Skeletons in the Closet

Firewood.

I grew up in a small village that had slowly flowered from a crack on the ground two hundred years ago. During my stay in this lovely place when I was still a child, I've had countless memories piled up unto a little corner of my brain like negative films which, until now still don't fail to develop vivid scenarios from my childhood days. Countless...but only one of those memories managed to change the way I live my life today.

Our home, together with hundreds of others, was nested on the outskirts of Phanowele County, alongside its dreary and dusty main road. Two grand families were the pioneer inhabitants of Phanowele namely the Mogourelles, and the Phillisenses.

I am a Mogourelle. My family owned parcels of lands from the upland pastures of Madisson down to the riverbanks of Rickenssen County. My father ran a relatively huge hardware shop in the heart of Phanowele which manufactured its own merchandise. This means you won't stumble upon any steel bars or umbrella nails without the intricate and ancient seal of the Mogourelles. Our brood grew with comfortable lives in our two-story brick house--often seen on the playground of other decent families who won't let two seven-year-olds roll over the street bank because of a candy wrapper.

Across the road was the house of Phillisenses who lived a raggedy-pudgedy life under their low-roofed bungalow. As family of farmers, they owned the widest farmlands in our place. Their five children, with roughly one-year age gap, used to agitate the whole village with playful shrieks on their front lawn, in the midst of the day when little children and stray dogs dessert the streets because of the scorching sun.

Next to the Phillisenses were the Worthscorns, a grumpy couple who had twins that were bullied by the neighboring kids. Next to our home was the perfectly typical family of the Montaignes. The family owned a flower shop. Mr. Montaigne ran the business while Mrs. Montaigne was tied up at home teaching her three children motherly lessons and caring for her precious flower garden every day. They had a very tidy and clean house with equally sleek children. The old wives of the village, who were noted to practice the sacred art of Rumory beneath their graying hair, would never mention the Montaignes when one is talking about array of distress sources around the village.

So, what does this narration something to do with a particular memory that changed the way i live today? So much for the introduction. Here goes the real jitter...


*to be continued.*