City of Souls

Dinner that night was a conglomeration shredded turkey, mashed potatoes, and gravy. She mixed it all together, rolled it so that it looked like a ball of dough. Porter picked at his makeshift dinner with his fork. “What happened to the spaghetti that you were making?” he asked.

His mother shrugged her shoulders, the collar of her dinner bloused wrinkled. “I burnt the noodles and we only had precisely a half jar of the marina left,” she said. “I’m sorry for getting your taste buds all reeled up.” She looked at the mess she’d made with not-so-pleased eyes, because she was his hard-to-please mother, and poked her fork right through the middle. “How does it taste?”

Porter didn’t answer her. He hadn’t even tasted it yet. “I think it needs more seasoning. Cheese, maybe.”

“That just sounds so appetizing, right?”

That’s how dinner went that night, aside from the fact that Porter actually did eat the mediocre Thanksgiving meal rolled-in-one afterward. Anastasia ate it, too, but she threw it up and called it a disgrace to her cooking skills. Porter didn’t blame her; he wanted to throw it up, too, but he knew that she wouldn’t let him scarf down any late night snacks tonight.

He sprawled out on top of his bed, wearing his pajama pants and a t-shirt he got from summer camp a few years back. His blanket, the one with discolored blue stars splattered across the surface, was laden on his body, and he watched the television. Porter watched the television, in which was displaying a poorly, but decently, dressed man in a banana costume. Porter could tell that it had just been filmed yesterday. The fire dancing in the air gave it away.

Banana Man shimmied his way through the, as if the trees weren’t on fire and burning to nothing but dirt, singing, “We’re going on a trip to Crestview Drive, where the big brown chocolate shop sits, and we’re feeding ourselves fattening slop, and it’s—” His singing was cut short and the television screened quickly dissolved into static. Mayor Flicker was on the television—he seemed to be a broadcast-hungry—claiming that he had an important message to deliver.

“We’ve put the city’s flames out for good.” He’d changed his tie to one of style, leather to be specific, but it still appeared as if it was strangling him. “We’ve managed to remodel a few homes, too, with the help of our friends from Miningville. Shelter is still available until tomorrow noon to those that need it.”

And then the mayor’s announcement was off of the television and the man in the banana costume was there again, skipping through the then burning forest. But Porter didn’t pay attention any longer. Instead, he peeled his blanket back and pulled his black boots onto his feet. He grabbed the sweatshirt from his dresser and pulled it over his head.

He knew that he’d earn a chastisement when his mother found out. She knew that she’d be all but unhappy with Porter, but when was she not? Porter walked to the other side of the room and pushed open the window. Before he stepped foot out of it, he patted his pocket to ensure that his cell phone was still resting in it.

Porter never understood how he managed the fall. He didn’t understand why he only received ugly, discolored bruises to his arms and his legs and nothing more. Whenever he hit the grass, he should’ve broken a few bones. He should’ve sprained something. He should’ve fractured something. He never did.

He picked himself off of the ground and dusted the dirt from his knees. He walked to Crestview Drive, where the trees were no longer burning. It didn’t take him long to get there. He didn’t live that far from it.

He sat on the wooden bench next to the drug store, picking at the loose seams of his sweatshirt. Porter wasn’t sure why he’d come out here. But he couldn’t sleep and it only seemed logical to come to a street with a name as stupid as Crestview Drive. And he couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t the only one lurking around that part of Wildemoor. Some of them were up to no good and some of them were just loitering.

One of the no-gooders sat next to Porter and put their hand on his shoulder as if they were best friends. “You see the rest of those people,” he said. “Night owls don’t sleep because they’re given the oddest dreams.” Porter said nothing. He just breathed. “Back in Miningville, they deem us as crazy. But we’re not. I swear to you we’re not. We’re just different.”

Porter turned to see who was next to him and nearly gawked at the boys snow-white hair. “What are your dreams about?” he asked.

“They’re mostly about death. I wouldn’t expect you to know what I mean, though, because you’re of Wildemoor and the people of Wildemoor are nothing but cheery and jovial. That darn mayor of yours sure is; he talks about the burning predicaments of your city like it’s something to be proud of.”

“You’re wrong. There are two types of people in Wildemoor. There are the jovial and the disconsolate. Remember that.”

He shot a smug grin at Porter and chuckled. He absentmindedly fixed the collar of his plaid shirt and said, “That seems accurate enough. I could easily be walking down the streets of this odd town and see one person laughing and the other weeping. What might you be, mate?”

“I’d like to think that I’m of the disconsolate, but it’s of more accuracy to say I’m neither. My mother’s a disconsolate and she’s quite terrible, if I must admit. My name’s Porter Wells, nice to meet you.” Porter put his hand out for the white-haired boy to shake, but he simply shook his head and closed Porter’s hand.

He laughed before saying, “No one shakes hands back in Miningville. That’s one of the few ethics that I do agree with. Do you know many germs that spread that way?” Porter shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. “Call me Wolf.0,” he said. “It’s my birth name.”

“Wolf.0,” Porter reiterated, getting a feel for the anomalous name. “Do you have a last name?”

“I was born as Wolf.0 Belmere. But Belmere sounds like I’m related to Mayor Orrington and his fancy family. I like to stick with Wolf.0.”