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 Posted: Tue Apr 06, 2010 3:37 pm
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Posted: Wed Apr 14, 2010 9:39 am
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Posted: Thu Apr 15, 2010 7:15 pm
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Posted: Sat Apr 17, 2010 7:40 pm
 
Welcome Home
(Nightmare #2)
Words: 781
It was Tate’s apartment, freshly shimmering in the orange glow of evening. The darkness was settling, but the hiss of the skillet filled the quite home they both shared. A flash of vegetables glistening in peanut oil flicked up into the air as he tossed it once, twice, three times before setting the wok down, turning the heat down and going to fork the rice. It was perfect, and he touched his cheek, beaming at a job well done before wiping his hands on his …pink apron.
It was getting late, and a quick look to a kitten clock on the wall, something Ladon had gotten as a Christmas Gift, was saying that someone was being held at the office. He could only hope dinner would stay are pristine as it was right now, though that never had been a problem in the past. Whether the food went lukewarm to sickly cold, it would get eaten and the compliments, while appreciated, would be passed off with a kiss. Still, that didn’t mean he didn’t like to have dinner served and eaten while it was still hot.
Turning about, he went over to the table, making sure the cutlery and the dinnerware was set. It was a gift from their wedding, and he affectionately touched the rim of the shimmering white plates, lightly decorated with flowers, before leaning in to sniff the vase of white ivies sitting at it’s center. It wasn’t a special occasion, though he was sure he’d be asked as usual if it was, and he’d reply that there didn’t need a reason to have the place set up nicely. It was just one of the many ways he wished to convey the silent words that said, I’m happy to be here, this way, with you.
Looking down, he smiled at something rubbed against his leg. The small centipede clacked about, looking for scraps, and rolling his eyes, he went to the kitchen to feed the youma. Overturning a bag marked Kibbles, human body parts dumped into the bowl as the creature went over to eat. Putting things away, he went to check on the food just as the apartment door clicked.
A smile pulled across his face as he went to take the plates and set them on the counter as he started to fill them neatly. In order, he listened as he usually did, pretending he wasn’t listening to the sounds that welcomed the arrival of his spouse like a favorite song. Reaching over, he lowered the volume to the little radio on the counter, something he needed to starve of the suffocating silence that was left when the other was away.
His eyes remeaned on the assorted vegetables and cuts of lean beef, moving them with a wooden spoon as they continued to waft delicious heat.
A hard thud of leather on wood – her bag on the floor. Work was over now. Personal time. Them.
The rattle of metal and wicker – the keys going into the basket by the door. They always lost their eyes if they didn’t.
A rustle of fabric – the coat was being hanged up. Dark black to match the suit that he had set out that morning.
The sound of dress shoes, hard soles that took the streets each day, returning once more up into the main room, going in to take in the room – was there a smile now? Did he do well? He didn’t dare look. – the shoes moves into the kitchen, the hard clack of tiles, and then the rustle of fabric around his waist to curl on the front of his stomach. He looked down and grinned, turning to hold up the spoon.
Pouting lips opened and tasted, and gave a few licks before going Mmm. “You should write a book.” She said, smiling at him.
“It’s just stirfry.” He pointed out, but flushed anyways before being turned about. Grinning, Tate brushed his hair aside and then nudged him closer. “I love it when you wear that dress.”
DRESS?!
His eyes shot down and yes, underneath the frilly pink apron was a –
She pressed in with a deep kiss, cutting off his view.
Ladon shot up sending stuffed animals falling everywhere as he gripped his chest, panting hard into the dark. As his eye collected that he was in his room, he gripped the quit and threw it open, welcomed with the sight of just plain shorts and skinny legs.
No frills. No lace, Nothing that looked like he stole a dress from the 50s to please his wife…husband? AND IT WAS TATE OF ALL PEOPLE!!!
Catching his breath, he looked around and decided that he’d need to stop sewing before bed. It wasn’t conducted to his dreams or his health.
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Posted: Sat Apr 17, 2010 9:05 pm
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Posted: Sat Apr 17, 2010 10:43 pm
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Posted: Sun Apr 18, 2010 5:28 pm
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Posted: Sun Apr 18, 2010 6:35 pm
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Posted: Sun Apr 18, 2010 9:05 pm
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Posted: Tue Apr 20, 2010 7:30 pm
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Posted: Tue Apr 20, 2010 8:13 pm
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Posted: Wed Apr 21, 2010 7:27 am
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Posted: Sat Apr 24, 2010 9:59 am
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Posted: Sat Apr 24, 2010 1:00 pm
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Posted: Mon Apr 26, 2010 7:43 am
Aftereffects
Words:
Every kid, at one point or another, had slipped under the covers of their bed to hide. Since childhood, under the covers meant protection and safety. Protection from monsters in the closet, the boogie man under the bed, and the things that crept out in the night that, if you ever dared exposed an ankle, would grab on tight with the cold hands of death and drag you down to never be seen again. As a teenager, Ladon didn’t need a night light. He left his closet open, and he never checked his bed before going to sleep. There was too much already packed under there that no monster could hide. There was nothing in his room that could take him, but he still worried. He still huddled, curled deep under the heavy quilt and pulling in the edges as he stayed still, breathe shivering after the last sob session. In the privacy of his room, under the covers, he didn’t have to hold face. He could break down, and he was doing so, repeatedly. The sort of hard-pumping, shivering crying that made you feel like you’d be sick. Where you had to take a break to take in two large breathes before you started to do that sort of hyperventilating of short gasps. Then just as you had to stop to catch your breath and give your jaw a rest, stilled into a mess of hot tears and a running nose, it would started back up again. He couldn’t even pinpoint exactly what he was crying over. Death? Maybe. Fear? He had plenty. Feeling he was way over his head? That he was pathetic? That he shouldn’t be alive? Wondering why he was alive? Feeling selfish and bad for thinking about himself when 5 people were dead? Wondering why he worried about 5 people he didn’t know? Wondering if there were families out there with empty beds, expecting brothers and sisters to wake up in the morning and then panicking to see their children gone – all the while he was occupying his bed?
All of these, and because he didn’t know what else to do. It just fit, and he wasn’t going to fight it. He only hoped that afterwards, he would feel a sort of cathartic relief, but all he felt was sick, tired, and now had a throbbing headache. Still, he wasn’t tired enough to sleep. He couldn’t. His memory recorded, and the moment he closed his eyelids, told his mind softly “Go to sleep”, it would click Rewind and then Play.
The night was cold, rushing with the first hard winds of a coming rain. The sky overhead said drizzle, but the electricity in the air whispered something harder to understand. They all moved back, the Captain and her four Lieutenants, their glances unsure and wary. Wiseman was there, standing, watching. They all had their orders to not touch this man, so they stood still, waiting for him to pass, to leave, to say something or vanish as quickly as he had appeared. Wiseman had no such orders. Only an agenda, and he wasted no time. A blonde Lieutenant shrieked as her body shot forward as if an invisible hook was anchored in her chest and sent her sailing in the air. Tossed. That’s what started it.
Panic. It was all panic.
Ladon rolled over, seeking in the dark for a pillow before taking it and smothering his head, pressing down on both sides to quiet the screaming. The hard crunch of bone on unyielding asphalt. The voice. Oh gods, that voice. Smooth, deep, but dropping the bottom of your stomach at the first utterance with a cold, creeping sickness. A hand dripping blood, trailing down to bandaged palms and wrists – making him wonder “What could hurt this man? This …thing?” – and then the hands sailed like a pale ghost towards him.
He woke, pulling the covers back for air and gasping, flailing to push back invisible limbs away from his face, away from him. Blindly, his eyes rolled about the room and in the dark before he noticed he wasn’t where he thought he was. No one was here. The monsters were back tucked into their closets, their caves, and their undersea prisons. Just him, with the covers tangled and his t-shirt sticking to his chest. Moments passed in quiet before he reached out for his cellphone, checking the time. 42 minutes. Asleep for 42 minutes.
Giving up, he turned to the side and laid there, looking at the window and knowing that somewhere, out there, harbored fresh, unmarked graves and creatures that took away children at night, never to be seen again come morning.
***********************************
The Shepard house was prompt and followed a routine. The alarm down the hall would sound off and his mother would start for the day, followed soon after by her son, who would get up, get a shower, and slip on a clean uniform for school. The kitchen would already be filled with the gurgling of the coffee maker, it’s timer set with the expectation that it follow it’s schedule like the rest of them. The kitchen would then start in a rush for decaffeinated coffee and OJ, moving to reach for wheat bread toast and fruit before meeting at the table. They’d sit, eat together while watching the news, talk a little about the day and what he was to make for dinner, and then set off. Her to Crystal. Him to Meadowview.
It was why Miss Susan Everdeen was thrown off to not see her son’s things already set up against the kitchen island, neatly prepared and packed for a day at school. Homework done and pencils sharpened. There was no toast in the toaster and no sign of fruit being cut up for the morning. Only the coffee machine sputtering it’s last few drops before hissing with steam.
While it was unlike her son to sleep in, she almost wanted to smile at the very thought of it. The one-word explanation of ‘boys’ came to mind. Even her son was entitled to a few fluke days once in a while, and feeling very much like a TV mother, she knocked on the door for her son to wake up. “Hunny, you’re going to be late.” She almost wanted to grin again at this as she pushed the door open.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn closed, and she looked to see a curled ball in the middle of the bed. Since she was already playing the part, she shook her head and found that it really didn’t suit her. Moving in, she sat down on the mattress and gently shook his shoulder. “Ladon, you need to get up. You’re already missing breakfast.” Reaching over, she pulled on the covers, before she felt him turn and look over at her. It was startling how pale he looked, and there was a blotchy redness to his face.
“I don’t feel well….can I stay home?” The voice was raw, weak, and she wondered if he had caught the flu. It was spring. Changing weather made a mess of things each year. Usually, she would have went for the thermometer, but something told her to sit. His eyes were large, ivy-green, and his hair was a mess of waves and knots. He probably didn’t get a wink of rest. It was one of those rare moments that she thought about hugging him, but he wasn’t a child any longer. Instead, she opted for reaching over and brushing his hair free of his face, feeling him shift when her fingertips crossed his brow.
He wasn’t too warm, but he still looked unwell. Her mother senses told her something wasn’t right, but that was as far as her maternal senses went. While she worried, she had work to go to. Ladon was a responsible boy. She raised him that well, and while he had lied about the bruises on his face a few weeks back, she knew he wasn’t prone to lying. Not about this. Reaching over, she kissed his head and adjusted the covers. “I’ll call the school. You stay here and rest. I’ll bring you something to drink.” He only gave a weak nod before she left, coming back later with a bottle of Orange Juice and some pretzels. “Try and eat something, okay? I’ll call to check in later to make sure you did.”
Looking down, she watched her son look at the bottle of juice, his eyes blank. For a moment, she worried if it was something serious, and she noticed, as she always noticed, how small and frail he looked. Dipping down, she kissed him again, his skin damp and cold on her lips. Usually she never gave more than one kiss, but today pushed her for two. “Get well, sweetie.”
Stepping away, she walked out and went back to her routine.
Ladon waited, listening to her shuffling in the kitchen, the click of her thermos as she filled it, and the distant noises of the fridge opening and closing. Then, later, the hard clack of her dress shoes before the shutting of the door. The lock clicked in place. Then it was quiet.
Turning, he adjusted himself, his limbs aching and his head throbbing, before, in the safety of the light that seeped through the closed curtains, he feel asleep.
***********************************
Part 3 to come...
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