001: Long Winter's Nap

As I lay dawn for a long winter's nap setting the alarm clock for April, a scuttle beneath the bed arises from the floor boards resonating into the rafters. Peering beneath the bed skirt to discover the scuttlebutt would frighten a wiser man, but this fearless being wrestled down the terrors of beasts of ill will living beneath the confines of the box spring decades ago. The desk lamp’s piercing light probed deeper and deeper into the mystery as the hem of fabric teasing the floor boards is lifted inch by inch. The raggedy edge of a long forgotten white sock is the first discovery though no treasure hunter would find this news worthy. Further probing and farther reaching, the light slips deeper and deeper into the wary depths of the cavern below the bed. The sock sits alone for a few inches before a black shape shuffles to the left and back to the right like some tiny running back escaping the tackling of the glowing light. Inches more light flood in and capture the cricket rushing for the safety of night on the other side of the room.

The mystery appears solved until a gentle nibbling noise is heard from the far corner of the bed. Flashlight in hand, a stronger attack on the dark reveals a tiny mouse nibbling on the bed post. The foot to the bed is feet away, but t is apparent from the angle this is not the mouse’s first patronage to this woodsy diner. A few raps of the flashlight against the metal under wiring to the bed frame ends the dinner prematurely as the mouse is heard scurrying out towards that same dark night as the cricket. Perhaps a refined ear can catch a crunching noise imagined to be the young mouse finding the aforementioned cricket a much more satisfying meal for the evening. A snap cracks through the quiet evening as a mouse trap takes its place at the top of the rodent food chain for the night.

A click of the flash light and flapping of the bed skirt dropping to the floor accentuate the stillness in the room. With only the bed lamp to quell before slumber can grasp the edges of reality and shake it from this place, a clatter of objects shift loudly and settle to the ground in the closet. Though startling to the stillness, no surprise or upheaval results from what has always been considered a leaning tower of baseball bats, hats, boxes and shoes waiting to give gravity its due. Another task beckons in the morning in the form of clean up, but the slumbering giant weighs heavy on the room and tonight is not the night for such concerns. The bed lamp sets just sixteen inches away from the bed highlighting the narrowness of the gap between the stumbling remains of consciousness and the graceful bounding dreams waiting.

In a blink, the lamp is smashed to the ground by an unseen paw and darkness prevails. The extinguished light dashes the definition of the room into a million points of bleak darkness. Previously unheard yet so heavy on the floor boards, only foot falls can be observed in the room before a pair of beady red eyes float up from the foot of the bed over the headboard. A warm draft pours over the pillow and warms what can only be assumed will be a final midnight snack for the beast in the dark. A retched odor hangs in the warm air over my face as the long winter’s nap becomes certain to be extended indefinitely.

Morning Jingles

Sarah rolls out of bed not realizing how close to the edge she had shifted in her sleep. The corner of the oak table next to the bed pierces her pajama top dragging a jagged streak up her back as she slips to the floor. Her shouts of pain echo expletives into the empty room. Her screams end with the back of her head laid out on the top of the nightstand. Her eyes stare up at the ceiling fan regaining focus on a dull hum and the squeak and wobble of the fan base that Josh never installed correctly. Memories of his incompetence normally made her smile if it weren't for the blood dripping down her back and the bump on the back of her skull.

One hand on the ground and one hand clenching the back of her top to keep blood out of the hardwood floor, Sarah rushes to the bathroom to change. A flick of the switch begins the slow buzz of the light fixture bringing a dim glow to the bathroom an instant too late for Sarah to see the open drawer. Her knee crashes through the cheap plywood crushing the drawer frame and spilling the contents onto the floor. Bouncing goes the hairbrush. Hopping goes the jar of cotton swabs. Crash goes the mirror across the tile floor coating each step to the medicine cabinet with shards of reflective glass.

Minutes tick by on the clock on the night stand while a set of bloody footprints form across the wood floor of the bedroom. A ding is heard clearly through the lonesome apartment, camera swinging to the kitchen where Sarah is sitting enjoying a cup of coffee with blood still dripping from her toes.

The least shitty part of your day could be Folgers in your cuuuup.

Terry finishes singing the last line into the receiver of his home phone, feet propped proudly on the kitchen table. "What do you think? We've never truly tapped into that pessimistic, 'I hate the world' crowd."

Click goes the line, dead as a job prospect from a top advertising firm.

An Undeserved End

On the trail past Bumbler Creek, a man lay stone skinned and dead staring into the night sky but grasping not of the depths of stars. The eyes grow grey one a deep blue like the passing breeze that now carried his stench like a leaf into civilized company. The nails on his hand turned backward as if projecting a film into the darkness of the struggle lost. Terror locked away into his unblinking eyes in their dim tones speaking to the ravenous pain long since drained into the lifeless creek. The shoeless foot lay bare and gnarled; another lost battle, this with the cold of the November evenings and the damp winds swept up from the waters. Three shoes stand silently, his torn from his foot and my two standing next to the scene. On three consecutive nights, the cloud cover bore shadow to the secrets of the open grave while I walk back and forth from my home to Rochelle. She, who is my destination this night, blinds me on my return plodding down the path home. My sight set on the lights quarter mile on leave me witless to see the wolves known to these woods. My heart skipping buoyantly on the sea which long since had claimed his. My step gingerly approaches each night past his un-waking horror.

Where was he aimed when tragedy struck? Did his heart also beat expectantly and blindly to the dangers of the dark? Was the warm breath of his end at the back of his neck as he dreamt of another’s? Did he cry a lost love’s name to the pert ears not understanding or caring? Did he plead to a mind unconcerned? Did he fight back against a will stronger than his own and accept the judgments of nature? I stand pondering for what seems like hours though my watch ticks only seconds away from me. I glance to the horizon at the unnatural light and back to the body.

“Shit happens, I suppose.” I speak to the night and direct my vision to the light in the distance.

DotT - Chapter One: Late Again

It was a Tuesday morning when the things with the tentacles took over. Tommy recalled this day for the few survivors he met along the way. Every Tuesday morning, Tommy would meet at the equivalent of the water cooler for the NFL week in review with Sam Baxter and Chris Haver meaning they stood together in front of the Coke machine in the lobby of the office building leasing space to Lawyer and Lawyer, LLC. The humor of the naming by the partners was a big reason for Tommy to seek the paralegal position there. Sam appeared one day at Tommy's desk one Tuesday morning launching into a rant on the Eagles taking Michael Vick and the implications of youth tormenting animals leading to sociopath behavior. Tommy placed the Farmer brief back on top of his "to read" pile so as not to lose his place. A voice over his shoulder joined in relating a story of a case from two years back in which a man had a history of capturing and torturing woodland animals in his youth before he was brought to court for being pulled over with the hands of twelve dead men in the glove box of his car. They, of course, defended him and attempted to claim the hands came with the car and there was no proof he had indeed killed these men, They lost the case, but it had lead to the running joke about having 24 hands in a glove box but no pairs of gloves. Chris and Sam became Tommy's closest work friends ever from that point forward.

This morning, however, Tommy was running late to work. He directed the front end of his Taurus through the parking lot and quickly into the only spot available far from the elevator in the parking garage. he was certain he would be reprimanded for his late arrival by the partners when he saw that Marian Fisher was still in her car in the reserved parking spot near the elevator. She did not look at him as he passed or attempt to get out of her car. The only thing she seemed to take notice of was the odd green boa she had brought along to work that day. Tommy chuckled at the odd sense of humor of his bosses as he continued along to the elevator bank. He did not grasp that the boa around Marian's neck was not a joke or made of feathers as he had initially thought. He barely caught the unassisted movement of the boa as the elevator doors closed. In sixty seconds, Tommy was at street level and crossing Randolph to his office. He gave a friendly yet unhelpful wave to the homeless man curled up on the sidewalk next to the front door in the green army jacket with the odd looking green tubes wrapped around his chest. "Anything to stay warm in that situation, I suppose," Tommy thought to himself. He would wrap himself in White Castle burger wrappers if it would help him survive a cold Chicago night without a home.

A squeal erupted from behind him as Tommy pulled the front door toward him and stepped on something squishy. Without looking back, he slid his shoes across the mats inside the front door and picked up the pace to minimize his tardiness. He waved to Hank at the security desk and rushed by the elevator bank as Hank screeched at Tommy rushing past. Hank also had a strange sense of humor, but never had the vocal range to pull off a sound so eerie. "Good for Hank," thought Tommy as he slammed his finger onto the button for the fifth floor. Two minutes of muzak ripped through the pleasant silence of the day forcing Tommy to look around for something to take his attention away from the torment of the instrumental version of MacArthur Park. The ticking up of the numbers was little distraction, but the smears of red on the elevator buttons on the opposite side of the elevator combined with the green glop on the short carpeting of the elevator. It appeared like a struggle had occurred here but Tommy was far too late this morning to spend his brain power thinking that over as the doors open and Tommy launched himself into the weirdest work day of his life.