The glumblefilch sauntered into the room. He was full of vim, vigor, and veracity. His three blandlybulches protruded from his torso, nearly touching the floor and he admired them. They were long and elegant. Fragile looking but he knew they were sturdy. The purplish hue they emanated set off the radiance of his six yellow eyes. Most glumblefilches only had five eyes, but he had six. He was quite proud of that, even if the other glumblefilches looked at him askance for his audacity, he had just one more eye that he could roll at their ignorance.
This glumblefilch was named Snodgrass. That was not something he was particularly proud of, but it was his name. He bore it with resolution and aplomb. He honestly didn’t care what the other glumblefilches said about it. It was better than Steve, Victor, and Roger. And it was miles above Roderick. Roderick only had 3 eyes, Snodgrass mused, shaking slightly in his mirth. A low chuckle escaped his lips. Normally that would be fine, but tonight Snodgrass was with his boy at dinner, and a glumblefilch’s low chuckle was actually quite a rumble. His boy gave him a warning glance over his shoulder and Snodgrass settled down. He didn’t want to get his boy in trouble again. Last time that happened, Snodgrass wasn’t allowed to come out from under the bed for a whole week. That was torture. Glumblefilches aren’t known for there ability to handle solitude. They need constant attention and reassurances or else they disappear. By the time the week was over and his boy again came looking for him, Snodgrass had faded to near invisibility. A couple hours later though, fueled by the laughter of his boy and the games they played together, Snodgrass was back to his three limbed, six eyed purpley self.
“Just Snodgrass,” the boy had answered. With a confused look, the mother left the room.
So … not wanting a repeat of a week under the bed, Snodgrass promised to be good during dinner. He floated down to the floor folding his blandlybulches beneath him.
He tried. He really did. He wanted to sit and wait quietly, but he was just not good at that. After a few moments, he couldn’t take it anymore. He had to do something. So, Snodgrass pulled himself into the tightest ball he could and rolled under the boy’s chair. Giggling softly to himself (this was going to be hilarious), the glumblefilch gulped and swallowed three big mouthfuls of air. Then he waited.. He could feel the air wanting to escape. He held it in… He held it in more.. He giggled… Then he couldn’t hold it anymore.
Remember when we talked about the rumbling of a glumblefilch’s low chuckle? Well, imagine what a full fledged belch would be like. The silverware on the table rattled. A Glass fell over, spilling milk onto the table. The curtains flapped in the breeze. The boy’s mother fell over in a dead feint (OK, well almost). The boy’s father had the look of horrified disgust. The dog ran into the living room, looking for a reprieve. Low flying aircraft swerved crazily, looking for where that clap of thunder came from.
When the echoes died away, when the mouths of both parents closed, trying to hide their disbelief and the glumblefilch under the boy’s chair fairly split in two trying to contain his mirth, the boy glared under his chair.
“SAMUEL!!!” the boy’s mother admonished.
The boy looked astonished, “It wasn’t me, Mom!! It was Snodgrass!”
Samuel’s father looked at him angrily. “Young man, that is not the way we behave at the table. And I’ve told you before. There is no Snodgrass. There is no such thing as a glumblefilch!!”
Snodgrass hmmphed quietly to himself. “No such thing??” he thought, “What does he know?” In a rage, he rolled out from under the chair, hovered up to the height of the table and stretched out his blandlyfilches to their full reach.
That’s when he noticed he wasn’t there.