…THE ISLAND OF QUISATOR AND THE QUIMNARF.
Arlo Twittle part 3.
Mrs. Butcher was a strange woman, nice, but completely mad. Small and bent over so her head always faced the ground. Arlo would spend countless hours trying to work out how she never bumped into anything.
Her hair—a nest of frizzy, silver-grey—reminded him of the wiry pads his mother used to wash the saucepans. Her eyes though, which he only saw when she sat, were the colour of a summer sky. She was always happy and when she laughed, it sounded like little bells ringing in the wind.
She lived in the tiny, ramshackle house next door, which she shared with twenty cats, or so he guessed because they never stayed still long enough for him to count them properly. Mrs. Butcher, however, knew every one and every name. The front and back gardens were overgrown—Mrs. Butcher being too old or crookerty to tend them of course—and the grass stood as high as the top of his head. Not that he minded. He always had fun playing outside. But there was one detail Arlo didn’t like about her house, it smelt terribly of cat food and wee.
The greatest thing Arlo possessed was a colourful imagination. Many a day he’d spend time in Mrs. Butcher’s garden, having big adventures pretending he was on safari. The cats, magically changing into lions and cheetahs, where he would stalk them through the tall grass.
Nonetheless, no matter how hard he tried, he never succeeded in capturing any of them.
Some might say Arlo’s life was anything but fortunate. Not Arlo however, he knew he would always have Mrs. Butcher. And the cats.
Tomorrow is yet another day off. So I hope to see you back here Monday (pretty please :D).