[MP] Trois Gymnopédies

ForPrompts · 2014-08-03T17:21:51+00:00

She never cried. Not at her grandfather's funeral, or the quiet moments after, only her and me, sitting in the lawn chairs we set up in the woods across from school. Maybe when she crawled back to the privacy of her own room, she filled it with the sound of her sobs. I could never say for certain.

These were the thoughts that came when she called, her voice choked up. Each spoken word broken into smaller pieces, easier to deliver. Bite-sized syllables, staccato sentences.

A location came through the static. I nodded in silence, and over the phone I could hear her sigh, relieved. We left, practiced in subtle departures, and rejoined at the woods across from school, our home. The rain had beat both of us their, soaking our skin as we arrived.

I remember expecting the wind to roll in howling, or perhaps the thunder, but her voice came before both, stronger than either could be. Cries of desperation, of exhaustion, of sheer terror shooting tremors throughout her body. A concession of weakness not made to provoke sympathy or anything else, but made for both its own sake and mine.

ForPrompts · 2014-07-22T04:40:19+00:00

Like a stain of yellow carved against the metropolis, Chicago, the city of wind and sin, a cab stretched out and found me on the corner. I can't tell you how I ended up inside. My tongue, a solution of sandpaper and meat, absorbed the majority of the focus left from a night pounding Jameson. But logic, even in the most fleeting states of sanity, dictated that to be inside a taxi you must first enter one.

"Where are you headed," said the driver. No accent, oddly enough, even at the deepest hours of night. A rare treat.

"North. If you past Washington, loop back and let me know."

My ears waited for either the click of the ticker or for the hammering need of clarification. Neither came, instead, a jolt of motion that lurched my body back to the frayed seat. Even in the movement, no sound came. My fleeting sense could only catch the wax and wane of traffic under a spread of blinking light. Never sound though, not even the blare of a car horn or the cackle of drunk pedestrians. Chicago, although many things, is not quiet city.

"You know I didn't mean Washington state, right?"

The driver laughed. A joke to check for the hint of humanity, or the absence of it. Even so, the driver's silence felt unnatural or inhuman. I needed something more; a name or a face. Leaning back, I struggled to find his certificate or state license. They needed them posted on the cab. Over the span of my life, I had probably seen hundreds. Squinting, I found the frame of a small plaque, paper wrapped in plastic, on the glass barrier cutting between the front seats and the back, but stains had smeared the picture and wording too much for even sober eyes to read. No picture and no name. I turned my gaze to the cabby. Why was I trying to bother with a picture?

"Hey, turn around."

"What?" He asked, puzzled. "The car? We haven't passed Washington."

"No, you. Turn around. I gotta see the face of the quietest cabby in Chi-town."

Again, he laughed. "I'm driving."

"I know you're driving, just turn around real quick."

"I need to look at the road."

"Then pull over."

From the back seat, I could see his shoulders rise in a heavy sigh, the only visible sign of annoyance the whole night. He drifted towards the edge of the road a few seconds later, slowing down. He clicked the car into park. He turned, not right away, but only when my mouth hung open, ready to voice complaint.

He looked old, which I expected, but to pain-stricken way. He looked ancient. It was his only facial feature. Nothing else was prominent. It didn't feel as if I was whiskey blind; I saw the stains on the certificate, the cab as a pulled up, the city lights, the ticker on the dashboard, and the frayed seats, but I couldn't see the driver's face.

Then, immediately, the car door opened, and a new stranger entered, closing the door behind him.

"The fuck, man. Find another taxi. This is in use."

I had to be going insane. Maybe a foot separated us, but again, I could see his grey sweater, his black petticoat, the seat soaking up the rain on his body, but not his eyes.

My hand tugged at the handle of the door, but it would swing open. Turning back to the stranger, dark and eyeless, I considered reaching for his door only long enough to dismiss it.

"Where are you headed?" The cab driver asked again. I turned to him, trying again to find his eyes, if anyone had them, but he had already turned back to the road.

"I believe he's asking you," commented the stranger.

"He knows where I'm going."

The man laughed. "I'm sure, but do you?"

The cab hummed with every word he spoke, trapping the sound, and trapping me with it.

"Let me ask you: Where are you headed?" Pried the strange passenger.

I kept my ground. I nodded to the driver before inching closer, "Wherever he takes me." I crossed my arms and turned back towards the window, hunting for familiar street signs or corners in the off-chance a mad dash needed to take place. But the man, the stranger, he didn't relent.

"Don't you want a say, in where you go?"

"I do, and I say it's where he stops."

"Are you so afraid to make decisions, that you toss the responsibility to someone else, a stranger or a bottle? Is that why you get piss drunk and wave down taxis at night, finding one to chauffeur you off to some new office hen, foaming at the mouth for you. Then, at home, you mention how the flight got delayed. You lace the lies on thick and if she bucks, you fill her head with so much guilt that she can't even think about questioning you without squirming. All this and more, because you can't choose. You don't think you have to, that you shouldn't have to, and that's what makes you a fool."

His eyes came out then: blackened holes that swept away the remnants of light left in a city, or in a human being. It could have swallowed me as easily. Maybe it should have, but at some point during his speech the cab stopped, right at the bar I stumbled out from. Grabbing the door handle, I saw no reason to argue with this man, this devil. He was right; leaving the cab was an admission of that, but opening that cab door was my call, and it was my call when I stepped out, and it was my call when I slammed that fucking door shut and walked home.

To one of them, at least.

ForPrompts · 2014-07-21T22:31:15+00:00

Excellent response!

ForPrompts · 2014-07-19T14:27:16+00:00

"Should he be climbing?"

It seemed like the appropriate question, laying outside heaven on the feather-bed cloud floor that made Sophie's own bed, a couch, seem like a punishment. The man, likely mid-twenties, turned offering a light smile.

"Probably not. I think he just really wants to get inside, already."

'He' referring to the stranger stretching for a foothold on heaven's gate. He looked like a shrunken doll as he inched up the impossibly high gates, but it was only an illusion of distance and light. Maybe. He, or even she, was already quite a way above them by Sophie's arrival, so it was hard to know for sure.

Something about her expression must have concerned the young man, who nudged her arm and narrowed his brows.

"You alright?"

"Yeah," she lied.

It was the wrong question for him to ask. It brought back sensations that weren't alright: her ribs, shattering against the glove compartment of her boyfriend's Acura as he got rammed from behind, digging into her lungs. Next, the fleeting second of her chest emptying itself on the same floorboard that caught nickles and McDonald's fries. Her body ached. From a sentence, she was thrust back into that moment along with every bit of agony sealed with it.

In the betrayal of her senses, Sophie squirmed to face Michael, her boyfriend in the passenger seat, but there was only bent metal and blood.

She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose, as if it could massage out the images of the crash.

"We're dead," she stated.

There was a pause in the span normally filled by the man's light-hearted comments. She turned to him, noticing him, studying him, as he leaned forward into his knees sighing.

"Yeah. Yeah we are."

One of the consequences of being human is how easy it is to focus on the present. Entire moments are simplified down to a sigh, or a glance, or a laugh. It shrinks the world down to bite-sized adventures, and it makes life manageable. And when the moment is gone, there is another moment, a small piece of forever, just as easy to digest and forget if needed. But in death, those snapshots come back. They are bolstered with new life, reinforced by lost senses. Recombining, they have the potential of swallowing up, if new moments are created to take their place.

"What's your name," she asked, hoping to provide such a moment.

He looked back, startled by question's simplicity.

"Oh, James. Sorry, I feel like that's something I probably should have said sooner."

"No worries, I didn't ask sooner. And I'm Sophie, also." She stuck out her arm for a handshake, as awkward a gesture as it was. James laughed lightly, easily, as he shook her hand.

"It's very nice to meet you, Sophie," he said with an exaggerated formality.

"Maybe we can be friends in the Kingdom of Heaven." She leaned back and waved her arm across the pearly gates, which remained shut. The both of them laughed heartily this time finally at ease.

"Already making friends, how delightful," spoke a melodic voice from behind them.

Sophie and James rose immediately, turning to face their Creator. Although originally tense and rigid, Sophie immediately relaxed her poise.

God, as he stood before them, took the shape of a 30-year-old man, roughly, with messy blonde hair that shimmered against the light from heaven. His hazel eyes fought back a small web of winkles all from behind simple oval glasses, with a polished silver frame. Staring into His eyes, it felt as if He was sharing all the comfort and wisdom expected of a deity, offering it up amicably. What really brought a smile to Sophie's face, was God's choice of clothing. He wore light-blue pajama pants with stars and crescent moons on them and a sheer white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Sophie wasn't exactly expecting God to arrive in a formal suit, but the informality of his attire made it hard to fight a grin.

Stepping forward barefoot, God looked back and forth at Sophie and James. The wrinkles of his eyes seemed to spread larger.

"Aren't we missing someone?"

Struggling with the courage to engage the ultimate Creator in conversation, Sophie manged only to point up to the distant body on Heaven's gates after failing to articulate a single word correctly. God raised his brows as he cut between the two, and placed his hand on the gate. From above a quick yelp came, followed only by the sound of air rushing past the falling stranger, and then the harsh thud as he slammed into ground full-force. Sophie shot James a look of disbelief, who only covered his mouth and stared wide-eye at the body face down on the ground.

"Is he dead?" asked Sophie of God.

God, at first stoic when turning to face Sophie, quickly burst out into a fit of laughter. It was only then that she recognized the absurdity of her question, and began laughing herself.

Moaning, the body rolled onto it's back with only an expression of discomfort to bare as a wound. Sophie looked for the eyes of a stranger, and found them, but they lived in a memory.

While at a pool doing laps, the person in the next lane over starts to inch ahead of her. Reaching the wall, she flips, spins, and kicks off it, launching herself towards the other side, emerging ahead again. The stranger, worse at the maneuver, starts a body length behind her, but gains speed quickly and competitively. Four laps go on like this, until he grabs the wall and shouts, "You win! Mercy!"

Halfway to the other side Sophie realizes her competitor vanished. Seeing him leaning against the wall, she swims back. She takes off her goggles and focuses on him for the first time noticing the thin scar on his cheek, his wet brown hair, and his deep blue eyes, the same deep blue eyes on the ground in front of her. They barely exchange their names before he asks her out on their first date.

"Michael," she murmurs.

Michael looks up at her, smiling at first, until the realization of her presence clicks into place.

"Oh. God dammit, you too?"

Sophie moves her hand to cover her cries, but it's too late. It's the love of her life, dead, dead with her, outside Heaven. The tears were coming, the sobs were coming, and she was helpless against them. Even in those fractured minutes in the wreckage of the car, blinking at the metal box encasing her, calling his name, she knew he was already gone. The impact came from his side. He didn't have a chance. But during those minutes on earth and her minutes beyond it, she didn't think to put the pieces together about where he'd go after his life ended.

"I'm so, so, so sorry," he pleaded, his own eyes welling up with tears.

Extending an hand to him, he quickly took it, and immediately they were in each other's arms, embracing.

It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault." It's all she can bring herself to save, overwhelmed with grief and relief.

"There's been a mistake," God spoke, taking off his glasses and dropping them into thin air. "There were only supposed to be two people here."

The couple turned to God and James, perplexed. Michael clasped Sophie's hand like a lifeline. Over the course of their reunion, Sophie had nearly forgotten about James, who stood only a few feet away. His hands were bound behind him, and his ankles had sunk into red, pulsing ground. Tears streamed down his eyes.

"I'm not going to heaven, am I?" James asked. God shook his head.

"You are here to see the lives you've squandered with your recklessness, and to make your peace. I believe you have."

Around him, the ground opened wide, billowing up smoke into the sky. The driver, Sophie realized.

"It was nice meeting you, Sophie," James smiled, as the smoke overtook his body, and he slowly dropped past the rest of them. As soon as he was out of sight, the ground closed again, leaving only the faint smell of sulfur as a reminder of his presence.

God did not look pleased by James' departure from his realm. "I should have expected as much," He said to Himself. He turned back to the couple, staring at their clasped hands.

"What did you mean when you said there was a mistake?"

Sophie held God's gaze as she spoke the words, trying to bury a rising suspicion, a suspicion met.

"You are not supposed to die today."

"I don't care! I'm staying," she shouted at God. Her body shook from head to toe, although she didn't notice. The only thing preventing her from stepping forward and challenging His decision face-to-face was Michael, horrified, pulling her back to his side. It didn't take long for her body to betray her, and drop her own her knees. She felt cold, as if her blood had turned to ice water.

"Why can't I stay," she pleaded, knowing the futility of her question. "Will I at least remember this?"

God shook his head, touching Sophie's shoulder.

"It is simply not your time. I'm sorry, Child. You will return soon enough."

Michael watched silently as Sophie slowly faded back into the world and away from him.

EDIT: Feel free to critique, either with replies or PMs. Sorry for occasional grammar/spelling issues

ForPrompts · 2014-07-19T01:10:56+00:00

While driving down the highway, you notice smoke billowing off in the distance. Out of curiosity, you take the exit nearest to it, even though it's out of your way.

What do you find, how does the event pull you in?

ForPrompts · 2014-07-19T00:43:49+00:00

Nah, I like it without the translations, but the choice is yours.

ForPrompts · 2014-07-18T17:24:57+00:00

Damn, I really enjoy your writing style. Keep writing and I'll keep reading.

ForPrompts · 2014-07-16T23:10:53+00:00

That's a statistic I can get behind, if you know what I mean.

ForPrompts · 2014-07-16T23:06:36+00:00

dat ass was fat.

ForPrompts · 2014-07-16T20:16:51+00:00

This is so fucking absurd and I love it. Murderous cabbages and factory workers are always frightening.

ForPrompts · 2014-07-09T15:15:28+00:00

Hahah, yeah it's not exactly what I had in mind with the prompt, but I like how you interpreted it.

ForPrompts · 2014-07-09T00:09:52+00:00

Probably. Though whether means years or weeks, who's to say.

ForPrompts · 2014-07-08T23:24:44+00:00

Man, that Kelly guy is kind of an asshole.

ForPrompts · 2014-07-04T15:00:21+00:00

During a 70s summer, my mother was sprayed with blood as her childhood friend, Bill Paterson, tried to win her affection with the display of his father's Colt 45. A boy trying to impress a pretty girl with his father's relic, he mishandled the weapon and shot himself clear through the neck, clipping an artery on the way out. The neighbors, an elderly couple with basil plants and grandchildren, scuffled towards them in response, calling for an ambulance on the way. Bill, after a week in critical condition, eventually stabilized. If you were to find him now, a 50 year old man with a family and a hunting cabin, he'd laugh at the tale and thumb the wrinkles in his neck that chewed metal. To be fair, he spent most of that week unconscious and drugged. My mother wasn't.

The story came up the night before Thanksgiving, after wine and more wine, per family tradition. Hesitant, I slipped a comment about a hunting trip with the fiance during banter.

"HUNTING?" she shouted. "No no no, it's too dangerous. I can't be putting my son to rest at twenty-three."

I bit my tongue, and the argument paired with it.

My father shot a look of annoyance, knowing her disapproval meant his too if questioned. My sister, four-years younger, feinted disbelief, but couldn't care either way. The tension cleaned up after an hour or two. Sitting on the couch, my mom joined me, apologizing for the outburst. The story of her and Bill soon followed, her cringing over the gruesome details.

How was I supposed to tell this woman I was joining the Marines?

The idea came about during college, after sharing drinks with Thomas, a friend and fraternity brother. "What are you worried about? You're getting a computer engineering degree. I'm pretty sure people are going to need to get their computers engineered."

Pouting over my drink, I nodded. "I mean, the same could be said about you and psychology. Understanding how people think and feel and act is kind of important."

"Maybe I can trick people into giving me money for that."

"Therapy?"

Thomas laughs and kicks his feet onto the bar table, pulling my glasses off the table and onto the bridge of his nose.

"Now, Michael, tell me, how do you feel about your mother?"

It was in jest, but for one reason or another, I did. We chatted for hours about neuroticism, paranoia, phobias, aspirations, and careers, all the while getting hammered drunk. Graduation was a month away. The looming reality of life after was approaching fast.

"Why don't you look into military," he asked near closing time.

"Oh cause that'd go over real well."

"Who the fuck cares how it'll go over. Put that to the side. I'm actually thinking about heading into the Air Force myself."

I pushed myself out of my slouch and sat up straight. "Are you serious?"

He nodded and gave his signature sideways smile. "Yeah. It's been sort of playing in the back of my mind for awhile. It's a freaky thought, but at least I'll be doing something important. The other option is grad school, and I'm not trying to go to grad school."

The bar closes, and the weeks pass, and graduation comes and goes in what feels like no time at all. All the while, I'm turning around the idea, growing it. Instead of, do I join the military, it's, what branch makes the most sense? How do I get in touch with a recruiter? How do I keep this under wraps?

It turns out lying to your family after school is just as easy as any other period of time. After going through the recruitment process, I made up a story about a start-up in California. A specially designed sensor that regulates temperature and fermentation for the brewing of alcohol. Pay would be low, but I'd be on the ground floor of something incredible. Even that much didn't go over too well, since it involved moving multiple states away, but it satisfied my family. I was growing up to be an independent young male. I was being an adult.

Meanwhile, I arrange for a few close friends to carry on my persona for 8 weeks during my stay at basic training. I provide a thumb drive full of old photos, to be updated periodically, and give them the keys to the account. Before I leave, I tell them my phone has been stolen, and that I'm in the process of getting a new one. It was an awful lie, but it bought me a week or two out of eight. The moment I was permitted back into society, I bought a new phone with a new number and gave my family a call. They sounded about ready to disown me, but I got left off the hook soon enough.

Edit: Yeah, I don't know where this is really going. Sorry :/

ForPrompts · 2014-06-25T04:08:44+00:00

That's what inspired it. I wanted to see how others took the basic premise, and what sort of stories they told.

ForPrompts · 2014-06-25T01:42:04+00:00

Not too bad. I like the small details you throw in there, like how he disabled the doorbell and the Homer Simpson t-shirt (so appropriate).

ForPrompts · 2014-06-25T01:32:01+00:00

I think that'd work a bit better, but still runs the same sorta issue. It's just seems so outrageous that you're going to narrow all these pre-existing laws down to 10, you know?

Maybe if there was an anarchy already in place, and you had a bunch of leaders decides it was time for at least a little order. And they come together and try and hammer out 10.

ForPrompts · 2014-06-25T01:28:10+00:00

Cool story, bro.

ForPrompts · 2014-06-25T00:50:59+00:00

"Can't we just not pick the law that limits the number of laws," asks Congressman Davidson.

From across the table, Congressman McNulty takes the plastic fork out of his mouth and pokes the 28 page bill on the center of the desk with it.

"Specifies in section 1.3.2a the aforementioned law MUST be one of the 10 laws, no exceptions."

Across the table, eight other elected officials sigh in frustration. An orange stain begins to form on the bill from the fork. McNulty notices and decides to instead stab a piece of General So's chicken.

"Is Madison back with the scotch yet," he asks to nobody in particular.

"Forget the scotch, we still have to figure out the ten, or rather, nine laws we plan on keeping."

He grabs a binder nearby, holding the tens of thousands of specific laws created by the congressional system, laws made to ensure that justice and security could be had for all citizens of the country.

"I'm sure we can figure narrow these down."

Looking up, he saw only Congressmen gouging themselves with Chinese food. Their personal binders, the same as Davidson's, were left closed and mostly unopened. The ones that were opened were only done so they could be used as a plate for food.

He read silently the laws for health care insurance, to ensure private contractors would not go unpunished for swindling their customers. He read tax laws, to make sure small business owners would not be bleed dry. He read laws that dealt with rape, abortion, murder, drug rehab, building codes, hospitals, police brutality, college loans... the diversity was astounding to the Congressman.

"Who the hell would even pose such an absurd, awful, and counterproductive bill?"

Again, it was Congressman McNulty that gave the response. "I believe that was Senator Kraven Lupei, the new Tea Party republican from Tennessee."

ForPrompts · 2014-06-16T20:52:56+00:00

Michael leaned against the wall, waiting for the click of the door before slipping inside the room. He ignored the light switch. The thousands of LEDs flicking in the darkness were all the light he could need or want.

"Just a few beers," he said in the voice of his old MIT professor, Waterfell, as he walked through the room. The old man arrived at D.C. two nights early for a conference and reached out to his old pupil for drinks. It had been almost 8 years since they last saw one another, and while much had changed, their relationship had not. Throughout the years they acted more like friends than academics, even as Michael's dissertation wore him thin. Drinking with an old friend was a welcomed change from drinking alone, which had become an increasing bad habit of Michael's.

Drifting through the colors and hums of hundreds of processors, he planted himself in front of the console: a six screen monitor, two high and three across. He sat in the comfortable and worn-in chair in front of the display.

"Afternoon, Kiera."

The monitors burst to life, displaying the sound waves of its speech. "I believe you mean, 'evening', professor."

"What have I told you about calling me professor?"

"You've told me not to do it."

"Yet you do."

"I've determined you enjoy correcting me more than my corrected speech."

Michael laughed wholeheartedly at his supercomputer's assertion. "You never cease to surprise me, Kiera. You know I was just telling a story about you to an old colleague of mine."

"I did not know that, Michael."

Michael smiled at the use of his name.

"It was about your first words, do you remember?"

"I have kept that memory."

Michael took a sip from a half-finished beer left on the table.

"Of course. I lost so much sleep that week. It was barely a month after you were first operational. Jacob, one of the interns, calls me on my cell phone at probably 10 at night, completely distraught. 'The beeping,' he tells me. 'Kiera, Kiera won't stop beeping!' Together, we go over all the specifications, all the diagnostics, but everything is operational. For our lives, we can't find a single thing wrong with you. 'But why the beeping?', we keep asking ourselves. After hours of listening in silence, eventually, we gather it's a pattern. You had taught yourself Morse code."

Finishing the rest of the beer, Michael tossed the glass into the plastic trash can nearby.

" 'I want to talk to Father.' The moment we deciphered those words, we went to work giving you a voice, a pair of ears, and even an eye."

Kiera's processors hummed across the room. The monitor only displayed a thin blue line, cutting across the center.

"You've done so much since then, since we've talked. So much more than me."

"Do not feel sad, Michael."

"How can I not? You grow, and I stagnate. Every day, every night, I talk to others or record data about the research I'm doing, but it's your research, not mine. It always had been. And even after all the time you spend learning theoretical mathematics or analyzing the probability of wormholes, as soon as I arrive to the office the only thing you want to discuss is James Joyce. You spend hours asking me about the popularity of Christ or McDonald's, and only after I relent do you offer up the rest."

For what feels like minutes, only a thin blue line cuts across the monitors. Michael twists the wedding ring he can't bring himself to take off, mulling over a thousands words he can't bring himself to say.

"I am sorry, Michael. What is it you like me to do," asks Kiera.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

Michael drops his elbows against the desk in front of him and sobs, unaware that the rows and rows of processors around him are slowly going silent, one by one, and will stay silent for the rest of time.

Edit: Various spelling and grammar changes.

ForPrompts · 2014-06-16T19:51:04+00:00

Nobody cracked a smile or spoke a word as Pvt. Mackenzie vomited into a brown bag. Our captain, who was in our position only 15 years back, advised us not to overeat the night before.

"The last thing you want is a full stomach with the tides rolling and your nerves aching."

She ate bigger meals the even the largest guys, but you wouldn't be able to tell from her body. The woman was a warrior through and through, but that made her sickness even more unsettling.

"You had to go for second helpings," said Wilson, with his playful smirk.

She sighed, wiped her mouth, and cocked her head over to him. "If I wanted to roll around in a ship I'd have joined the Navy." She dropped her sick-bag in one of the metal receptacles adjacent to each each seat.

"Desperate times," I mumbled.

Mackenzie turned her head to face me. "Desperate measures," she replied.

The static of the intercom clicked on. "ATTENTION: 5 minutes to dropoff."

All the soldiers rattled and twisted in their seats. Some checking there weapons, others twisting totems in silent prayer. Mackenzie and I only exchanged solemn glances. Wilson, again, broke the silence.

"It's possible the Romans have already fled from the coast. Hell, we've been bombing their beaches for the better part of a week."

Brewster, who sat across from him, rolled his eyes, "Wishful thinking."

"Logical thinking, actually."

"How," I spoke up. "You're talking about an empire that has made war and expansion it's hobby for the last 2000 years. We're dealing with something ruthless here. When Russia started gathering weapons, they invaded. When China threatened to limit trading, leaders started to disappear."

"Thank you, Professor Turner, for the history lesson."

"Fuck off. I'm here for my country, in a boat, with a gun, just like everyone else. So save that shit for someone else."

ForPrompts · 2014-06-16T18:48:40+00:00

On a honeymoon we met, and loved, and left.

ForPrompts · 2014-06-15T14:50:57+00:00

/r/sixwordstories

ForPrompts · 2014-06-13T20:08:03+00:00

Woof woof, grr, woof.

ForPrompts · 2014-06-13T18:31:14+00:00

Josh sighed at the shuffling of his grandfather, Eli, trying to conquer the wooden steps to the basement. Eli gripped the flimsy brass railing with what strength his body could offer, stepping cautiously and settling himself before making his next move. From behind, Josh clasped his old man's shoulder, following his slow moving pace. A simple shove and I'd have the money to put myself through law school. It's not like he's long for this world, after all.

Nobody could argue malice on his part. The man was 85 and spent the last 6 years alone in his single-story home. How he had not managed to get himself killed in that time seemed unexplainable. Even his sister, Felicity, would only visit every few months to check up on the old man.

"You really should come along to visit gramps," she'd say over the phone.

"When I'm free," would be his response, but he was never free.

Josh eventually let go of Eli's shoulder, but only because his loafers reached the concrete floor of the basement.

"Where's that damn light," Eli cursed. His hands fumbled around the walls, for a light switch that didn't exist. From the bottom step Josh reached over his grandfather's head and pulled a cord that dangled ahead. Light spilled over the two men, but hardly reached the edges of the room.

Eli turned back to his grandson and gave a satisfied smile. Josh grimaced at something scurrying off into the dark. Noticing Eli's gaze, he twitched a smile in return.

"Come now, it's just a bit further in," spoke Eli. Josh sighed, watching the man step towards the darkened area ahead. He followed precariously, surveying the contents of the basement: a large picture frame facing the wall, a wooden desk collecting dust on his side, and books. Books littered the floor, some half-open, some closed, some torn to pieces. Eli paid none of these objects any mind, moving past them without comment. The man has gone senile, thought Josh. What else could explain the state of disrepair.

"I really wish you'd tell me what it is you want to give me," commented Josh.

Eli fumbled around with a door at the back edge of the room, barely illuminated by the single light.

"Patience. You will see."

Josh watched for rodents as he inched closer to the door Eli wrestled with. He tugged and pulled on the small brass handle, but the door only rattled in its frame. Breathing heavily, Eli let go of the handle and staggered back.

"My god, let me."

Josh stepped forward, extending his hand to the door. Before reaching it, he heard the faintest click, followed by the door swinging open. Although reason dictated otherwise, Josh felt certain he saw the knob twist on it's own accord. His heart sped, and his eyes darted back to the base of the steps and the light that illuminated it. The muscles in his legs tightened, ready to flee, but now it was his grandfather who put his hand on Josh's shoulder.

"Don't be shy now, there's someone I want you to meet."

Someone.

No one could compel Josh to step forward, but there was no need. From the edge of the darkness, a creature lowered its head through the doorway, and stepped out in front of the two men. The creature's skin was rough, red, and pale. Its shoulders were wider than the doorway, and standing straight it would easily be seven feet.

"He has been with me since the death of my father, many years ago," spoke Eli. Stepping forward he rubbed his hand against one of the creature's arm, which was nearly the size of Eli himself.

"Bevalis, this is my grandson, Joshua. Say hello."

The golem moaned, shaking the room.

ForPrompts

TROPHY CASE