Growing up a version of storybooks was just that fictional. The stage was set and  his surroundings were more comparable to a beggars keep.

His father was a charmer, and oh my how he could get his way about town. Once striking it rich in the coal mines, he moved his wife and son from the Keoghan Bourg to the Knots.

Sure they had food. They had a quaint little cottage as well at one point. Stevie began to gamble and drink, with the latter being his ultimate pleasure. The drink consumed the charm and altered the character. His flaws became text book drunkard. As the nineties came on, he no longer could work.

Violet was an aspiring world renown indie Opera Singer. Her performances, which were far and few between acclaimed her a righteous spot on the Islands stage.

Everyone knew Violets Tale!

She too grew up in the mining town, and her family was simple and quaint. The Mennington clan were highly regarded during the seventies and eighties. There was a lot of money to be had in mining. The bourg would eventually be closed down due to dried up mines. The Menningtons were considered old money, and as such the fortunes continued on through the patriarchal chain.

Violet was allotted small doses of her inheritance as the promise was she continued on with her musical performances.
Stevie Marsh was from an old boondocks and the only thing he had was his braun and charm. Give letter words that described his total essence beyond the Colors he painted Violet with after some time.

Violet became quiet, as she was when she was a kid.
Her passion expressed itself in her angelic song. But her lyrics would eventually drain away much like the tears she shed on a daily basis.

Stevie had the insatiable lust for taking his internal woes out on her and their son.

They moved into the flats on Swarcliffe and Violet worked as a chamber maid. Their son would boot clean and take on the commoner roles within the lush town.

The boy became enriched with perceptive enthusiasm and predicted when Stevie would be gassed. He could sense the closet door opening where the Louis ville slugger rested until it was time for its ichor bath of Violets wale.

The boy took on examination of his drunkard, his Shepard in song and all the adults surrounding the family on a daily basis.
He watched as people chose blindness over the live art which was his parents.

The family never had a chance. Audi was a Greek Tragedy.
People would pity, from a far.
Glance but not see.
Hand out with ignorance.
Walk by as though the play hadn't acted out in front of them all.

Sticks and rocks could light the boys attention. No flint, but spark. The only way he could relieve his anxiety.

The papers read the families demise in two words only- Violets Tale!

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