Rolph Flannegan still lives in the old red bricked building that housed the Alveridge County Orphange. Even now it remains impressive, in a Gothic style, despite its current forlorn condition. The orphans have long since vacated the dormitories and the tired old schoolroom hasn’t heard a houndlings laughter in many years. Not that much laughing…
The Land of Alveridgea
The little town snuggles contentedly against the warm Esparrow Sea, protected from the cold winds that blow off the snow-capped Shipwoods to the east, splayed like a sleeping hound in the velvet darkness. It is a town like a pair of old jeans, scuffed and faded in all the right places. In a few hours, Port Alveridge will wake to the smell of the sea in its nose.
Peering through the barred porthole of his cell, Bronson watched Ruddegan striding down the jetty towards the main gate.
‘What’s Ruddegan doing up here?’ he growled to himself. ‘Look at that smug smirk. Give me five minutes with him in this cell and I’d wipe the smile off his face!’
Who is Kelzie?
Lonely liked Kelzie, over the years, they had become close; apart from Bronson, she was his one true friend. In late night conversations in the music room, he and Kelzie had often shared their secrets and dreams with one another. Lonely liked Kelzie,
For the second time in his life Lonely was being driven to Revellers Green at high speed and in style. Celia had accelerated Gurkin’s Meowitzer 700 convertible out of the garage behind Vic’s Sewage Yard, burning rubber as she roared
Who is Celia Crème?
‘Celia! Creme! Where are my damn painkillers?’ he called out into the vast marble atrium at the centre of his enormous mansion. From an upstairs room came the blare of a gramophone. It assaulted his ears and set his head pounding.
I got me a suit and I got me a tie But the only time I’ll wear ’em is the day I’m gonna die!
He scowled. ‘Houndskiffle? In my house!’ he thought.
‘CELIA! Turn that infernal Hound racket off and help me find my painkillers!’
No one could predict how many days a Midsummer Madness Festival might last. ‘It’ll run as long as it’s needed and finish when it’s time’, old Hounds would tell you sagely, tapping their baccy-pipes against their snouts.
Soon Lonely was running excitedly down the garden path towards the woodshed. Ralph had instructed him to fetch his old guitar.
Having settled her newest founding in Marvin’s room, Bella Bostock crept away, yawning. One more hungry snout to feed, but they would manage somehow. There would be time to think about it tomorrow. ‘There’s been enough excitement for one night,’ she thought – but the thought was interrupted by the rusty clang of the doorbell.
Who is Brother Jeroboam?
The Cathedral doors clanged shut, the great assembly fell silent, and the lantern light above dimmed to an expectant shimmer. Only the hidden spotlight remained, full and white on Brother Jeroboam.
“Brother and Sister Jukes!” He thundered in a voice that would raise the dead and make them dance. “Have you toiled by the sweat of your brow this day?”
“We have so toiled!” came the deafening reply.
Rolph Flannegan Short Stories:
On this summer’s evening, the Houndlings were safely asleep in their dorms and Bella had gone to bed, her tail in curlers. Rolph crept out, heading for the old woodshed at the back of the Orphanage. Once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he walked softly behind the shed and lifted up a greasy tarpaulin to reveal a gleaming two-cylinder Houndster Whizzer, complete with woven-can sidecar and brass headlamp.