It's all Fluff

Frederick Richardson

Jordy had an appointment at the sanctuary, where he was to deliver what he liked to call the ‘meals on wheels’ to the occupants of the Mitcham Miniature Zoo.

Primarily the menu his small business supplied was a conglomerate of offal and fish, soured grasses imbibed with insoluble minerals, and general leftovers from the livestock suppliers nearby. The food fare for the creatures of the sanctuary was rarely as promised - and lately it had been becoming even poorer in quality. Jordy had been ‘economically’ cutting corners, and adding fillers to bulk up the troughs with sawdust and cereal.

The establishment housed a variety of beasts, both alive and mummified for display, as an adjunct to the Walham estate, whose grand mansion inhaled foreign visitors quarterly as the tourist income was much needed for upkeep.

The current caretakers of Walham had discovered, like most major land holders, that maintenance on such a large property, was all consuming. And, even though they enjoyed a lavish wealth, it was clear for all to see that this generational inheritance was undeniably a burden to their dwindling funds.

Its crumbling exterior was an in-ignorable monument of scorn. The forty roomed edifice groaned and creaked its own complaint, shifting its weight ever deeper into the muddy mires of the cloudy moors. Walham’s arthritic structure, after four hundred years of housing its changing occupants, had outlived them all.

Jordy unlatched the main gate to tend to the sleeping mass - 4.30am, before the howling would begin; he strode the muddy path with buckets in hand. The heavy iron swung back and clanged defiantly, breaking the peace of the dawn with a grinding crash and click - however it sprang back again out from the latch and gaped open.

In the half dark Jordy missed this event, as he unlocked the bear enclosure with digital precision. 

The doorway to this concrete confinement had been modernised and it worked with a code rather than a key, and as he turned to secure the doorway, the old growler cuffed him over the head and made his escape out through the iron entrance and into the morning.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Finding Self - Second Guesses- Azlander Series