The Barefoot Sprint and the Great Pile-up
“Hey, gang!” a voice called from behind. “Next time, take me along to play too!”
Remi Storm, looking like a teenager in her sports gear, was waving for them to wait.
“Exactly what we needed!” Mistral thought with a heavy sigh. But to his surprise, the whole gang stopped like a freeze-frame to wait for the newcomer.
“How are you, Mr. Noel? I haven't seen you in ages,” Remi said, approaching.
“I’m doing well, lass! Seeing you makes me miss my own children a bit less,” Noel replied, visibly delighted to run into her.
“Do you still have that whistle you used to start our races with? Remember? Anemo, me, Gill, and Jim—all lined up and waiting for the signal? Anemo and Jim were the fastest... by turns.”
“Oh, these allergies!” Noel muttered, wiping away a stray tear. “I still have a whistle in my pocket, actually. Want to see?” Reaching into his pocket, Noel slowly opened his palm as if presenting a priceless treasure, letting a silver whistle glint in the sunlight.
“Is that the one you use to train your pigeons?” Fleur asked immediately, thrilled to hear that the neighborhood had once been so full of life. She imagined Remi and Gill as little girls just like her, with scuffed knees.
“Yes, yes, that’s the one...” Noel replied, his voice drifting as he slipped into the past.
“But you know they’ll all be there on Wednesday, don’t you?” Remi tried to pull him back to the 'real reality.' But ‘Tufty’ Fleur, watching with excitement, had an even better idea.
“Mr. Noel, why don’t you whistle the start one more time? Anemo, Remi, and me... I’m joining the race too! To the turnstile! Or, better yet, let’s race all the way home... the turnstile is an obstacle. Just hold my jump rope for a second, please!”
Looking at Anemo, a mischievous grin bloomed on Remi’s face.
“Maybe now, with those shoes on—and let’s face it, they’re not made for sprinting—maybe, just maybe, I’ll beat you.”
“I can whistle whenever you're ready!” Noel replied.
“Fine, but you’re dead wrong if you think I’m running with these ‘dogs’ on my feet. I’m going barefoot!” Anemo added. He kicked off his slippers immediately, ‘wearing’ the two Cocker Spaniels on his hands instead. “Don’t forget, going barefoot is my way of grounding... I’m in my element, really!”
“Mon Dieu, they’ve truly turned into children. Even Miss ‘Women Can’t Be Tamed’ has gone off the deep end!” Mistral mused.
Without further ado, the three official competitors, seconded by the animals, lined up in starting positions. Noel counted down from three to one with his fingers, and when he reached one, he let out a sharp, metallic whistle. Fleur shot off first like an arrow, followed by Remi, then Anemo, and from the second row, Sirocco, Skye, and Mistral—who had Aeolus tucked safely in his fur, of course.
What a race! Anemo was truly in his element barefoot in the grass. In just one, two, three of his giant strides, he would have reached the turnstile first. But evening was falling, and a light dew had settled on the grass, which was freshly showered with pink cherry blossoms. Instead of athletics, Anemo suddenly found himself performing a bizarre sort of ballet. Plunging forward with his left foot, he tried to steady himself with his arms flailing wildly, accidentally launching his Cocker slippers onto the soft earth of the flowerbed by the fence. He eventually landed flat on the ground, taking ‘Tufty’ down with him in the fall... only Remi escaped untouched. She stopped and, swallowing a few fits of laughter, leaned down toward the two on the grass.
“Are you alright? Anemo, are you... in your element?” She held out a hand.
Anemo had completely forgotten any trace of literary jealousy or grown-up nonsense. He bit his lip for a second, but then he couldn't help himself. Accompanied by his own laughter and Noel’s, he grabbed her hand and pulled her down too, onto the damp grass carpeted with pink petals.
“Let’s save Anemo! I think this is a matter of ‘loilitate’!” Sirocco cried, racing toward the pile-up alongside Skye, who was barking happily and wagging her tail.
Mistral would have preferred to stay aloof, but the pile was too inviting, and he suddenly remembered the days when he wasn't a serious, stylish cat, but a wild one just like ‘the kids.’ So, he joined the merry heap just as Lady Bell—finally free from her owner’s firm grip—came charging toward them. The leash had no power over her now; she was a blur of brown fur on a mission.
“Lady Bell, nooo! Don’t do it! Mommy’s asking you, don’t get dirty!” Daisy Queen panted behind her, trying to run too... but it was beyond her strength and her plump dignity.
Meanwhile, Lady Bell reached the pile-up. But before joining the fun, she spotted the two abandoned and sad Cockers in the flowerbed. After a second of hesitation, the perfumed puppy headed straight for her ‘brothers.’ Reaching the left Cocker, which was lying on one ear as if it had given up on the world, Lady Bell began to lick it fervently with her rough, pink tongue.
“I’m here! Don’t worry, I’ll protect you, little one! I’ll ask Mommy to adopt you too!”
“Bell, that’s not your brother!” Mistral called out, almost touched, but the puppy kept licking away, comforting the left slipper as best she could.
Daisy was crying for real now. She had pulled out a large white silk handkerchief and, between sobs and her puppy’s name, blew her nose loudly, like a trumpet blast.
“My darling girl, look at the state of you! You’re covered in mud and... and these pink flowers!”
“Mon chéri, you look delicious, like a brownie rolled in pink sprinkles!” Mistral called out to Bell. “Don’t listen to your mother! Today you are at your most delectable. If I didn’t know any better, I’d eat you up, parol! I think it’s dinner time... my stomach is growling, and it’s never wrong.”
Reaching her adored puppy with great effort, Daisy tried to grab the leash handle. But the moment she touched it, Lady Bell lunged forward. Daisy pulled one way, Bell the other, straining with all her tiny chocolate-colored might, rolling in the soft, wet mud. After a 'long' struggle, Daisy Queen finally scooped up her darling from the dirt, clutching her tightly to her generous chest.
“I’ll leave you to it, ladies and gentlemen! I have business that cannot wait!”
“See you Wednesday, Mrs. Queen!” the pile-up shouted in unison.
“I bet the distinguished lady is crossing herself with her tongue right now,” Noel commented loudly enough for the group to hear, but quietly enough for the 'distinguished' one not to.
The pile began to untangle slowly, one by one getting up and straightening their clothes, when from very close by—practically in their midst—a deep voice cleared its throat.
“Ahem! So this is how writers pressed for time spend their hours!”
Everyone, humans and animals alike, looked up at the imposing silhouette the voice belonged to.
“Mon Dieu, that must be Crossbow! Come on, Sirocco, let’s get serious and be ready in case Anemo needs our help!”
“Is Crossbow bad?” Sirocco asked, puzzled.
“I saved the story, but I didn't send it to Crossbow!” Aeolus whispered directly into Mistral’s ear.
“I don’t think Anemo sent it either...”
Things weren't looking good among the adults. Anemo began to stammer, looking for polite excuses; Remi struggled to bring the ‘ice’ back into her gaze.
“I’m off to train my pigeons,” Noel said, vanishing as if he’d never been there.
Luckily for them, Fleur reached out a small but firm hand.
“I’m glad to meet you in person, Mr. Archibald Peter Stone! You spoke to me last time and, just so you know, I wasn't lying: Anemo was in a writing fever!”
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