood. She used her hand to brush nonexistent morsels of dust from his blazer. “I expect you to be respectful and nothing less.”

She had Porter leave the soft environment of his room, his room with navy blue walls and disorganized belongings, and sit on the couch, instead. “I’ve always hated this couch,” he mumbled to himself. It was blue and ugly and corduroy. His mother just shrugged her shoulders, pushed hair behind her ear, and sat down. She crossed her legs as if she were as posh as the British, her chin tilted up at a specific angle.

“And when Harold gets here, be nice. If you decide that you have nothing nice to say, keep your mouth shut.” Porter simply nodded. He didn’t understand why it was so important for him to treat Harold Oaks as if he was the president, but he didn’t question it. He knew that it would just send his already-stressed mother off of the edge.

It was seven thirty-seven when Harold Oaks arrived; he had his briefcase, what with all of his important papers, and his leather shoes needed a new shining. “The city is still on fire,” Harold announced, setting his briefcase down by the door. He bent down slightly to slip his shoes from his feet and set the pair on the top right corner of the mat. Harold removed his blazer, folded it once, and hung on the back of the couch before taking a seat next to my mother. “How are you, Anastasia?”

The dark-haired woman smiled at Harold Oaks, batted her eyelashes. “I’m quite well, thank you. I’d like to ask the same to you.” There was something about his mother’s voice that perturbed Porter’s thoughts. Her sense of awareness and the new act of sincerity that she took on had his skin writhing.

“That’s good.” And the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper. He opened it up, crossed his legs, and propped his elbows onto his thighs. “What about you, Porter? How is school and how are those teachers treating you?”

Before Porter answered, his kept his mother’s warning in consideration. “I’ve been fine, actually. School is still quite the humdrum and the teachers are still vague and inconsiderate.” And he thought he answered the question well. Porter cleared his throat, returned the question, asking, “How are you, Mr. Oaks?”

The man smiled, ran a hand through his nonexistent patch of hair. “I’d like to think that I’m doing well. I’ve just earned a raise for my hardworking work ethics and bought myself a new flat screen.”

“That’s good,” Porter commented. He felt as if deserved a pat on his back, mostly from his mother. He’d refrained from calling the man out of his name, muttering under his breath, and making a comment about how the guy could use a toupee. Porter thought that he was doing quite well.