Monkeybear Productions

By Alina Arnold

Warning: contains reference to animal death

Carl Jones loved to tell stories every evening. Sometimes he told us scary stories, sometimes some nonsense, or, when he was in a soulful mood, he told us stories from his own life.

So it was this evening. We, as usual, sat around him, and he on his homemade stool, humming some kind of melody under his nose, whilst choosing the story that he will tell us today. Anxiously, we stared at him, waiting. Carl Jones stroked his long white beard, croaked and sadly looked at the sky. It was twilight, and the stars were as if talking to him and insisting to start his story. He sighed heavily and started:

“This story happened when I was quite tiny. Our neighbor then, James Parks, had died. Oh, what a wonderful person he was! He always gave my candies on holidays from his ‘magical’ box.
Though, his job wasn’t very easy! He was a shoemaker. Don’t laugh! To be a shoemaker, one must be very hardworking and every one of his works must be carried out with the most precision, not like in our times!
Well, James Parks died, and another shoemaker came to out village. Apparently, he was called George Armstrong, although I don’t quite recall if he even said his name
once. In a blink of an eye, everyone knew that he came from the city. If he would come on his own, it would have been fine, but he brought his son, Mark, with him. He had the same black hair as his father and the same prejudiced smile. To be honest, he looked very much like his father. They even wore the same clothing.

Everyone from our village came to see the people from the city, but the Armstrongs only gave them a smile in reply. I have no doubt that deep inside that they were glad to finally have recognition.
After a week of their arrival, Mark came up to me and asked if I could be his friend. I knew that he was a crook from my first glance at him, yer I agreed. Mark put on his prejudiced smile once more, which he held on his face from more than a minute; I thought that he was older than me, even though he was a year younger.
Another week passed, and nothing interesting happened. Everything went going as it was supposed to: the shoe shop was open, owner were hurrying to the market, cows
were lazily mooing every now and then. I was carelessly playing with the dust: drawing symbols and caricatures of my neighbors and then covering up the drawings with another layer of dust. Suddenly, Mark walked up to me and asked me to come with him to his house. I quickly stood up and covered the horrible drawing I made of him with another blanket of dust, which clung onto our clothes and faces. Mark sneezed, and a layer of dust parted from the
ground.

His home was just another hit, like everyone else’s. Both of us rushed up the road and came into the house. As I came in, I carelessly looked around. Everything was in its place: all the pans, brushes, plates… My gazed stopped at a dead cat on the mat, near
the oven. My hand were as if struck by ice. I turned my head towards Mark, but no one was there.
My legs began carrying me away from that dreadful place, until a heavy hand pierced through my shoulder. Most probably, Mark’s father suspected something unpleasant. I untangled myself from the horrid fingers and sprinted far, far away, over bumps, boulders and roots. I ran and ran until I heard something rip. My shoes were ruined. I had to go back to the shoemaker.
When the door creaked open, George Armstrong threw at me a fuming glance. For a second, I thought that he was a kettle and my mother forgot to put it off the fire. He yelled, as if he were crazy: ‘Do you think I will do something for you, you bandit?! Strangled the cat and you still want me to fix your rotten shoes?!’
I wanted to contradict him, saying that I never strangled the cat, but before I could utter a word, he shoved me out of his shop.
Where could I have gone now? At home, my mother would scold at me for my grubbiness, and on the streets, everyone would laugh at me. Unfortunately, Mark found me, sitting on the dust once more, and assured me that he would go to his father and tell him everything as it was. Why did I trust him? His prejudiced smile said something I didn’t understand.
On the next day, George Armstrong rushed into our hut, even more fuming than the day before; he began shouting at my mother with all his might that she cried, clasping her fragile hands over her ears. I felt bad for her, but I could not risk getting out of my hiding place.
Supposedly, someone smashed all his bottles of spirits on the rocks, which he usually drinks when he’s had a bad day; I momentarily knew who caused al the trouble, yet I kept silent. I don’t know how this situation would end if another little boy saw Mark breaking the bottles.
George Armstrong and his son left some days after the crisis.
For a whole year I couldn’t forgive Mark for what he did. A new shoemaker came to our village and everything began going the way it should. This case was forgotten and forgiven.

During my service in the army, rumors and it that someone named Mark Armstrong was in our division. It was the same Mark that strangled the cat, but older and much better looking. He asked me for forgiveness of his stupid actions, which were lost in time. It
seemed strange for a well-built man like him to ask forgiveness from a small, fragile person like me. He died in our next battle. It’s still wonderful that he asked for forgiveness right before his death!..”
Carl Jones coughed for a little and then stopped, looking at us. We were staring at him with disbelief. Was our Carl Jones once a child? Of course, but we thought that our Carl Jones was always so brave, so strong and so old. He never talked about his childhood.
We thanked him for such an interesting story and went home, lost in our thoughts,whilst the chirping crickets were accompanying us with their music.