|Orange Bell Bisque|
|Found in||Underground Utility Tunnels|
|Related memory items||Seven Colored Bells|
|Everyone in town called the old writer who lived in this
house a weirdo.
The house was old-fashioned, and the walls semmed
weighted with history.
So little care and upkeep had been done to the place,
it wouldn’t be a strech to call it a dump.
The front door was always open, and not because it wasn’t
locked, but because there was no lock at all.
Some would think that an invitation to burglers, but the
place was such a mess that you’d lose all interest in stealing
the moment you stepped inside.
The house reflected its owner; an oddball, aged and in
And this day, that oddball writer was laying in the middle of
For a moment, I thought he was dead, but every once in a
while his finger would twitch, betraying signs of life.
The bones in the back of hands stood out, gnarled under
paper-thin skin, but his slicked-back hair looked young.
The black-framed glasses he habitually wore had stayed on,
even after his fall.
He’d probably worn those glasses so long that they were a
part of his very being.
And there he lay.
Weaving my way through the filth and the clothes and the
furniture, I entered the house, and he didn’t even notice.
He called my name in a gravelly voice.
With each call, my body would shiver with surprise and the
bell would ring.
It was a refreshing sound.
The old man must’ve heard it, too.
He immediately leapt off the floor and turned his back to me.
"Not another step!"
The man almost spat out.
"I don’t want you coming near me!"
And with that, he went back to the mountain of papers that
buried what might have once been a desk.
His hand never stopped moving as he scratched at his head.
Believe it or not, he’d call out, drop to the floor and do it all
I was thoroughly baffled, and so I sat in the corner of the
writer’s room until night fell.
The bell at my neck continued to tinkle lightly as I tilted my
Can this man truly be Bisque’s family?
I came to check up on him every few days, but each time
he’d act just as wild and nonsensical.
When he wasn’t throwing himself on the floor, he was
completely immersed in his writing.
Disturbed by his unnatural behaviour, I tried my best not to
allow my bell to ring.
And so I stayed nestled in the corner, until I finally heard the
sound of a pen sliding across the desk.
A loud sigh was immediately followed by a loud thud.
He’d fallen backwards off this chair.
The way he breathed those words sounded so unlike his
usual crazed tone.
I lifted my head and the bell chimed to him gently.
With his back still on the floor, he let out a low moan.
"Oh, Bisque. Bisque, my dear…"
I was sure he’d yell at me to stay away again today, but
instead he just lifted his thin, ghost-like arm and gestured
Just as neared him with my careful, steady steps, he
suddenly grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and dragged
me down with him.
At first, I went stiff with fear, but then I heard the beating
of his heart.
He gently closed his eyes and petted me.
"Ah, Bisque, is that you…?
You’ve gotten so much thinner…since I last saw you.”
His bony hands were rough, but he petted me softly.
As I sat there, unable to answer, the beating of his heart
became softer and softer.
He continued to coo at me gently.
"Phew… Finally, I’m able to sleep…"
His last words sounded more like he was speaking them
from a dream.
As the hand on me never wavered, I finally realized.
My doubts were cleared.
I understood now that this was the orange-belled Bisque’s
And as I gently closed my eyes, I could feel the sound of my
slowly melting free of its ice.
I am Bisque.
Bisque, with her orange bell.
The foster child who brings peaceful slumber to the master
writer, whom everyone called crazy.