Arnold Manger
November 23, 2013 7:16 PM
Writing a letter by Arnold Manger
Arnold was an observer. It was as simple as that. Grey eyes found pleasure in scanning, pink lips comfortable offering no sound. He was a witness to many things but a messenger of few. Certainly, his mind raced, but he betrayed no secrets, more content to monologue internally than offer an audible conversation.No, he was not “bashful” as his yearbook proclaimed. The twelve year old was simply concise; he felt no need to partake in mundane, idle chit-chat. He spoke when necessary and said what he needed to without hesitation, not long in deliberation. Perhaps he was an echo, a ghost of his elder sister, so similar their mannerisms. Yet this had labeled him nearly reclusive, whereas Sally had found at least a friend, one Nora Dobson.
Arnold thought that perhaps it might be nice to have such a friend for himself, but he had no idea of how to go about gaining such a relationship. To speak without provocation was uncharacteristic for him. He was passionate about little, indeed, to even commence speaking about. He was a clever child, scholarly beyond his own notice.
Instead, he commended himself more on his familial relationships. He was a defender. Protective of his Sally and their brother Jake—him specifically requiring the most care, innocent thing that he was—and since their mother’s remarriage, this nature had carried over to their older brother Ryan and baby sister Peyton. (It did not, of course, apply to Carrie, whom he did not consider his sister. She was a nuisance and a bully, and reminded him too well of one side of his father.)
It was Jake to whom he was currently writing a letter. By occupying the Library, he found he could multi-task; he could write a letter, do some homework, and observe passersby all at the same time. His quill spread words across the parchment, guided by his small, steady hand.
Dear Jake; how ar
That was as far as he got before a disturbance contaminated his paper. Some force had bumped the table, and his hand had thus lost all control, scribbling a great streak across the page. The Aladren glanced up and noticed with slight annoyance that a person stood near him. He deduced that they had perhaps knocked into the table at which he sat. However, he had plenty of parchment and could begin again, and thus he was not terribly upset. “Are you okay?” he inquired politely, worried the thus far hypothetical mishap had injured them in some way.
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