At Sixes And Sevens

Bordered by trees on both sides, the street lay silent. Hazy orange light burned through thick mist, but barely a flicker of it seemed strong enough to burst through the heavy fog.

The Gray Boulevard, with its typical orange-tint of hell and these charred-looking, blackened tips of the trees, those wooden spindly fingers reaching for the stars which barely anyone could see this night, lay silent.

Or perhaps not.

There was a tik and a tak, a rumple, a rumble, and clak clak clak’s.

However, those few unfortunate ones out and about (lighting lamp lights, knocking doors, and what else you do late at night) were fortunate enough to lack the right pair of ears.

Deaf under their wooly hats and hoods, they missed the black-horse carriage that rumpled across the uneven cobblestone pathway.

In the dim light of a street lamp, a gloved hand dangled out of the carriage and the fingers -which were as thin as the branches of the charred trees- held on to a bundle of paper and a silly little lantern that shook and trembled severely from how fast the carriage was going on the uneven road.

Sparks crissed and crossed the gloved hand, brizzled and buzzed above the old cobblestone street, dangled and dwindled in faint air, flickered in the fog, and a few ones that were to be pitied elsewhere (but not here, for that matter) fell into the dirt of the neglected street.

Anyone peeking through their blinds that night unknowingly bore witness to something peculiar, something of great trouble that deserved a warning or two, but alas, no one had done so, for the horses galloped without a sound, the street lights failed to brighten the street, and even if they had tried (for a few had struggled desperately to do their job regardless): the fog devoured it all.

The light, the flickers, the little cries of warning that were trapped in the rumbling wheels, the horses blurting and barking (which, mind you, was a very strange picture to witness), but it was to no avail that they did, for the fog stole it all away -the light, the sparks, the noise- before someone could notice.

Maybe if the lamplighters had seen the odd shadows mingling with their precious lamplights, but how could they?

Leaning against a wall, they napped with their arms over their chests and hats drawn deep into their faces. And those out to knock on doors were too early to do so and instead, were caught up in a game of cards or telling stories around a fire in an oil barrel, where they roasted old potatoes and sausages on sticks, and where the heat of the fire gently cared for a few children wrapped up in a couple of coats and scarves.

So the carriage passed quietly but loudly, with sparks flying and horses barking, and a hand with fingers as thin as the branches of the charred-looking trees tipping its hat to wish them well.

For they would need it.