The Yellow House, Susceptible to Broken Windows

About the Author

This is Daniel’s second novel. He began work on it when he was still finishing his first and then came back to it at a later date to work on it further, in the hope that the novel would grow into a deeply developed and thoroughly thought about story. He fell in love with the Yellow House family and the environment in which the family lived out their lives as he continued to write and edit. He began to read and write when he was seventeen, having previously never picked up a book with the intent of reading or finishing one. Now, both reading and writing are a firm passion of his.

Dedication

To my family.

Copyright Information ©

Daniel Raybould 2023

The right of Daniel Raybould to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398422865 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398430563 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thank you to Austin Macauley for working

with me on a second novel and giving me these opportunities.

Chapter 1

The Yellow House

Planet Earth

The Yellow House, susceptible to broken windows and susceptible to things not yet known, and the famed landmark was not yet known for its susceptibles but possibly, one day, it would be. The leader after-all had not a foggy face but was a clear picture to all she encountered, with a tongue for sharing. Also, when gaining in the knowledge of the Yellow House, one should bear in mind the name of the Candle Man, who was not a candle maker but a master over other makings. He worked for an organisation of sorts who’d named themselves TrueReign. None of the other residents were aware of this.

But away from the tricky flames of the candle, in a much less inconspicuous environment, there could be found a Madam President.

Brey was the president of ‘Bamerica, the Powerhouse Country’ of Earth. She lived in a very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very large house. The Yellow House. Its colours mainly were blue. Inside this house, located in a city dubbed with the name of Ploatmainlarger, lived those who worked with the President and right now there was a potential new employee having an interview with Brey in her office. It was a desert themed office. The floor was only made of sand and behind the boss a mural had been painted of C3PO and R2D2 roaming a vast desert. Above C3PO there was a speech bubble which read,

No, it’s this way!

Above R2D2, who had had enough of his best pal’s metal tongue, was written,

Tourists…

Now, if Paul, the interviewee, got the job, the Yellow House would be his new home.

So, said Brey, looking at him with suspicious green eyes. She had a natural yellow tan and a dark quiff holding a yellow stripe. Here we are.

Um, yes, said the young man quietly. Was he shy or hiding something? The President knew not but what she did know or at least could astutely guess was that the man had a funny sense of fashion. In fact, by the brown woollen sweater over the blue shirt and grey tie, she went one step further to think he had a bad fashion trajectory she happened to adore.

Why did you hesitate? she asked.

Because…well, what do you mean? he answered.

You hate it?

I’m sorry. I don’t understand the question.

Brey had begun her controversial method of investigational interviewing. Like interrogation but with less common sense and more metaphorical flying ants.

What do you mean you hate it? she proceeded; her voice somewhat higher pitched. Currently, the hypothetical situation swirling in her journalistic mindset, was Paul, the interviewee, had recently told her of his hate for her beloved hairstyle. In reality, he wasn’t a fan but, he dare not express this feeling, not without first the correct provocation anyway. But that was the crucial point. The President was provoking, testing the waters, dangling her toes in the pool of piranhas. What might the interviewee do if she persists with her hypothetical situation? Will he snap? Resort to violence? Continue to be gracious and willing? Anything was possible, something was probable. This was the President’s mantra.

Oh God, your voice is so annoying! Paul blurted, already showing his first signs of breakage like an old brown sweatered cat that’s been watching the washing machine for too long.

Sorry? she retorted, unable not to laugh a little.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’ve got turrets. Tourette’s, I mean. That’s not true. I’m so sorry.

Wowie…this is an interesting development…my breasts are small, no?

…? Awestruck, he had not the capability, nay, the sensitivity to answer.

Do they annoy you too?

No, they’re fine, he managed, shaking his head. Paul was light skinned and had a brown, curly bonce.

What about my tattoo? asked Brey, showing him the inside of her bicep. She wore a smart black and white vest shirt.

Urgh. What is it with you type of women and tattoos? Getting a tattoo is like dying your hair. It’s all fake, fake, fake!

Paul!

You asked me a question. I’m being honest.

Too honest.

Of course you would say that.

What’s that supposed to mean?

You’re probably a woman who over exaggerates all the time, right? A liar.

The President laughed for a while. Paul sat there awkwardly, fidgeting and agitated.

This interview is incredible, the woman decided. You got a girlfriend, Paul?

Waste of time.

You got a boyfriend, Paul?

Waste of time.

You got friends, Paul?

Waste of time.

You don’t have friends, Paul? She carried on calmly.

What did I just say to you?

Alright, fine, you grumpy emoji. Surely you’ve at least one friend?

How am I supposed to change the world when I have friends to deal with?

I don’t know, she replied in an over-the-top exasperated manner, reclining back in her chair.

Don’t be so dramatic, he complained. She threw her hands in the air again, her legs – which were covered by black pants – now dangling over on the chair’s black arms before the oddly fingered chair-hand. The feet of the chair were glimmering deep blue and planted in sand and the back resembled the anatomy of a mighty desert roaming dung beetle for this was the theme of the desk chair. The odd fingers were the fingers of a dung beetle. The deep blue glimmer was of a sun glinted beetle, trapsing the dunes and the head of the chair was like a roaring lion but a beetle instead, rising taller than the height of the woman sitting in its lap.

You got a mum, Paul?

Not many, he said as if he was making a joke.

The interviewer peered at him, a confused expression on her face. He began to laugh. A lot. Brey just watched him. Once he’d settled down, she admitted, You are fascinating, Paul. You’re like a wild weird wiry animal. In fact, I’ll tell you what you look like, you look like a baby bison.

The room went silent. Brey stared at him with a wild yet secretly pleased expression. After a few seconds his hand suddenly slapped against his mouth in self-realisational shock.

I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster when I’m with you, Paul.

That’s a boring metaphor.

It’s more of a synon-synon-sy-no-nym-synonym.

Well done. You’ve managed to speak your language. Though you’re wrong still. I’m right. It’s a tiny, unfulfilled metaphor, he told her.

Technically it’s not my language.

What are you talking about?

I don’t own this language, do I? Some dude probably invented it. Won’t have been a woman because people didn’t like women back in the days of language inventing. She was gazing at the ceiling as she spoke, still in her chilled-out position. The interviewee slowly banged his head against the desk because of his heightened frustration. He soon stopped though and touched his forehead. Fortunately, he hadn’t noticed the dangling noose above him, hanging from the ceiling, western style.

What the hell is this desk made of?

That would be something called sand.

That’s not possible.

Why?

Because it’s solid.

Why can’t sand be solid?

Have you ever seen sand?

I feel like you’re looking at this matter with a very limited view in your curly head.

The young man stared at the table, thinking for a moment. Then he got to his feet and started kicking it.

Hey! She also got to her feet. What are you doing?

I don’t understand! he cried, with genuine worry emanating from him.

It’s okay. The woman moved over to him, placing a hand on his arm. It’s okay, Paul, relax. She guided him back to his chair and then moved back to hers, sitting down normally and bringing the chair closer to the desk so her legs tucked under, her bare toes arching into the sand-floor. You’ve got the job.

His sad face lifted and gradually it brightened.

Follow me, Paul, let me give you a tour.

Curly Bonce silently got up and followed her to the sand-door. He eyed it incredulously. Above it was a pale wooden sign, cracked and faded like one might find in a western movie. It bore no words but a tiny speaker sounding with a whisper every time someone opened the door. No one but Brey knew what the whisper said, though it was something politically incorrect. To have understanding over the whisper you need to know two things. There is something called a Bbible the final ‘e’ is silent and in the Bbible are people called the Bjews, the ‘s’ in ‘Bjews’ is silent but it’s still a plural noun. And finally, the whisper from the sign above the door says something along the lines of, Welcome home, Bjewish man! The ‘h’ is silent, making it a peculiarly hard word to pronounce, unless the person has a lisp. To understand why the President finds this funny in her desert themed office, you’ll need to know some of the Bbible, which means there are three things you need know to know why the sign whispers what it whispers and why it is funny. An important side-note, the President is not racist, she’s an immigrant woman, so the likelihood of racism coming from her is void. But yes, indeed, her sense of humour is often risky.

Yes, it is made of sand, Brey remarked, gesturing at the door beneath the sign which whispers.

I don’t understand, the man replied with big, worried eyes.

Don’t think about it. Just look over there. The President pointed to a yellow door across, what was known as the Black-Rainbow-Slice of Carpeted Passageway. The carpet slice travelled across the passageway and consisted of all the shades of black a colour expert named Mark, short for Marker Pen, could imagine or for a better word invent. Some might question if any of the carpet slice was actually black but they would be naysayers.

That is the Rehabilitation Centre, Brey explained about the yellow door across the passage. You should preferably never open that door unless you want to do the course because…weird stuff might happen to you if you don’t do the whole process correctly, um, yeah, it’s dangerous and weird. It’s just best if you never go in unless you need to or unless you know your way around.

Is that not dangerous? Not having a sign or something?

Yeah.

Well, shouldn’t you do something about that?

I like to keep things light. Having a big red danger sign wouldn’t exactly scream, WELCOME LOVED ONES, now, would it?

I don’t think it should be like that. This problem needs fixing, we need a sign, he insisted, having barely listened to what his brand-new boss just said.

Okay, this way first, she chimed happily, carrying on the tour.

Wait, he called after her. Brey went right, leaving the Black-Rainbow-Slice of carpet.

As they walked, the ceiling opened up in front of them like a movie with a slow plot line, revealing more space for little nibblets of lore and vast, unnecessary sexual tension. The little blue lights would sparkle rays of glitter on Paul, arousing distress but then would arrive the grand murals of momentous political points in the history of Bamerica. These murals were the first thing in the slow unravelling of the plot line to successfully excite the new member of the Yellow House family but when the Steal Drum Band Choir for Children were met, he almost resigned.

Further on, Paul’s complaining was interrupted by a fellow named Bap, a blonde, long-haired white man who suddenly appeared from around the corner, coming out from a branch of corridor.

Brey, my dude! he said grinning, slapping her hand.

Sup, homie?

Who’s this homie? He nodded towards the newbie.

This is Paul, a new addition.

Ah, sweet curls, bro. He held out a hand.

It wasn’t shaken. Instead, what was received were these words: Why do you speak like that?

What words come out of your mouth, bro?

What?

What?

…

…

The tension was killing Brey with silent laughter, brewing all warm and curled up in her belly.

You skate, man?

No, I don’t skate, only Yobs skate.

Bap turned his lively gaze from Paul and looked to Brey in confusion.

Yob means he loves to skate. He’s just joshing with you, Bap, she explained.

Oh! No way! That’s rad man! So you snowboard too then?

No! I don’t snowboard!

Bap laughed out loud. I like it, I like it. You’ve got some jokes man. Alright, sweet man. See you on the flip side, my curly brethren, said Bap, smiling, swiftly lifting two fists, twisting them back and forth and literally sprinting into the distance at full speed. Newbie watched him go, worried by such events. Brey watched her new member of family with intrigue.

Why does he speak like that?

This isn’t going to be another sand-desk thing, is it, Paul?

Please don’t remind me.

Sorry. Block those thoughts out and follow me onward.

Corridors the two were traveling through presently were fairly wide and white-walled. The carpet was a nice sunset yellow and forest green, intertwined in a way that may trick you into thinking you’ve taken drugs. There were varying pictures on the walls throughout the entirety of the house like one of a