The Flight Of The Howletts
On the seventh day of September in 1967, in a time of much significance, the town of Howl's most treasured animals fled and never returned.
In a time of little significance and a town that held much, a child strayed away from her family. Her mother would turn her head for a matter of seconds and she was gone, just like that. Like the child was a part of a world-famous Houdini vanishing act. Though this was certainly not the work of a man of such greatness, this was and continues to be the greatest vanishing act of all time. A piece of the mother was lost, the puzzle piece that left her forever incomplete. A casual picnic in the fields with her family of four turned into a buffet of everlasting sorrow. The scene was almost impossible to encounter any potential harm, apart from a dash of hay fever which was no worry to a boy of my age. The field lay silent, surrounded by miles and miles of woodland territory. The child disappeared almost impossibly. She was billed as the keeper of the howletts. They say the child took the Howletts with her, neither with any indication of leaving, or any proof that they continue to exist.
That child was my eight year old sister Abigail, and my mother refuses whole heartedly that Abigail ever left her side. Despite the extensive search of the town police and several detectives neither my sister, nor her remains were ever discovered. My mother spiralled into deep deep depression, after all she lost her one and only daughter, and spent her money to buy boots on therapy sessions. We stopped going to church for a while because my mother would begin to experience feelings of melancholia and sadness and would apparently draw her away from the word of the lord. Now five years later my mother continues to talk to her, exept there is an erie presence of desolate nothingness in the place of her blue satin flats which clicked each time she took a step. My mother maintains my sisters room as if she was still with us, she opens Abigail's pink cloth curtains each morning and whisper "good morning honey dew". Though I knew when even mother would utter it Abigail would scrunch up her face like she was insulting her distant relatives or something. Though many doctors today would diagnose her as a severely depressed schizophrenic, she was a house wife of great proportions and would maintain that flawless reputation of hers. After my sisters unruly disappearance we moved away from Howl, as Pops feared that mother would become depressed by the memories out town held. The town which we now live in Batewick up north is a bustling town, best known for it's success after the great depression and the world renowned orchestra named voyage dans le temps, which ironically is world renowned for it's hideous melodies. Bate wick is a strange and powerful town, but it did not contain enough mystery to fulfil my never ending search for the greatest story of all. Many of the sprouting stems of possible stories were shortly cut down by realistic cause and the mystery eventually being dug up by the local coppers, bitter like a shrivelled up turnip. Or it just being an everyday issue that we of all humans share in common, but at the time I didn't know this I was only a boy.
Back in my youth I was aiming with all my young might to become a writer, I aimed to be just like the famous Walter Chapman. The young boys at my school would taunt me for not wanting to be a pirate or an explorer but Walter to me, was the greatest explorer of all. Walter Chapman was to be my idol, my example, a hero. He was a devoted writer and wrote about his endeavours and experiences, some vile and gory, I could never get enough of it. He was the most charming and sophisticated man I had ever laid my copper eyes upon, and I knew I had to be just like him. Walter Chapman was said on the screen to have searched for the greatest story of all time. Yet he had written so many, each I had read again and again but my young mind was ravenous for more tales. Walter, when he would make brief appearances on the box would wear his signature black fedora. And because of this, father lost his for an assorted amount of days. And then because of that mistake, I lost my type writer for an assorted amount of weeks. My type writer, was my cherished possession, it was my great Aunt Glenny's before she passed away. And it sat in my mother's basement till a young curious child would stumble upon it. I would sit for days and days preparing a glorious story to be known by the stars, it would inspire minds and trigger adventure. Though the issue with this idea was that, a young 15 year old gentle man whom had never ventured beyond his town could not find any unusual or exceptional tale to tell. Then the rusted cogs of my pubescent mind became to slowly crank and turn, my sister, my missing sister, little Abigail.
It was 2:00am when our house phone began to let out its squealing un bearable drill. I heard mummers coming from mother and pop's room and thuds of footsteps going down the creaky, narrow death trap which was our staircase. Grandmother, had fallen ill to what the medical experts of the time called it "The London Flu" or as it like to put it, a sign she is going to cark it. Mother knew this too, but she had grown in denial that every member of her family would suddenly transform in to a sort of immortal being as long as she was there to shield them from their unfortunate fate. Even if this fate was a mediocre case of influenza.