The Peculiar Conundrum of Terrance Finnely: Chapter 1

"Toast. Jam. Coffee. No. Coffee. Toast. Jam. What was it again? Perhaps it was the angle of the kettle. No, that makes no sense. Aha, maybe it's the curtains. A little more light... surely that was the problem. "

Terrance Finnely mulled in a dreadful stupor. Dumbfounded by the inexplicable and sudden change of affairs that now met his sullen fate. "What a cruel arrangement," he muttered to himself. "A cruel arrangement indeed." Terrance sat in a tepid despair, broken and exhausted. His eyes grew heavy as the afternoon clouds shaded over the old brick cottage. He soon fell into a deep slumber. His first in many days.

" Rise and shine, you sniffling panty sniffers! Early bird doesn't get a worm shoved up their ass for being late!"
Terrance new this voice well. So familiar, so foul. The mere utterance of syllables from the wretched man churned his stomach and tested his temperate reserve. What was he to do? Terrance was a simple man. No particular set of skills. No traits to set him apart. "You are a lucky fellow to have such a gig, simple man like yourself. Any gig for your is a lucky gig." A simple man like yourself. Familiar words for Terrance. And undeniably so. A particularly ordinary man, almost to an inordinate degree.

Perhaps they were right. Anyways, it didn't matter now. The day had begun and he preferred the earthworms stay put in the soil. Terrance had a rigid and predictable morning routine. He would awake, fold his blanket exactly 2 and 1/3 times. Pants, shirt, left sock, right sock, left shoe, right shoe. Always in that order. He meticulously hand counted 60 beans for his morning cup of coffee. A ritual he had learned long ago. It had been a passing article he had read about some person of prestige, though who couldn't remember exactly who or exactly why anymore. It was a little weak for his taste, but Terrance knew there must have been a very good reason for counting exactly 60 beans. As the coffee steeped over the rickety old stove, Terrance hurriedly prepared a piece of toast with rhubarb jam. He had slept little the night before and found himself in an unusually groggy and unbalanced state of mind. He had gone for an late evening stroll. Something he often did on cool summer nights.

With a little effort, Terrance could escape the bustle and hubbub of the small but boisterous city. Through a maze of alleyways, side streets, and unkept stone paths, he navigated his way to a small and quite meadow met by a thick deciduous forest of maples, oaks and ash trees. A small stream crept through the quiet forest. A now abandoned path, overgrown with hemlock and ivy, lead to an old wooden bridge. Terrance would spend hours here in quite reflection gazing into the endless ripples, watching the tadpoles and fish dart and glide through the crystal clear water. Rarely would Terrance see another person. Sometimes a mischievous child, occasionally a passing trapper. Typically though, he sat alone beneath the towering trees, entranced by the quiet solitude of this sacred place.

Last night had been different. As Terrance waded through thick bushes and climbed over fallen limbs, he suddenly saw a silhouette of a young woman sitting alone on the old bridge of his regular refuge. Terrance stepped gingerly forward, entranced by the mysterious girl yet uncertain whether to disturb her somber and quiet reflections. Just then, a thick twig snapped beneath him and the girl darted her eyes towards him with a startled enthusiasm. Upon recognizing it was he, though she knew not who he was, and not someone else, her disposition shifted somewhat as her lips drew the slightest twinge of a smile. She waved to Terrance as one would to any friendly passerby then continued to gaze into the ever churning water. After a brief and uncertain reluctance, Terrance approached the unexpected woman with a friendly, "How do you do? Strange place to find such a lovely girl as yourself this time of evening. I usually have these woods to myself." And he was right. It was rather strange and had it not been for his welcoming and friendly demeanor, the woman most certainly would have been unsettled by this candid interaction. She turned towards him once again. Her lips trembled, wet streaks danced down her supple flush red cheeks. Though distraught and somewhat disheveled, an underlying and all pervasive beauty remained in the young girl of maybe 19 or 20. Her maple brown hair fluttered in the soft breeze, as she rubbed the sleeve of her linen dress across her tear soaked hazel eyes.

"Positively dreadful if I am to be honest. Though I'd rather not go into it. And yourself? "