Fleabrain Loves Franny Read Online Free PDF

a particular hair at which to meet, tip or otherwise. Franny combed through Alf’s entire bushy tail with her fingers. Unfortunately, Alf’s tail was darker in color than the rest of him. Something unusual would be difficult to spot. At one point Franny thought she saw a speck flit across one hair, but she couldn’t find it again.
    That night Franny whispered into the darkness, “Are you there? Will we ever meet? Are you really just a flea?”
    At the bottom of the bed, Alf didn’t stir, as if he knew Franny’s three questions were not for him.

By the Light of the Moon
    F leabrain had hollered. He had leaped. He had shaken his tibiae, frantic to communicate. He’d tried clapping his tarsi, clattering his mouthparts, and frantically raising the short hairs on his back, the latter considered an impertinent gesture among his kind. He had been desperate for Franny’s attention and was weak from his exertions.
    Fleabrain heard Franny whispering her three lonely questions into the darkness. Replenished after supping on Alf, he was inspired to write a poem in Franny’s journal by the light of the moon. How gratifying it felt to translate his angst into a creative endeavor!
    Unfortunately, by daybreak he realized his creation was not up to his usual standards. To wit, it was a very bad poem, and it was too late to revise it. It had been written in haste and frustration, though not without love.
    Nevertheless, in his heart he knew Franny would understand and perhaps even appreciate his literary effort.
    Franny—
    I wail
    To no avail
    From a hair on Alf’s tail
.
    Yes! Three times yes!
    But to hear me, you fail
.
    P.S. My dear Franny, the above is a work in progress. There is, one might say, “avail” available. So, yes, three times yes, to your questions
.
    We will find a way
.
    Yours,
    FB
    P.S. Hopefully, you will eventually think of me as more than “just a flea”
    and
    as a cherished friend
.

The Bookcase
    T he day after receiving the very bad poem, which (as Fleabrain had hoped) she enjoyed for its clarity and honesty, Franny wheeled herself to the entry-hall bookcase, hoping to spot Fleabrain among its “plethora” of books.
    Like Fleabrain, Franny loved the books in that bookcase. Some of the books used to belong to Franny’s deceased grandparents and great-grandparents; others her parents had bought cheaply in used bookstores. They had their own odor, ancient and mysteriously adult, smelling of woolen blankets and socks and soup and exhaust fumes and classrooms. That’s because the books were read in all sorts of places before they ended up in the bookcase. Many, many people had loved them.
    Franny’s parents had read most of the books in high school and college. They often said they hardly remembered what was in them, even though all of their schooling had been an “enlightening experience.” Mr. and Mrs. Katzenback preferred reading about current events in newspapers. But her mother respectfully dusted off the topsof the books once a year, and both of her parents said the tall, lofty bookcase made for a handsome entryway.
    Franny didn’t really understand how her parents’ schooling could have been enlightening if they’d forgotten almost all of it. She herself resolved to remember every bit of the higher learning of her life. The lower learning, too. Why else bother learning? Her parents didn’t want her nosing around “adult” books, which, of course, made the books more enticing, even though she hardly understood most of them.
    â€œHello, hello,” Franny whispered, opening a few books at random. She imagined letters and words and paragraphs dancing in a dusty, happy cloud from the yellowing pages, grateful to be alive again.
Wheeee! We’re free-eeeee! Hello, hello to you, too!
She hoped that Fleabrain would emerge from one of the books. But if he did, she didn’t see him.
    As she didn’t