The Extravagantly Exaggerated Tales of Francis

What you are about to read is based on firsthand accounts, from surviving nuns, of the Sacré Bleu Home for Children, an orphanage and convent amalgam located somewhere in Bretagne, France run by the infamous sisters of Sacré Bleu, who, since the 1990’s have had no official affiliation with the Catholic church. It is important to understand that though nothing disclosed is, presumably, deliberately fictitious, it is grounded completely in interpretation and as such is not bound to reality or to conventional notions of logic or academic thought. It is thereby confined only to the laws of extravagant exaggeration. Enjoy.

According to the Sisters, she had always been there, it was impossible to remember a time before her appearance. The specifics of how she got there were irrelevant, the only ‘how’ they ever concerned themselves with was how to get rid of her.

Her name, Francis, and if judging by looks alone, at first glance, one might, for a moment, silently, unknowingly question what the controversy was all about, but only for a moment. She stood around three-foot-tall, with soaring upright curly blond hair that rounded off her seven-year-old stature to a modest five-foot, nine inches. Despite what one might believe about the ease of maintaining the whereabouts of a child with a built-in antenna, she was incredibly difficult to keep track of. This proved to be an annoyance for everyone except Francis.

While we are on the topic of grievances brought against her, it would be irresponsible not to mention her intrinsic connection to flour. In her early years Francis naturally developed a knack for throwing flour (not to be confused with ‘flowers’), a hobby that carries on to this day. It gives her a rush of adrenaline. Legend has it that she threw her first fist of flour, at the tender age of three months, directly into the face of the young nun charged with her care. That Sister left the convent shortly thereafter, citing insanity. She now pursues her life’s calling, lobbying the European parliament with the singular agenda item of having the prosecutorial age restriction (limit) on young offenders repealed (lifted). She lives from her car in Brussels where she supports herself by soliciting tourists. The old habit often comes in handy. She has not yet been successful in her objective or allowed into any parliamentary buildings. Never discouraged, she steadfastly pursues her calling with fiery determination fueled by a burning vendetta.

How Francis acquired her flour is still subject to speculation amongst the Sisterhood, to some it was witchcraft but to those who knew her best it is something you just had to accept, like the sky is blue, or carbon comprises all organic matter. In fact, it is about Francis that the iconic aphorism is based- ‘some children make crafts, others inexplicably make flour’. Whatever the precise scientific cause may be, its emergence was inexorable.

Along with being incredibly evanescent and a passionate recreational thrower of flour Francis was gifted at lifting (not weightlifting). Stealing was one of Francis’s God given talents. That is a direct quote from an unnamed Sister (Sister Candy) that was directly followed with the subtle reminder that even the Devil is part of the cannon of God’s creation. Just know that Francis had sticky fingers and not just because she never washed her hands and did not know how to hold a juice box properly. It is widely gossiped that she swiped twenty euros and the ID badge off the doctor that delivered her. Of course, that is unsubstantiated but some speculate that she has the badge somewhere in her hair still to this day. But, let’s stick to the facts, so not to be misleading (taint credibility, unreliable). Modest projections, along with charts and graphs, show that if her lifting stays on its current trajectory it will make her ‘set for life’ by the ripe old age of fourteen.

Despite her ‘gift’ Francis was more trouble than she was worth to the Sisters, who had tried, unsuccessfully, since her arrival to relieve themselves of her. Since her more exasperating traits were apparent early on, the Sisters opted to take the unconventional route and not register her with the French Government, and as such, though presumably French, Francis was undocumented. This was done in the hopes of optimizing their odds of liberating themselves of her. Though they had without a doubt made it as easy as possible without releasing her into the woods, from where she presumably came (an action which no one had the heart for, though it did arise in conversation every then and again). No one wanted her disappearance on their conscience. However, she was never once prevented (discouraged) from wandering off on her own, but somehow (miraculously) she always managed to return. Even with the huge demand for children on the European black market her sale proved impossible. Wealthy or not, buyers would back out after visiting her. The Nuns once even attempted a BOGO but to no avail. Francis did not seem to mind as the visits offered her access to some remarkably deep pockets. After multiple attempts to jettison her, the Sisters where left desperate, and waiting for a miracle. This in turn created the almost too perfect conditions that led to Francis falling into the custody of the M’s. After which time what exactly transpired can only be theorized but undoubtedly went something as follows.

What is known about the M’s is generously provided by a disgruntled couple who are former probationary members of the M’s elite friend group known as ‘The Bond’. They claim to have had no prior knowledge of the ‘probationary’ adjunct and are not at liberty to discuss the matter further as their heated feud remains ongoing.

The M’s are a simple couple, who live on the peripheral (extreme outskirts) of the agricultural village of Segonz. A village situated next to the unusual town of Cog. Located in Western France, Cog is world renowned for its extravagant namesake liqueur made from Cog berries. Segonz is renowned for nothing, and would not even be known regionally if it were not for the fact that Segonz grows all of the highest quality Cog berries for the most opulent Cog berry brands. This is how Mr. M makes a living; growing, fermenting, and distilling Cog berries to be sold to luxury labels. Mrs. M makes her living keeping Mr. M alive.

Mr. M has lived in Segonz his entire life, where he resides in the home he was born and raised in. His surprisingly still surviving mother who lives across the street, was relocated at the request of Mrs. M. who wanted to create enough distance to have a realistic narrative when asked if she knew how her mother-in-law fell down the stairs. It has to be believable because Mr. M has a large family that all lives in the area.

Even though two living sisters is all the immediate family Mrs. M has left in the world she only speaks to one of them. That would be the sister who recently lost seventy-five pounds by walking and avoiding men. Mrs. M also has an ex-brother-in-law that she presumably only keeps in contact with to infuriate her estranged sister.

The M’s have no children of their own, except for the four dissociated biological ones that they raised, and who would prefer not to be claimed by them. Out of the four only #3 ever voluntarily (willingly) comes home at a time other than Christmas. On which occasion #2, who is entirely financially supported by his parents to live in Belgium, where he supposedly attends weekend only courses to become a Witch Doctor, but was recently raided by the Belgian authorities, in their effort to crack down on European terrorism, for running an illegal bar out of his parents’ subsidized apartment, comes home. Only to cause chaos, that may or may not have previously resulted in him getting stabbed in the hand with a fork by #3. Coincidentally, #2 is acquainted with the retired lobbying nun according to unconfirmed reports. #1 and #4 might as well be missing persons and can be disregarded. So no, no children of their own. The ones they once had hold firm negative views of their parents that are well formed and irreversible. Unsurprisingly, combined, their kids boast residential portfolios in four countries on three continents. They escaped and have little desire to return. Even #3 blatantly uses her parents to get to the day she no longer needs them, a lurking (approaching) estrangement that is palpable by all familiar (involved) with the situation.

Due the M’s unsuccessful experience raising their unaffiliated offspring they have a rather disdainful view of children, and children generally have an equally inimical opinion of them. That makes what transpired late one August afternoon all the more extraordinary. While returning home from a rare holiday in Calais, during a respite from the demanding exercise of growing fruitful Cog berries (such was the iniquitous quintessence of the M’s that they loved to decompress watching migrants attempt to auspiciously cross the (English) Channel by stowing away onto anything that floats. Truly nothing pleased them more, except for maybe reporting potential escapees to the boarder authority. They despised the English and questioned why anyone would desire to leave France, but they were happy that the migrants were at least attempting) the M’s made the fateful decision to make a quick, five course, pit stop at the Brocéliande Café, located in none other than Bretagne. Where, inside there happened to be a young girl with extraordinary hair, who looked no more than four, reading what sounded, to the untrained ear, to be ‘English’.

Sometimes while on ‘excursion’ from Sacré Bleu, and after having picked a few pockets, Francis, despite being illiterate, would pretend to read English to café customers from an Italian cook book titled “Il Linguaggio Della Cucina” (The Language of Cooking). She had found the book in the trash and had taken a liking to its images. It was not a ploy to bring in customers but a genuine hobby (passion, calling) of hers.

There is a consensus amongst the French populous that when attempting spoken English, the gold standard to aim for is the Queens English, this however was more comparable to Mr. Bean’s Italian. Nonetheless, to them there was no difference. Never ones to shy away from blunt criticism, the French, by European standards, are admittedly notoriously bad at foreign languages.

Despite what one might expect, the unilingual French owners of the Brocéliande never once discouraged Francis’s readings. In fact, they were so grateful that they would compensate her, in flour. As much as she could carry on any given day. Though it did seem to bring people in the door, it also gave the owners the invaluable opportunity to finally learn English. They had aspirations of one day moving to England and hosting an internationally televised cooking competition show.

English proved to be a rather challenging language to grasp, perhaps due to its sheer extensiveness. It had been almost a year and the café owners had never once heard it repeat. Still, when asked by friends they would boast to having progressed (improved) beyond their days at the Lycée. And why, do you ask, did they not find the presence of an unaccompanied young child in their café troubling (alarming)? Simple, they believed she belonged to the English couple who began frequenting the café around the same time. Unfortunately, this was impossible to confirm because the couple spoke no French, but were progressing nicely in their Italian.