The Traumatic Adventure of D'Nelian Bix

D’Nelian Bix was born one spring to parents, strong and tall

They eyed him up and looked him over and tutted “This won’t do at all.

Our son is a shriveled, shrimpy thing, so tiny and so small.”

The doctor intoned, “I predict this lad won’t live past the fall.”

But D’Nelian Bix did survive that fall, and the next spring and summer too

In fact he survived for 17 years, and he grew and grew and grew.

But his parents tutted and shook their heads, “This simply cannot be true.”

And prayed each day he’d pass away, an awful thing to do.

Mr and Mrs Bix, you see, were of strapping solid stock,

And so to have a tiny child was quite a fearsome shock.

A whisper of a child, he was, with skin as white as chalk.

Contrasting quite acutely against the rest of their hulking flock.

D’Nelian Bix grew up quite overlooked, dismissed and forgot

His quietness interpreted in a manner quite misbegot

Shyness was taken for stupidity, so schooling he never got

But D’Nelian Bix read books every day, and was entirely self-taught.

On the eve of his 16th year D’Nelian Bix found a place to think

In the farthest reaches of the front cupboard, tucked behind his mother’s mink.

"To my family I feel not even the slightest link,

And the life for me here would only be rinky-dink.”

"So, I’ll screw up my courage and set forth from this place.

To carve out a life, and to find my own space.”

Remembering the words of a survival guide, D’nelian tucked and rolled

Faster on and faster still, his speed quite uncontrolled

D’nelian Bix thought to himself “I wouldn’t believe if I’d been told,

All the adventures that’d befall me, and not a day past 16 years old.”

 D’Nelian Bix ended his trip with a great big massive bump

With his head resting in the grass and his feet on a stump

But he rose up quickly with a lithe little jump

And set off in the direction of town, rubbing his sore hips and rump.

So many adventures, D’Nelian Bix had on his 16th birthday

The Harebell disaster, the roll down the hill ofhay

The murderous gang, the hobo who’d put him in harm’s way

All of them bested with his wit, will, and the knowledge he’d read and stored away

 D’Nelian Bix entered a shop to buy a snack to quell his rumbling guts

He picked out a tasty sandwich and removed all of the crusts

D’Nelian Bix died that day, not a bit over 16, and a total putz.

D’Nelian Bix had allergies and didn’t read the wrapper “warning: this product contains nuts.”

D’Nelian Bix ended his trip with a great big massive bump

With his head resting in the grass with a growing sore lump

A castle rose in the distance, past his view of his feet on a stump

So D’Nelian righted himself and rose with a jump.

D’Nelian Bix steeled his reserve and opened the creaking wood door

He shuffled in quietly across the stone floor.

The interior was dusty, and shabby, but not poor.

With decor on the walls from the Peloponnesian War.

 D’Nelian stopped in his tracks, the smell of burning things in the air

And watched, rapt, as a young woman in a cotton dress descended the stair

With thick leather gloves on each hand, a mismatched pair

And a set of grime encrusted goggles tangled in her hair.

D’Nelian Bix had many adventures; his 16th birthday had been a real hornet’s nest

Running from home, the Harebelle, kidnapping, hobos and hills all put him to the test

But never had he felt the terror that rose that moment in his breast

D’Nelian Bix felt a quivering, racing feeling in the center of his chest.

And so D’Nelian Bix ended his adventures on his 16th birthday

Confessing his love in a mountain of cliche

And from that moment on he wouldn’t dare to stray

And he spent most of the day gliding across the library’s parquet.

- Klaude Davenport