The Acolytes of Crane "Updated Edition" by J. D. Tew

rookie. I am tired of
holding my gun on this prisoner!”
    “The
message from the warden is as follows: prisoner, your efforts have been highly
commended. If you continue to provide us with the information we need, at some
point we might be able to discuss a transfer. Message end.”
    The
rookie’s feet tap the ground quickly, as he hurries out of the cell.
    The
veteran guard requests for the closure of my vault, and it closes.
    Finally,
I thought they would never leave. Transfer, yeah right! They are gone, and I
cannot wait to hold a session with my tablet. I enjoy talking about Lincoln, so
I start: “Later in the morning, after I met the paperboy, I woke up to the
smell of oatmeal and honey. The aroma was intoxicating, and beams of sun cut
shadows across my room; the sunrise invigorated me.”
    I
needed the cheering up because I had started developing an achy back, and my
overall fatigue was worsening over time. I told my grandparents about the
problem a couple of days previously, and they were looking into it.
    My
grandma whispered to herself, ‘I think I hear a little monkey stirring.’ She
always thought of me as that little boy; one who used to pop over to visit with
his parents. That little boy who would play happily for hours in their sandbox,
out by the azalea garden, with that awesome toy bulldozer that was a prized
hand-me-down from grandpa’s childhood.
    I
could hear grandma’s soft whisper thanks to my years of self-training to become
a ninja, practicing the art of stealth. That skill enabled me to avoid my dad
around the Red Brick apartment. The less noticeable I was, the more I dodged
beatings.
    My
eyes widened as grandma walked in from the kitchen, winked at me, and handed me
a plate with a forbidden item on it: a giant long-john donut. It was definitely
a good start to the day.
    There
was a rapping upon the door. I approached the door with my long-john in hand
and alien slippers on my feet. I saw, on the other side of the narrow vertical
window panel adjoining the door, the palm of a teenager’s hand shaded with a
familiar tone of ink.
    It
must be Lincoln.
    I
opened the door. He had his skateboard, and he was ready to shred. I had a
plastic banana board that was, ironically, yellow. My board had these giant
three-inch wheels that could take on graveled paths, and eat the stones for
breakfast too. However, in reality, the only action these funky wheels had seen
so far was upon tepid pavement.
    ‘Is
it okay if you come over to my house?’ Lincoln asked.
    Before
I could answer, Marvin and Laverne stepped up behind me, curious. They then
fired away questions at Lincoln out of surprise and curiosity: Who are your
parents? Where do you live? Where are you going? My grandparents were extremely
protective and old fashioned.
    Lincoln
wrote down his address, and my grandma reminded me of the appointment they made
for me to see a doctor. She said she would pick me up at Lincoln’s house at
around three. We diligently answered the rest of their questions, and when we
were finished, we opened the door and sprinted down the street.
    My
grandparents yelled, but with the door closing behind us, the train had left
the station.
    Lincoln
was shorter than I was, only by a few inches, but he was well beyond his years
in knowledge and maturity.
    He
had dark brown hair and his eyes were equally deep in color; there was only a
slight difference of hue between pupil and iris. He wore clothes that were
stylish and trendy. My guess was that he came from some money.
    He
lived within an area of Ferndale that was developed post-pyromaniac-Jason, with
some fine three-story single households. His hair was always moussed or pomaded
into position, and his glasses were sleek and practical. I was envious.
    Someday
I would learn that Lincoln’s best quality was his ability to reason
meticulously. I could always tell when he was deep into thought, because his
lips moved with the speed that his thoughts were. It was simply an