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Post by Veta on Sept 7, 2010 17:48:46 GMT -6
Here's his works of fiction. I have six of them, but one have already been posted.
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Post by Veta on Sept 7, 2010 17:49:26 GMT -6
A Day In the Life
It was one of the last dog-days of summer, and boy was it a scorcher. I ran the back of my hand across my brow, freeing it of the sweat that had been building there. As I strolled down the path of the lightly wooded area just outside my neighborhood, my thoughts turned to the new school year looming overhead. It was amazing to think that in just a few short weeks, I’d be a official freshman in high school. It was an idea both exciting and terrifying.
Snapping out of the daydream, I notice that my on-again, off-again companion, Red, was nowhere in sight.
“HEY RED! WHERE ARE YA?” I call out. Nothing out of the ordinary, I thought, he’ll probably come limping back soon enough, likely missing a limb or having managed to get a snake to bite him on the nose. It’d be typical.
A word must be said on Red’s behalf. He’s dumb. Not just regular dumb. Really, really dumb. In fact, I wouldn’t be lying if I didn’t say he was quite possibly the bottom rung on his kind’s intelligence ladder. Now, before people start naming me as a Horrible And Abusive Friend, there’s three things I need to point out. One, Red is my dog. Two, I wasn’t exaggerating. And three, I love him anyways.
Case and point: One summer day much like this one, we’re out on a walk and Red has wandered off on another one of his misadventures. Suddenly, he comes yelping up in a stumbling run, constantly sneezing and pawing at his nose. How he managed to make his way towards me with one paw never touching the ground escapes me, but it was quite the humorous sight, let me tell you. So I look back to the start of the trail of destruction he left in his wake and spot a disturbed anthill. Putting two and two together to get four, I surmise that Red has, once again, stuck his nose where it doesn’t belong. And judging from the flecks of dirt on his face, half his muzzle as well.
So he’s at my feet, whining and yelping in pain from his own stupid mistake. I, falling back to what I always do in these situations, simply scratch him between the ears and mutter gently in a tender yet tired way that he’s an idiot. Then, in an instant, he’s as right as rain, tail wagging and all thoughts of ants crawling around inside his nose gone. Here’s the kicker. I watch, and not two minutes later, he winds up taking another nostril full of insect from the same ant pile.
And speak of the devil, the big oaf comes bounding out of the brush, his golden coat blazing like fire in the sunlight. And, miracles never seem to stop, unhurt. Several burs cling to his fur, but he’s oblivious to them. He’s undeniably happy, as is his natural state. Ignorance is bliss, and boy whoever coined that phrase sure nailed it on the head. He comes running up, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth and tail wagging energetically.
“Come on, boy,” I say, patting the side of my leg. He obediently falls into step beside me, and we walk together through the woods. I slip back into my thoughts, content to wander around outside while my mind does the same. Some time and trail later, I’m pulled by to reality by the realization that I can no longer see my walking buddy in my peripheral vision.
“Red?” I call, looking back over my shoulder. He’s stopped in the middle of the path, his stance spread wide. His ears are pressed flat to his skull, and his tail hangs still with weighty foreboding. His lip curls back to reveal pointed teeth clenched tight. He begins to let out a throaty growl.
“Red?!? No, boy, don’t!” I yell, having an idea what was coming. Owning little faith that my words would penetrate his thick skull, I make a dive for his collar just as he darts forward. His restraint escapes my grasp, and I hit the ground hard as he goes galloping down the path, barking like a maniac at whatever unfortunate being he’s caught the scent of. I pick myself up out of the dirt and give chase. The lummox outpaces me easily, and I loose sight of him as he tears around the next bend. Soon after, a shocking scream pierces through the din of his howling. (I’m ashamed to admit that the first thought to go through my head wasn’t Don’t let someone be hurt but Don’t let that be someone I know.) With that cry came a shot of adrenaline, and I found that I could run faster, after all.
What I lacked in tracking skills was made up for by having a working set of ears. I find that my quarry had deviated from the trail, and I follow the sounds of his excitement to the edge of a small clearing. I find him propped up on a large oak tree, barking up it with a crazed ferocity that would match that of even the most radical religious zealot. Attached to his collar (And trying futility to drag him away from his self-imposed crusade) was someone I knew better than I’d care to. Aw, why did it just have to be her?... Maybe I can sneak away before she can sucker me into another one of her inane adventures.
“Roger! Control your mangy mutt!” Samantha Cooper orders, dashing any hopes I had of getting out of here before she spotted me. I’ve known Sam for a few years; she lives just a few doors down from me. Despite that she was sometimes pretty fun to hang out with, I was still hesitant to call her a ‘friend’. She’s generally more trouble than she’s worth, and on more than one occasion has left me bleeding on the ground. Little did I know, this would be one such occasion. Still half-considering to bolt anyways, I step forward out of the brush.
“Oi, Red! Cut it out, you mook,” I command without much actual conviction. Watching her try and wrestle the big lug away was pretty entertaining. Naturally, Red ignores me and goes right on barking his head off. She stares at me with a look that says ‘Well? Is that it?’, so I just shrug at her, barely suppressing a grin.
“ROGER!”
“Alright, alright. No need to yell,” I say, no longer to hold my cheeky smile in. It’s also around now the idea occurs to me that if I just grab Red and go, I might have a shot of making a clean getaway. It takes both of my hands and more than a couple scolding words, but I manage to haul the hapless hound off. Almost immediately, he adopts that apologetic look all dogs do, the one that says they know they’ve done something wrong, but can’t for the life of them figure out just what. I drag him back across the clearing, and, just as I think I’ve made it out, Sam calls me right back in. “And where do you think you’re going? You’re filthy dog-” She spat the word as if they were the most despicable creatures on the planet, “-scared Snowball up into the tree, and she won’t come down!” She points up into the leafy oak for emphasis. I let out a sigh and turn back around, shoulders sagging slightly.
“So? It’s your cat. Not my problem,” I point out, knowing it was a weak argument as the words left my mouth.
“YOU caused the problem, so YOU need to fix it!”
“Well, it was really Red who caused it. Why don’t you ask him to do it?... What doya say, boy? Want to go climb the tree and get her cat?” I ask Red patronizingly, and then pause to listen for an answer. It was clear that I was only going to be able to leave one of two ways: either climb the tree or get my eyes clawed out. And not by the cat. And if she was going to guilt me into helping, then I may as well get a little entertainment out of the deal. “Yea, sorry, Sam. He says he’d love to help but-” I hold my hands up and wiggle my thumbs at her, “-he hasn’t managed to develop opposable’s yet. Tough luck, hon,” I tease, beaming like a Cheshire cat. This causes her to give an explosively aggravated sigh, and even give a small little stomp.
“Come on, quit being a jerk! I just want my cat back.”
“Well why don’t you just get her yourself,” I counter, eyes gleaming from already knowing the answer. She mumbles something under her breath. “Sorry, what was that?” It’d be an understatement to say I was merely enjoying this.
“I can’t, ok? I can’t climb trees. Now would you just help me? Please?” she asks edgily, her face now flushing a little red.
“Well, you did say the magic word. Stay here, Red,” I order off-handedly, not really caring if he obeys or not. I strut past Sam, riding high on the fact that I’d manage to get her flustered. She’s often rather hard to rile, and normally able to take a joke and dish a few back. But when it comes to her cat, it’s a totally different story. I first learned that lesson the hard(Read: Painful) way.
She clouts me on the back of the head as I pass, but I duck forward to soften the blow, having known I had it coming. Not that she could see it, but this only made me chuckle and smile even wider.
I stood at the base of the massive oak with eyes turned skyward, scanning its foliage for any sign of my feline objective.
“Well?” Sam questions impatiently from behind, still peeved. “Are you going or what?”
“Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses.” I search for movement in the leaves above a few more moments before giving up. The lowest of the tree’s limbs was just out of easy reach, so I’m forced to jump and grab it. Using the truck for support, I pull myself up onto the branch. “It’s usually only the first one that’s difficult,” I mutter to myself, more out of hope than confidence. This looked to be a pretty tall tree, and if it takes that much effort every one, I’m going to be in trouble. Knowing my luck, the stupid cat’s going to be at the very top...
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I reply curtly before mounting the next branch. My wishful thinking turned out to be right for once; the ascent was long but relatively easy. As I neared the top, I was only just beginning to tire. I began to notice that this high up, the tree swayed ever so slightly.
“Do you see her?” Samantha calls from below. I look back down to speak back, and quickly regret it. I wasn’t scared of heights, (Not then, at least) but the glance down had been about to throw my balance. Well, at least Red listened to me I thought with little comfort. Both he and Sam looked like ants from up here, but he had seemed to have simply sat down where he was and decided to watch the show.
“No, not ye- Wait!” I spoke to the bark that lay inches from my face, not daring another look back down. I stopped midsentence as I saw a dark shape move a few branches up. Motivated by what may have been a meager glimpse of my mark, I pressed upward, putting aside the knowledge that the branches up here were bending in a desperate attempt to support my weight.
“Snowball?” I ask meekly into the direction I thought I saw the flash of dark motion. My undertaking is rewarded with a soft mew as a black tabby-cat comes edging out into view.
Naming a black cat ‘Snowball’. Classic Samantha. “There you are. Come to Uncle Roger, you little fleabag,” I croon sweetly, standing up on a branch and reaching up towards it.
“I heard that!” Sam exclaims distantly from the ground distantly.
“Come here, I’ll get you back to... Snowball?” The tabby tensed up, its claws extending out. “Snowball?!?” Its back arches up, the hair there standing on end. The little devil lets out a vile hiss. “No, don- AAIIIIIEEEEE!” The cat launches itself forward, claws sinking through my tee-shirt and into my chest, lighting up little pinprick flares of pain there. I rock backwards on my perch, not prepared for the attack. My arms windmill desperately in a vain attempt to keep my balance. Just before I fully topple, that demon in cat’s clothing retracts its claws and hops back onto a branch, seeing its job was done.
I fell backwards in an uncontrolled tumble. It felt like I managed to hit every branch on the way down, but it was in actuality likely no more than four-fifths of them. When I finally hit the ground flat on my back, I knew what it must feel like to be that penny you leave in your pocket that ends up bouncing around the drier. I let out a hoarse groan of pain. Nothing felt broken, as luck would have it, but everything felt busted.
I watched as Snowball came hopping down branch-to-branch from the tree, right into Samantha’s arms and of its own free will. This put the last nail in the coffin; my pride was now as thoroughly shredded as the clothes I was wearing.
“Are you ok?” Sam asked with a tinge of sympathy, walking over with my tormentor cradled in her arms. She may have sounded sort of apologetic, but her eyes were dancing merrily. They said I deserved it for teasing her. Not particularly in the mood to form coherent words at the moment, I simply groaned once more.
“Well, thanks for the ‘help’,” she looked like she was going to continue when her cell began to ring. She quickly fished it out of her pocket and flipped it open with one hand, the other occupied with supporting her precious pet.
“Hey Mom.... What...?” Her face fell, dark clouds forming in her eyes. “Oh god... I’ll be home right away.” She snapped it shut and jammed it back into her jeans. She began to turn away, her wounded Knight in Not-So-Shining Armor momentarily forgotten. She then paused, remembering my pained existence at her feet.
“Listen, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go. Thanks,” she offered distractedly before turning and hurrying off to who knows where. I simply laid where I fell, unmoving and waiting at my body to stop screaming at me that it’s been abused. Eventually, Red ambled over, deciding that his master needed his special brand of assistance. Planting his tongue on one side of my face, he swept it to the other, coating me with a thick layer of slobber. I sputtered and shoved him away, finally choosing to sit up with a growl as I wiped my face dry.
“This is all your fault,” I blamed sorely. Red, clearly misinterpreting my accusation, replied by licking me once more. I push him away again, but can’t help but crack a smile.
“I’ll agree with you on one thing, though... Cats are evil.” Red lets out a ruff in apparent agreement, although that’d probably be giving him too much credit. I let out a tired sigh, somehow achieving a feeling of melancholy over the whole ordeal.
“Come on, Red,” I said, getting to my feet and beginning to limp out of the clearing, “We need to get home, because it’ll probably take the rest of the afternoon to explain this one to Mom....”
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Post by Veta on Sept 7, 2010 17:51:52 GMT -6
Another Day in the Life by Josh Grimes
Come on you stupid door, op- There! I hate how the back door sticks. It's swollen with rainwater or something- heck, I'm not sure. All I know is that it's a good deal harder to open than it should be. And what's this garbage bag filled with, bricks? Then again, my Dad was the one cooking last night, and that steak was as hard as a rock... Why'd they make *me* take out the kitchen trash anyways? Why not Chelsea? All she does is sit around and text all day, every day to god knows who. I've got a sneaking suspicion that she doesn't even know; with all that texting, how haven't her friends gotten sick of her yet? I mean, I can barely hold up a two minute conversation with my sister, much less one that never ends... Oh, hey Red! You smell something tasty in this here bag, boy? Huh? Doya? Well that's just bad luck. All that's in there is about two hundred pounds of bricks... Hey, don't look at me like that. You had your chance at table scraps last night, and you turned you nose up to that pretty fast. Now outta the way so I can get to the trash cans, which are in the backyard for some unfathomably inconvenient reason. But who am I to question my parents' organizing?... There, done... Oh, no wait, it's Thursday. Crud. Trash runs tomorrow morning. Better haul these cans to the street or else Dad'll-
“NO RED! GET BACK HERE!”
Why do I even bother with that anymore? It never works... He always just goes darting out the gate and into the wild blue yonder, expecting me to come track him down and drag his sorry butt home... Maaan... Forget the trash, I've gotta go before he gets too much of a lead. I already took my bath and everything tonight, dang it! Now I'm just going to get all sweaty again running after that stupid dog... Oh good, he's stopped at- Oh no... Not.
“Come on, Samantha, not now. I don't want to play any of your little games tonight.”
Or feel like being left on the ground bleeding again. I still hate that cat...
“Yes, games, don't play coy... Games, Adventures, Ways-To-Torture-Roger, whatever it is you want to call them. Just move so I can get my dog and go home....”
*Sigh* “Yes, I know it's your backyard... Yes, I know you get to say who can go in your backyard... Why the heck would you call the police?!? Just let me in!... Thank yo- Wait, what?... No I'm not saying that to get in!”
And to think I could just walk away- right now, just walk- and then pretend not to know where Red ran off to. No one'd be the wiser. Buuuut... I'd rather not leave him in her company. She'd probably dye his hair pink or something. He deserves a bit of punishment, sure, but still... I'd rather not be known as the kid with the pink dog. And it *is* only her around... God! Why do you put up with her, Roger? You could just put your foot down and let her know you're not putting up with her nonsense anymore. So why, Roger, why? Do you like her or somethi-. . . . .
Repressing that; she's just a friend... ANYWAYS. I was just thinking about... Something else. Yea. That.
“ 'Well', what?.... No I'm not going to say it! Just let me get Red and leave. Please?... Arg! You're impossible. And I'm not saying it.”
Holding my dog hostage and demanding I demean myself for her amusement. Who does she think she is? I could just shove past her... But she'd probably tackle me. And that *never* works out well... Dang it. She's got me. I'll just have to suck up what little pride I've got left and say it...
“...Fine... I'm a pretty pretty princess... There? Happy?... Oh come on, you heard me. I know you did!.... Arg... I'm a pretty pretty princess. There. Now let me get my dog... You have a what?!? No way. You don't.... ...You do... For the love of all that is good in this world, why oh why do you have a tape recorder in your pocket?!? You know what? Nevermind. I'm just going to get Red, go home, get in bed, and forget this ever happened.”
Wonderful. I can only imagine what she's going to try and get me to do with that... Come here, Red, you mangy mongrel. And you're barking your head off at Snowball again... Great. Simply peechy. If you weren't so dumb, I'd blame you. But I wouldn't be surprised if that cat baited you into this.... Like they planned it... Great. Now I'm losing it. Forming conspiracies about evil mastermind cats and their devious accomplice owners... Let's just go home, boy. It's been too long a day...
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Post by Veta on Sept 7, 2010 17:54:02 GMT -6
The Mall, by Josh Grimes
“Hey, Roy?” Anya asks. Getting no answer, she pushes her brother's door open and tiptoes inside. Her brother lay face deep in a pillow, still snoring heavily. With a sigh, she moves across the room and begins shaking his shoulder. He awakens with a start, the snore turning into a surprised snort.
“Huh? What?” he mumbles, sitting up groggily.
“Come on, Roy, it's nearly one in the afternoon, and I want to go to the mall.” Roy yawns in response, scratching at the several days of stubble that had accumulated on his neck and chin.
“What day is it? Can't-” Roy breaks off, interrupted by another massive yawn. “Can't this wait till tomorrow or something?” He closes his eyes and begins to lay back down again, not waiting for an answer.
“No! I'm meeting a friend! Pleeeese? Mom and Dad are both at work.”
Roy snores.
Anya exhales irritatedly, resisting the urge to simply drag her lazy brother out of bed. Instead, she gets an even better idea. “Roy, I'm going to go get a cup of water. So don't say I didn't warn you if you don't get up.”
Still nothing.
“Okaaay... You asked for it.” She goes to the bathroom across the hall and fills a small paper cup with water, letting the tap run for a few seconds to get it as cold as possible. She returns to Roy's bedroom and hangs the cup poised over him, pausing to give him one last chance.
He doesn't take it.
“GAAHH!!” Roy sputters, immediately bolting upright as Anya pours the water onto his head. “Holy hell in a hand basket, Ann, what was that for?!”
Anya smiles sweetly and responds in a mocking tone: “Just giving you your one PM wake up call, sir.”
Roy grins despite himself and shakes his head. “No tip for you.... Now whatdya want that's so important?”
“Take me to the mall. Please?”
“I dunno... What have you done for me lately? Besides giving me a wake up call I really, really didn't want,” Roy teases, his trademark cheeky, lopsided grin in full swing.
“Roooyy... Pleeese? Mom and Dad aren't home...”
“I still haven't heard what I get out of this.”
“The love and gratitude of the only sister you'll ever have in the whole wide world,” she replies, giving him her most winning smile.
“Weelll... If that's all you've got, I guess it'll have to do.” He shrugs his blankets off all the way, and climbs out of bed, fully dressed.
“Yay! Thank you!” She throws herself at him and give him a hug, to which he can't help but smile. He soon pries himself loose and makes his way towards the door. “Wait, aren't you going to change clothes? You slept in those.” She isn't surprised by either the fact that he fell asleep with his clothes on (shoes and all), or that he'd go on wearing them the next day. But she still figures she should at least try and get him to change.
“What? Can't hear you! If I get the car started, and you're not in it, I'm leaving without you!” He calls back playfully from the hall, no doubt having heard her. She merely rolls her eyes and follows. Roy's car was an old 1996 Ultima, but it was in decent shape. Roy pops the lock and climbs in the driver's seat, while Anya takes shotgun.
“So why so desperate to go to the mall, Annie? All the Hannah Montana stuff go on sale or something?” Roy teases as he buckles himself in. Anya was sixteen, and had a strong distaste for the singer.
“Nooo. I'm meeting a friend up there.” “Who? Liz? Cynthia?” Roy asks out of disinterested curiosity. He pulls the car away from the curb and starts driving out of the neighborhood.
“Ummm.... No.”
“Well...?”
“Uh... It's just this guy I met from school,” she says in a small voice while looking down at her lap, but then picks back up quickly, “Roy, he's really nic-” Before she can get any farther, Roy pulls over and hits the brakes a bit harder than necessary. He turns to look at her, his usual grin gone, now replaced by a carefully neutral expression. He's clearly a good deal more interested now.
“What's his name?” he says simply. He doesn't sound angry, or even cautious. But definitely serious. This makes Anya nervous. Roy is never serious. Not that she didn't know this was coming. He gets this way when people are even slightly rude to her, so prospect of a guy would certainly trigger his sheltering nature.
“It's Mark. But Roy, listen, he's really nice, you don't have to worry...” She looks to him, nervous for a response, but he's mulling it over, thinking. “Roy?” she prods again when the wait seems to drag on. He focuses back on her, his smirk coming back faintly. “Oh, I just remembered! Alan and I were going to the mall today too. What a coincidence,” he says. “I better call him to make sure he remembers.”
“So you're not going to tell Mom or Dad?” she asks, hopeful. As protective as Roy is of her, their parents are ten times worse. They would have instantly stomped out any small hope of a date Anya could have had.
“Nah... So long as I keep an eye on you two, I don't see why they need to know,” he says, grinning again. But suddenly it drops, and he tries his best to look as serious as he can. He even manages to hold it just long enough to speak. “But if he does anything I don't like, I might have to toss him off the mall's roof.”
“Thanks, Roy!” Anya exclaims, positively beaming. Roy just smiles and nods, flipping open his phone.
“Hey, Alan?... Yea, it's Roy. Meet me up at the mall...”
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Post by Veta on Sept 7, 2010 17:56:18 GMT -6
Here There Be Monsters
Phil drove into the gas station, coming off a dead empty street. Gravel crunched under his tires as he pulled up to the number two pump of Ace’s Gas and Grocery. The lone sodium light flickered overhead with flies swarming around it. It cast a harsh white glare over the small station’s only two pumps. Ace’s was a small, private business that had been around before Phil had left for New York. It hadn’t been all that profitable then, and it seemed not all that much had changed. How it’d managed to stay afloat at all, he didn’t know.
The “grocery” part of Ace’s was little more than a glorified convenience store attached to the station. There were no lights inside, and the sign on the front had been flipped to CLOSED; with such slim profit margins as is, there was no way to reasonably keep it open 24/7. Phil wasn’t all that surprised. Well it is just past one in the morning. That place is probably locked up tighter than a nun’s chastity belt.
Phil got out of the car, putting his hands on his lower back and pushing, stretching away the stiffness that had formed there. It’d been a long drive: a little over two days worth of travel and sleeping in his car on the side of the road. The roads had been particularly vacant the past few hours: the last person he saw was in an old green van going the opposite direction. That had been around eleven. He figured he’d see others soon enough; he was just over the town line. (And thank god for that; he was certainly ready for a night’s rest on a real bed.) Charterson itself wasn’t even really a wide place on the road: There was no road. It was just a small township in the middle of nowhere. In the boondocks, sure as day.
He moved to the pump and swiped his card, thinking of how excited his mother would get when he showed up out of the blue - and with his degree a few weeks early no less. His dad likely wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about the diploma. He had fiercely believed that Phil should take over the Bushley family automotive business instead of going to college. And he had voiced this opinion. Loudly. The entire time Phil was reminiscing and imagining what his parents were and would be, the thought (understandably) never crossed his mind that they might never see the diploma- or their son- again.
Just as he’d gotten the nozzle hooked up and pumping gas, he looked around to see a pair of headlights cut through the night farther up the road. A car soon followed the path they blazed, coming out from around a bend and driving towards him. Phil watched as the driver pulls into the station suddenly, turning in without any warning whatsoever. Phil felt sick certainty that if he’d gotten here any faster and finished, then that very car would have wrecked into him.
The newcomer stopped a couple yards away from the other pump and began to pull up to it in jerks. It was a classic 1969 Thunderbird, jet black, and with windows heavily tinted. The iconic Thunderbird logo was decaled in gold across the car’s hood. As the car came into the light, Phil quickly recognized it, even after four years. Hell, it was nearly as famous as it’s owner back at Rosewood High. Around town, he was just ‘Big Pete’s kid’ -just known because his dad was mayor. But at Rosewood, he was somebody who wasn’t simply his father’s son. Johnny Denton: Rosewood’s star quarterback and class of ‘88 prom king. Word had been that he’d get a full ride to some college with the way he played, but it never happened as far as Phil knew.
When the ’Bird finally got lined up with the station’s only other pump, it wasn’t the blonde-buzz cut blue-eyed jock that Phil was expecting that stepped out, but rather someone else entirely. A woman. One with a mop of shoulder-length red hair.
“…Suzy?” Phil breathed in a hushed whisper, not even aware he’d spoken. Suzanne Denton (formally Suzanne Roux) didn’t hear him, naturally. A dog would have had a hard time picking that up.
It hadn’t taken him long to realize who it was- even less than it had the car. He had had the hugest crush on her through high school, and they had talked a little in passing, but he was never able to work up the courage to ask her out. He also wasn’t really surprised she was driving JD’s car now; she and him had been high school sweethearts up through sophomore year, and seemed like one of those few relationships that would actually work. Everyone had figured they’d probably get married after graduation. (Phil didn’t see the small golden band on her finger that would have confirmed this, much less have known that that same ring would soon lie at the bottom of a ditch only a few miles down the road very shortly.)
She was now pawing hurriedly through her purse, casting darting glances back the way she’d come. She somehow hasn’t noticed Phil yet, but he doesn’t see this. He’s more concerned with how she looks. In high school, she’d always kept her appearance neat and pleasant, but now she’s a mess. Her hair’s in disarray, and Phil can see a bra strap where her top had slipped down off her shoulder.
Finally, she pulled a bill out of her bag and practically shoved it into the machine. It didn’t take, so she wound up having to do it again, slower this time, but still full of that nervous energy.
Phil hung back, debating whether to call out to her or not. What if she didn’t remember who he was? And besides, whatever problems she’s got right now aren’t really any of Phil’s business…. Right?
Despite all his conviction to stay out of it, his mouth betrayed him when she dropped the nozzle as she tried to wrangle it into her gas tank. Just as he spoke, his pump clicked loudly, indicating his take was full. It also signified the point of no return for Phil Bushley, but he couldn’t have realized that.
“Hey Suz-” She jumped out of her skin as he spoke, letting out a small shriek and sending the nozzle she had so quickly dived for back to the ground. Her eyes flew up to meet his, looking for a moment like she’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. And for that moment, Phil could hear the small voice that had been in the back of his mind since she pulled up.
Something’s not right.
But it vanished as soon as Suzanne’s apprehension did: that is, in a split second. She breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed slightly, straitening up, and not-quite-smiling.
“Jesus… Phillip? Phil Bushley? I-Is that you?” She was clearly trying to keep that same energy that’s flooding her actions out of her voice, but wasn’t quite making it. She hastily grabbed the hose up from the ground again and hooks it up, practically slamming it home.
“Yea, so it is. Long time no see, huh?” He took a step forward on the gravel, dusting his hands together out of habit.
“No kidding. Uh… Like a few years, right?” She walked around JD’s T-Bird so they could talk without anything in between them, still throwing those darting, anxious glances back down the road.
“Yea, four,” he replied, pausing a second before continuing, “So why so nervous? Someone after you?” He favored her with a small smile to show that he was joking. She stopped in her tracks for a second, locking her gaze as though studding him. Then she broke into a smile into return, shaking her head.
“No, no. Nothing like that. But..” She took a few steps closer, looking over her shoulder with apprehension- at the car this time.
“But…?” She stepped closer still, to where she’s only arm’s length from him. He had felt an urge to retreat a big step back, but quashed it. That was silly; he was at least a foot taller than her. It was just that it was so late at night. He always got paranoid at night.
“I think there’s something in my trunk,” she whispered, leaning in so he could hear, still looking back towards the Thunderbird occasionally. “I could hear it moving around…”
The mind of a man is a funny thing, especially when it comes to a woman in need. Any niggling misgivings about the situation were banished from Phil’s thoughts. All that mattered was the whatever it was in Suzanne’s trunk. If he’d only stopped to think why she was so nervous, or ask where Johnny was, things might have ended differently. But alas, he didn’t and they won’t.
“I’m sure it’s just a raccoon or cat or something,” he said, grinning a little. “Come on, I’ll go take care of it. Just pop the trunk for me.“ He started to lead her over to the back of the T-Bird, not seeing the small malicious smile that spread across her face. He was doing exactly what she wanted him to.
He stood aside, letting her jimmy the key into the trunk’s lock and pop it open. Her smile was gone, barely restrained, but gone none the less.
“There you go,” she said quietly, her voice taking a hint of excitement that Phil mistook for more of her strange nervousness. He nodded, and then moved to take her place, putting both hands on the trunk in preparation to yank it open, hopefully surprising whatever was inside. Alright, on the count of three… One…
Behind him, Suzanne silently slipped a hand into her purse.
Two…
She drew out a gleaming kitchen knife, taking it in both hands.
THREE!
Phil threw the trunk open, and then froze in place, for a moment unable to believe what he sees. A pair of blue eyes stare unseeing up at Phil, and he stared right back, stunned.
Johnny Denton lay dead in the back of his own car, his short bleach-blonde hair caked with blood.
Phil heard the crunch of gravel from behind him, and tried to whirl around.
Too late by half.
He barely felt it as the knife entered the side of his neck and slipped between the vertebrate, lodging in his spinal cord.
Phillip Bushley died before he knew what happened.
==============
Suzanne let go of the knife as Phil’s body went lip, falling first to his knees and then towards the car, his head slamming into the Thunderbird’s rear bumper. He died easier than she thought he would. JD had taken forever…
The adrenaline rush was even better this time though, but maybe that was just because it wasn’t so drowned in guilt and horror. She felt badly about killing Phil, sure. But she had to. He knew. He would have gone straight to the police. And she couldn’t let that happen. The fact that she enjoyed it was simply a bonus. She soon found herself whistling a little tune as she muscled Phil’s corpse into the trunk with Johnny’s.
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Post by Veta on Sept 7, 2010 18:00:47 GMT -6
Under The Rug
[The following is the final entry in our “Mr. Hollick”’s bedside diary, which was found lying open at the scene to the same entry. Further investigation of past entries yields nothing remotely abnormal; this seems to be a lone oddity. It has been included in this report simply because of the sheer abnormality of it.]
Two weeks passed and it’s happened again. Only two weeks. Two short weeks to forget. Barely enough time to actually start believing it had only been a freak nightmare, or even a stress hallucination. The broken lamp had been the only proof otherwise, and I had disposed of the shards of pottery that very night. The next morning, I made a trip to the store, bought a replacement that was nearly identical. I wish that thing would stop making so much noise. I can feel a headache coming on already, and it’s making it really hard for me to believe it’s not really there. Or at least keep my attention on this and keep calm. After replacing the lamp I had set the endtable back upright, and I had returned the chair to it’s corner. I didn’t even believe it mussed the carpeting overmuch when I threw it. (Of course I think I had been avoiding that spot with my eyes the past few weeks, in hindsight. Didn’t want my little suspension of reality to come crashing down and all.) Why doesn’t it just leave? I’m safe up here on the bed, and it’s down there on the ground, trapped. Just leave! Anyways, I basically had returned everything to normal, close enough to actually convince myself that what had happened very simply hadn’t been real. But it was- is! It’s very real, there‘s no use trying to deny it anymore. I can hear the proof. Gurggily-snarling is coming up from the floor at the foot of my bed. If “gurggily” can even be considered a word. I doubt it, and I don’t exactly have the luxury of nipping over to my shelf to grab a dictionary anymore. I’m scared, of course, but I think I’ve got it in check for right now. But thing wants to eat me, and it’s getting angry. I can feel it. If I didn’t have this journal, I’d probably lose whatever slippery grip I have on my fear and let it run away with me. Again. It caught me in the hall this time. I should’ve ran for the kitchen- it’s tiled, and there’s a phone. (Not to mention a window if all else fails) But I ran in here and jumped up onto my bed, dropping my briefcase and with it my cell, which had been nestled in one of the velvety pockets within. I’ve got a pager, but some good that’ll do me. Maybe I could throw it at the thing and make it angrier, so it’ll kill me fast instead of eating me slow. What a pleasant thought. So here I am, curled up in the middle of my bed, scribbling what could be my last words into a journal, safe from but trapped by the snarling, gurgling thing that patrols around the edges. Maybe it’ll just disappear again, just like the last time. I remember. I don’t want to, but I do. I’d repressed it, but now it’s back. It knocked the table over as I backpedaled, lifting one of the legs as it passes by underneath the carpeting, tipping the end table and shattering the vase. Or lamp. I forget, that thing’s making it hard to think with all the growling, and it’s a migraine this time, I can tell, not just a headache. My hands were searching blindly behind me for some kind of weapon, my eyes occupied with the bulge that had been steadily occupied advancing on me. Moments before that I had merely been sitting on the couch, trying to fight through the beginnings of yet another one of my frequent headaches and read the paper. Then the growling, and I saw it come around the other end of the sofa. I was put into a state of surprised shock, at once realizing that thing wasn’t something I wanted to be near but having a hard time getting my limbs moving. I was able to leap to my feet immediately, but then only capable of a backwards shuffle. Then it hit the table and knocked over the lamp. No, wait, I’m repeating myself now. But I don’t dare go reread to see where I left of. I can feel my grip on this panic slipping, and I need to keep focused. I’ll just guess about where- must keep writing. I had thrown the cahir at it, missed, and kept backing up, right into the corner I’d pulled the chair from. It rushed forward, and I had thrown my arms up to cover my face in a feeble final defense. I have a feeling it would work about as well as tissue paper against ballistics. But the attack that should’ve come never did. It had just been gone, and Jesus Mary and Joseph that’s loud! Why won’t it shut up?? I think this is the worst migraine I’ve ever had and it’s roaring! It’s It’s stopped. The snarling, the gurgling, the growling. It’s stopped. There’s only grunting now. Maybe it got stuck somehow? Should I check to see? What if it’s a trap?- What if it’s not? It’ll be my only chance. I need to check-have to. Gonna go check.
[The handwriting becomes frenzied, the words becoming squished together on the page]
Oh my god it’s tearing through! I saw it black and read and teeth and it’s gonna kill me this can’t be real I’m dreamingnotrealImdreamingitsnotrea
[The entry cuts off here, the last ‘a’s tail becoming drawn out, as though he’d pulled away from the book or the book had been pulled away from him. However, as mentioned in the report, there are no signs of struggle, making this seem unlikely. Autopsy reveals cause of death to be a malignant tumor, and more acutely a brain hemorrhage. The boys are stumped as to how he managed to survive so long with it going unnoticed. Mentioned near the end is something about it tearing through the carpet. While indeed a hole was found at the scene, it was no bigger than a quarter, and if the vic‘s description is to be trusted, then we have to realize that nothing that size could have knocked over the end table found in the living room. Techs checked the carpet around that area and did find ceramic traces in the carpet, indicating that the table was very likely knocked over. Two physiological experts were called in. The first read the journal and went to the scene to examine it. He claimed to feel violently ill after only a few minutes, and declined to give his opinion on the mater later. The second one had no problems, and determined that Mr. Hollick was experiencing a vivid delusion. They assured me the hole in the carpet was there previously, and Mr. Hollick was simply using it as a springboard. I know I’m supposed to keep personal opinion out of these, but I feel I need to add that the entire case had a feeling of wrongness about it. I found myself constantly checking over my shoulder at the scene. With that said, this case is closed. Hopfully it will stay out of my thoughts. I doubt it, but… End report.]
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Post by The Merchant on Sept 7, 2010 18:36:20 GMT -6
Who mounted what?!
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Post by Basil Da Hobo on Sept 8, 2010 7:11:41 GMT -6
WHO MOUNTED WHO??
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Post by Deleted on Dec 12, 2010 19:46:07 GMT -6
Hey, pretty good here, Veta...did you post any of this years back? I thought I saw some of this in 2007, the first couple chapters anyway. I didn't quite catch what the title "Mountment of Roger" meant here, though. I liked the last entry best; it seemed to be the most tense and compelling. Good job so far.
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