strawberryhierophant

[strawberryhierophant]

A Worm's Scream

When Margaret found the body, she didn't scream or cry. Later, Mama mentioned it to Papa.

"The Marsden boy?" he asked.

"Yes," Mama said, quietly, "the young 'un."

"Where?" Papa's eyes were staring into his plate as he asked. He chewed quickly, in a rush to get on with things.

"By the creek. Not a half a mile from here."

Papa didn't say a word.

"Poor woman."

"Hm?" Papa looked up from his plate, frowning.

"The boy's mother," Mama explained.

"Mm," Papa agreed.

"I wonder which one of 'em found the boy."

Margaret wanted to speak up then. She wanted to say, I seen him. I found him first.

But she didn't. She kept quiet, like she always did, scrubbing the dishes in the sink.

"I never cared for that boy," Ruth said later. Margaret stared at her oldest sister, saying nothing, just chewing her cornbread quiet, like Daddy would.

"That ain't nice," said Rebecca. The three of them sat together at the table.

"Well, it's true," Ruth said. "I'm sorry for his family but that boy was strange."

Margaret swallowed her cornbread and stared into the oldest girl's face, same way her father stared into his plate that one time, after he'd found a hole in the chicken wire, all the chickens dead. The fox had only taken one, but killed the rest. After Papa saw that, he didn't eat. When he did, his eyes stayed stuck to his plate, like it were a deep hole he was trying to see to the bottom of.

"Strange as a plaid rabbit," Ruth went on. "It's no wonder, if you ask me."

Nobody asked you, Margaret thought.

"And slow," Ruth said. "As molasses."

"He was just quiet," Rebecca said.

"I say slow."

You don't know anything.

"As a one-legged rabbit running uphill! Head as empty as that chicken coop out back!"

Margaret wished someone would patch that hole in her sister's fat face.

It was after tending the laundry, that same morning, that Margaret marched into the woods. She marched back near the creek, back to the tree. She climbed it and sat in it. Then she swung from one of the low, heavy branches. The same one where they'd found the Marsden Boy.

Luke.

That was his name. Why didn't anybody use his Christian name?

"They hurt when you do that," Luke had told her, the first time.

Margaret had just about jumped out of her skin. Despite al the dead leaves, she hadn't heard his footsteps approaching. When she looked up, she found him standing not five feet away. And she, crouching in the dirt, staring up at him, His ball cap low over his forehead, the brim hiding his eyes. From the sides of the cap a mess of sandy blond hair spilled out over the boy's ears. From the way he stood, Margaret couldn't tell if he looked ready to pounce, or ready to flee.

"Leave me alone," she said.

He kicked the leaves at his feet, playful almost, not violent at all. He pointed at her coffee tin.

"Why you cuttin' them worms in half?"

Margaret kept her eyes on the Marsden boy. She didn't like that she couldn't see his face.

"Ruth says you're strange," she breathed, "and I ought not talk to you."

"So don't talk," he said with a shrug.

Margaret gripped the spade tighter in her hand. She stood up slowly, pulling her tin along with her.

"Ruth says you're a plaid rabbit," she said, "And you ain't got the good sense God gave a rock."

It made her feel fine to say that. Those words would hurt the Marsden boy good. He'd run off now and leave her alone.

He said nothing. Margaret was afraid he would follow her home, but he didn't.

The second time, the Marsden Boy showed her where to find worms. The two of them together pulled up a heap. She didn't even need to cut them in half. Daddy would be pleased.

Still, Margaret didn't see what the big deal was.

"They don't feel a thing," she insisted. Her fingers dug a pink one out of the soil, longer than her own hand.

"I reckon they do," he said, turning the soil gently with the Margaret's spade.

"How would you know?" she demanded.

"How you sure they don't?" he demanded back.

But she couldn't believe him. Worms didn't know no better. Daddy used them for bait.

"A worm don't mind being split. My Daddy said so."

But the boy — Luke — still bent intently over his spade, worked silently. Normally, it was Margaret who kept quiet while Ruth did all the talking.

"I think," Margaret went on, enjoying the feeling of saying what was on her mind, "if it bothered the worms, they'd let us know. Like when a dog growls if you pet its face too hard."

Margaret thought of Ruth then, with her constant yapping. And she thought of how she always kept quiet, thinking all the time, not saying a word.

"Don't you think so?" she asked Luke.

"I think they do let us know."

"Well, they don't growl, that's for sure. And they don't scream. If you cut me in half, I'd scream. But worms stay quiet as a church mouse, just as if they don't mind."

"Maybe they scream," Luke said, throwing a handful of worms in the tin, "and we can't hear it."

That night, Margaret thought about that. In bed, she strained her ears, listening, trying to hear the worms in their homes in the ground. She tried to picture herself down there, in the dark, listening...

"He killed the General's cat!" Ruth said, practically hollering. It was hot. The three of them — Ruth, Rebecca, and Margaret — were tending to the laundry out in the backyard.

"I saw it myself!" Ruth cried.

She's just like a yowling cat, Margaret thought.

"I's comin' out of the General," Ruth went on, her voice suddenly low, conspiratorial, "Steppin' off the porch, when I heard that awful sound."

Margaret's eyes widened. She stared at the oldest girl. Ruth plunged one arm into the basin and hauled out a mess of wet clothes while her free hand tugged at the clothespins clipped to the waist of her long skirt. She pinned the dripping clothes to the line at an impressive speed, talking as she worked.

"I saw him there, beside the store, in the shade, and he was kneeling over something. I would have passed him by normally. I wouldn't want nothing to do with the Marsden boy. Only — that pathetic mewling made me stop."

Rebecca shook her head. She knew the story, but Margaret had never heard the full account till now. Ruth stuck a clothespin in the corner of her mouth, like a cigar, and chewed on it as she separated a pair of tangled shirts, water streaming all over her skirt.

"It chilled my bones," she said, speaking out of one side of her mouth, "but I walked right over, thinking at worst the little heathen might be petting a cat the wrong way."

She ceased her labor for a moment and stared off.

"I'll never forget those eyes. Small and black. Just like a possum's. He stared at me and it was like I was lookin' at the eyes on a rag doll. Glassy and blank."

Ruth dunked her arm back into the basin of water. She dragged out another tangle of wet clothes, wrangling the clothes just like a snake handler at his Sunday service.

"He'd broken all of its legs," Ruth stated.

Margaret gasped. Her throat closed up. Ruth didn't notice.

"Saw it myself."

Margaret wanted to cry. She focused her eyes on Daddy's whites, still hanging on the line, and pulled them off one by one, slow and meticulous. She handed each item to Rebecca. The older girl sat at Margaret's side, passively accepting the clothes, and folding them so careful and delicate that you'd have thought she was folding her own wedding dress.

"And the cat howled just then," Ruth went on, "like it was raising its voice to the Most High, pleading with Him."

The basin was empty. Ruth shook her hands out in the grass, then dropped herself down on the stump of the old oak where Daddy said a man had once been hanged.

"Then it went quiet," Ruth said. "And that was that. And the whole time that Marsden boy kneeling there over the cat's little broken body, staring up at me with those glassy eyes of his.

Ruth shuddered. Rebecca sighed and shook her head.

"He was only a child then, Ruth. He couldn't know no better."

"I say he could and he did. The boy just didn't care!"

"He wasn't yet ten years old."

"I suppose he oughtta get a reward, then. I never killed a cat at that age."

Margaret wanted to scream. She felt her cheeks aflame. Her eyes fixed themselves on Rebecca's hands as the older girl slowly folded the whites, one over the other, slow and steady as a heartbeat.

Later, Margaret wanted to ask him about it. Instead, she told him, "It's not like you say. The worms don't feel a thing," and she made a show of cutting several worms in half, right in front of him. Luke watched her for a moment. Then he dropped his head and resumed digging.

"I reckon they do," he told her.

"And how would you know?"

"How do you know they don't?"

"Well, they don't scream, for one. You break a cat, it screams. But not a worm. It don't even make a sound."

Luke had stopped digging by then.

"A worm don't even have arms and legs to break. You cut a worm in half, it don't die like a poor little innocent cat!"

He was staring at her. His face looked red as a beaten behind. For a moment, he seemed about ready to lunge at her, and Margaret shrank back.

"How would you like I cut you in half," he said, his voice low and steady, "and see how you like it?"

To Margaret's relief, he resumed his digging. He went quiet. When he finally spoke again, there was ice in his voice.

"That Ruth sure does say a whole lot, don't she?"

The way he said it, Margaret never got the nerve to ask if he really did it.

The Marsden boy showed up again, as usual. It had become a budding friendship of sorts. But when she brought it up, he only pointed at her coffee tin, saying, "You cut your worms in half, and you ask if I done kill a cat?"

But that was silly.

"Worms don't feel nothin'," she said.

"I reckon they do."

But she didn't believe him. Worms weren't like cats. They were different. Daddy used worms for bait. Apples and oranges, Daddy would say.

"How would you like it if I cut you in half?" he asked her suddenly.

The way he said it made her blood run cold. Then he hung his head, like he was sorry. After a while he knelt down in the soil beside her and helped her dig for worms.

She watched his hands digging, carefully pulling worms out, just like Becca folding the clothes, soft like. She couldn't imagine those hands hurting anything, much less a cat.

work in progress...

*****

She didn't believe him. Worms couldn't feel pain. Daddy used them for bait.

"They don't feel nothing," she told him back.

"How would you like it if I cut you in half?"

Margaret couldn't see his face good. She got up, still holding the spade in her hand, tight, then pointed it at him, like she was digging him out of the dirt.

"Ruth says you're strange, and I ought not talk to you."

"So don't talk," he spit back.

Margaret gripped the spade harder.

"Ruth says you ain't got the good sense God gave a rock."

Margaret flushed with anger. Later, while tending the laundry, her sister's discussed Ruth's own run-in with the Marsden boy.

"He killed the General's cat. I saw him, kneeling over it. All the legs broken."

It was the first time Margaret had heard the full account. Rebecca, who had heard the story before, shook her head as she folded Daddy's whites with great care.

"The sound of its pathetic mewling don't get me half as much as what I saw in the boy's eyes."

Margaret wanted to ask, What did you see? Ruth looked directly at her, a clothespin between her teeth as she plunged her hand into the basin of clothes.

"Not a thing!" she hissed. "Empty, black little eyes, like a possum's. Hollow and glassy, just like a tea pitcher, without the tea."

When she saw him again, Margaret realized why she hadn't heard him approach the first time. He had been waiting, hiding somewhere.

"Did you kill the General's cat?" she demanded, holding the spade with both hands out in front of her.

"No," he said. "I found it like that."

"Ruth says you broke its legs."

"Ruth says a lot, don't she?"

He was holding a bucket. When he set it down, Margaret saw it was full of worms.

"The boy's a soup sandwich!" Ruth laughed. "Never see him at church, but I sure seen the whiskey shelves go light once his Daddy leaves the General."

Later, when Margaret saw him appear out of nowhere, the way he always did, she said, "I don't think you're strange."

She wasn't sure why she said it. But Luke didn't say anything back. He pulled a spade out of his back pocket and helped her collect worms for Daddy. He didn't cut them in half like she did, though.

"Why did you say they hurt?" she asked him.

"They got to."

"How do you know?"

"How do you know they don't?" he asked back, dropping a handful of wriggling worms into the bucket.

"Well," Margaret thought aloud, "ain't things supposed to make a sound when they're scared?"

Luke blew his nose and wiped it with the back of his dirt-caked hand.

"But worms," she said, "they don't scream or nothing."

"Maybe you just cain't hear 'em, that's all."

Margaret chewed silently at the table. She washed her cornbread down with some water.

"Still," Rebecca said. "It ain't good to speak ill of the dead."

"It ain't good to tell a lie neither," Ruth said. "That's probably why this one's kept her mouth shut," and she pointed at Margaret. "Wasn't he your little boyfriend?"

She cackled like a hen. Margaret flushed bright red.

"Ruth!" Rebecca glanced quickly out the window, checking to see if Mama heard.

"I"m just saying. I caught them down by the creek once."

"Ruth..."

"What, Beck? It's true!!

Nothing had happened, really. They were digging for worms, like always. Luke had the bucket next to him. Margaret stood up to throw two big palms full of them into the pile.

It happened sometimes — the spins. Margaret swayed. When she moaned, Luke looked up sharply, then Margaret lost which way was up and keeled over.

But his arms caught her. Luke said something, but she couldn't focus. As she came out of it, she felt his hands travel from her waist down her thighs, and then, "Margaret Mary Jones! You keep away from that boy!"

"Honestly, Ruth." She glanced out the window again, but Mama was washing and singing loud. She couldn't hear.

"All I'm saying," Ruth shot back, still laughing like a squawking chicken, "is that girl's lucky I didn't tell Papa what I seen!"

Nothing happened, Margaret wanted to say.

"Ooh, Papa would have beat her backside blue!"

I ain't like you, Margaret wanted to say.

You were caught once, she wanted to scream, staring into the oldest girl's face just like Papa would.

Slut!

The after Ruth had seen her in Luke's arms, Margaret had waited and waited for Daddy to come home. She sat at the washboard, on pins and needles, waiting, her fingers red and wrinkled with scrubbing.

That evening, as she helped Mama with the cooking, she felt herself walking on eggshells, listening for the sound of Papa coming up the drive. When at last the front door slammed open and Daddy stomped into the house, silent, Margaret looked towards Ruth. But all she said was, "Hey, Papa" as she cleared the table.

"I smell cornbread!" Daddy declared with a clap of his hands. He beamed. He was in a good mood.

And for the first time, Ruth kept quiet.

Later, sweeping the porch, Margaret listened. Anytime Ruth's big, loud voice echoed inside, she froze. She must have looked like Old Roscoe raising his hackles. Strangely, in that moment, she thought about Luke, his ball cap low, his voice flat and grim the way it could sometimes be. And she thought about what he'd said of the worms.

What would they sound like if they could scream?

She wondered about this, and listened silently, waiting.

But Ruth never told. Not that night. Not ever. When the house went to bed, peaceful. Margaret said her prayers in the dark. She cried.

Thank you.

"You can carry the bucket home yourself?"

"I've been doing it everyday since I was ten, Luke," Margaret teased him.

"Bet you never caught that many worms before though," he said, flashing a grin. The brim of his ball cap hid his eyes, as always.

"Daddy's got his bait for a month," Margaret laughed.

Then it was quiet, the two of them standing there.

"That's my house," Luke said, nodding over at the small place across the wide field. Margaret didn't say anything.

Of course that was his house. She'd walked with him to the tree line several times by that point. She looked up, curious, and found she could just see his eyes in the shade of his ball cap, blinking.

"Daddy'll catch a heap of fish now," she said, jostling the bucket in her hands.

"Get on home," Luke whispered.

Margaret looked at him, then at the house. The roof seemed to cook under the scorching sun, black as burnt toast.

As Margaret walked back through the woods, she turned once, and found Luke still standing in the cool shade of the tree line. In the distance, she saw Luke's daddy, a big man, shuffle awkwardly out of the house onto the porch. She saw him remove his hat and wipe his brow and face, hard, with the back of his hand, like Luke did.

The Sheriff didn't ask her. He only talked to Daddy. Mama seemed to keep still, mostly. Margaret couldn't hear a word, looking through the glass. She was supposed to be at the washboard. Becca was in the garden, but Ruth stayed inside, doing dishes. She heard.

"They found bruises."

"Where?"

"I couldn't hear, but all over I think."

The older girls spoke in hushed tones. Margaret listened, breathless. She didn't know what the words meant.

"It didn't look normal. That's how he put it."

"Well, honestly. How could a hanging ever look normal?"

"But the Sheriff asked Daddy if he heard or saw anything. The way he said it, he made it sound like it was carried into the woods."

It? Were they talking about Luke?

"What did Daddy say?"

"He said," Ruth went on, "that the only one who goes out in them woods is this little critter," and pointed at Margaret. Rebecca looked at Margaret closely. Ruth's smile vanished.

"Did you see anything?"

Margaret kept quiet. She shook her head.

"Don't be coming 'round here," Luke had said, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder. It was the first time she'd seen him looking anything but calm. It frightened her.

"You're hurt, Luke." She was still panicked herself. "Your nose. You're hurt, bad. You need a doctor."

Luke shoved her then, off the porch. She fell, scraping her legs on the wooden steps as she plummeted down into the stony earth below. Then she found herself being dragged over the rocks. She struggled to her feet as Luke pulled her through the tall grass in the field and into the woods. Then he threw her down against a tree, hurting her. She was crying by then. Her tears turned everything into a blurry mess. But she could see Luke's figure looming darkly over her, his hands balled into fists.

"Don't you never come to my house again," he warned her, pointing. He spoke quiet. But the words had barbs in them.

Margaret heard herself saying, "I'm sorry, I saw you in trouble..."

"Boy!"

Luke flinched. The voice boomed across the field. It came from the house behind him. His shoulders dropped.

Margaret began to cry. Luke knelt beside her.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said, his voice quiet. He reached out and Margaret pulled back, sniveling. But Luke pulled her gently to her feet. He stood face to face with her, his head down. The top of his ball cap stared Margaret in the face.

"Get on out of here," he said.

"Boy, I said, get the hell back here!"

"Don't say nothing to anyone," he told her.

There were footsteps now, trudging through the grass behind him. They were approaching fast.

"Get the hell outta here, God damn it!" he hissed.

He shoved Margaret and marched out of the trees.

And Margaret ran.

"Girls!"

Daddy came back into the house, Mama with him.

"We'll be back tomorrow," Daddy said as they left the next morning. "You girls stay put."

"Ruth, you make sure the chores are done."

Margaret did the wash. She cleaned the dishes. She kept quiet, like always. When she slipped out, her sisters didn't even notice her absence.

She climbed the tree. The same one. The big one. A piece of rope was still tied around one of the low branches. It was frayed where they'd cut Luke down.

"You mean like dogs?" Margaret had asked.

"Maybe," Luke said, digging in the soil with his fingers.

"They can hear things we don't."

Margaret turned away, hiding what she did. She placed the worm on the soil and sliced it i half with her spade. Then she listened, hard. But she didn't hear it screaming. She leaned closer.

Luke was suddenly kneeling beside her.

"That's how," he said, pointing. "See?"

The worm's two halves were twisting violently. They wriggled so fiercely that one half jumped. It was in pain, trying to run from it. But there was nowhere to run.

"That's how they scream," Luke said.

#creative writing #writerscommunity #writing practice #shortstory #writers of tumblr #creativewriters #short story #writers on tumblr

[strawberryhierophant]

Rupert Spots the Meal

When the House woke up, inexplicably, the Keeper found himself violently roused from his hibernation. Something was wrong.

His worst fears were confirmed when, peeking outside through one of the thick curtains, he found that it was morning. He flinched and fell back. The light, thin and grey though it was, nearly blinded him. After a few minutes, still shocked by the reality of his situation, the Keeper risked another glance outside and found that things had gotten worse.

It stood on the sidewalk outside, the little figure inspecting a stray pumpkin.

How on earth did it get way out there?

The little figure stooped down to inspect the stray. It was too early to lure in a meal. The Keeper knew the rules.

Go away! Leave the pumpkin alone!

Despite the uncomfortable light, the Keeper found himself rooted to the spot by the window, watching, waiting, hoping. His meal was inching closer, its head leaning in closer to the jack-o-lantern, inspecting the Keeper's handiwork.

Then it looked up. The Keeper made eye contact with it. The meal seemed to see him. He stood up. The Keeper held eye contact. Then broke it to look down at the meal's foot, which had entered the grass.

Suddenly, it bolted forward, into the lawn. And the Keeper, almost without thinking, snarled the requisite words. The running meal vanished.

[strawberryhierophant]

Rupert and the Pumpkins

Brian can't say what's drawn him to the dark end of the street this morning. But he spots a bright orange lump nestled there in the tall grass, beneath the giant elms.

A pumpkin?

His feet bring him right up to the edge of the sidewalk, where the pavement meets the grass.

He shouldn't be here. He ought to go back. His mother will be furious with him if he misses the bus again. Already, he can hear its engine in the distance, rumbling in a neighboring street somewhere.

At Brian's feet, the pumpkin is grinning. Someone has carved it into a jack-o-lantern, the finest one Brian has ever seen. The jagged smile and tall, peaked eyes are neatly worked, clean and perfect. Clearly, several hours of work went into this jack-o-lanterns. Why would the carver just drop it off here, in an empty field, where no one would find it?

Brian's thoughts are broken by the sudden blast of an engine at the far end of the street. The bus grinds to a standstill, rumbling rhythmically as a group of children climb aboard.

Brian stoops down. He inspects the pumpkin, then looks up at the empty field behind it.

He doesn't know it, but something drew him here. Something is waking up. That same Something now beckons him forward.

Without realizing it, Brian is edging one of his sneakers forward, closer to the grass, until his toe is almost touching it. The thought of running through the field enters Brian's mind. He stands up. The urge to run fills his twelve-year-old body. He pictures darting through the field, his feet padding over soft grass, kicking up dead, rustling leaves. He imagines the rush of the wind on his skin — or maybe a wind blows just then, he doesn't know. His feet carry him into the grass.

There's a long hiss of the bus doors closing. On the far end of the road, the engine sputters and coughs as its tires begin to turn, pulling the bus away from the street corner. The children's blurry faces, framed by the streaked glass of the thick windows, are like a row of black-and-white snapshots disappearing down the road.

One snapshot is blank. The child is missing. And at the dark end of the street, beneath the giant elm, in an empty field, two perfect jack-o-lanterns grin in the tall grass.

Rupert slips into the diner, unseen. Nobody acknowledges his presence. Not even the waitresses approach him after he has found an empty booth. He is starved.

Things are not good today. For one, it's not yet dusk. The House woke up early. It's only morning. That's a problem. But to make matters worse, when he left the house earlier, Rupert found an extra jack-o-lantern on the lawn. That's a bigger problem. Rupert has not yet been awake an hour and already things have spun quickly beyond his control. He needs a plan.

But first, he needs to eat.

The diner is warm. The fluorescents overhead bathe everything in an orange glow. Rupert makes his presence felt. A waitress approaches. She doesn't look at Rupert, doesn't even speak, only jots the order down, departs in silence, and returns with the meal a few minutes later.

One T-bone steak, rare, with a side of eggs, sunny side up, extra runny.

By the time he's finished with his steak, flecks of gristle, beef, and bone cover Rupert's table. The eggs go down in one fell swoop as Rupert tilts the platter into his mouth, just as though he were finishing off a bowl of soup. The hunger in his belly grumbles, only slightly appeased by the paltry breakfast.

Rupert rises and moves silently towards the exit. None of the other patrons notice him as he goes. They simply smile into platters heaped with steaming hash browns, thick waffles, and piles of biscuits smothered in white gravy. The diners chit-chat pleasantly with one another, laughing through mouthfuls of crackling toast.

Rupert scowls, envying them. He slips out of the bustling diner back into the lonely, grey morning and heads for home. As he travels through the chill beneath a slate sky, the city buildings all around him seem to huddle together for warmth. The cold streets are deserted. But a few pretty shop faces beam in the gloom, their windows incandescent, and Rupert thinks of jack-o-lanterns grinning in the dark.

The jack-o-lantern!

He doesn't know where it came from, but he can guess. The waking of the House must have drawn some unwanted attention. It must have lured in a prey without Rupert's consent. That spells trouble.

Normally, Rupert is fearless. He has to be. He watches the House. He is the its Keeper, and there are few things that can genuinely unsettle a Keeper.

He is traveling up the sidewalk approaching the dark end of the street when he becomes aware of it. Typically, this early in the day, the House will draw no attention to itself. But there, beyond the giant elms, he finds a noticeable glow. The sight stops him in his tracks, then he hurries closer. The glow, whatever it is, reveals the outlines of the House. There is no way the neighbors will fail to notice.

But the glow. What is it?

Rupert is running now. He's arriving at his front gate when he realizes what it is.

The Jack-o-Lanterns. They're glowing.

[strawberryhierophant]

Rupert and the Analyst

The house does not exist, and so the missing children are not really missing.

Only, this year, the house woke up early. And that means the house's Keeper has been rudely awakened.

He's cruel and heartless. His eyes flash open — the eyes of a cold-blooded killer. It's been a year in hibernation, and he's starved.

As the Keeper leaves the house, silent eyes watch him. Pumpkins. Bright orange, they crowd the porch and line the stone steps that tumble down into the lawn. Their thick orange rinds are carved with jagged grins and blade-like eyes. A subtle fire burns within them. The pumpkins, too, are waking up. They look after the Keeper as his shadowy form goes lumbering up the walkway and disappears out the front gate.

Its cold before dawn. A neon light burns cherry-red in the misty gloom. Even at this hour, hungry patrons crowd the diner's front doors. They eye the hostess closely, hoping the woman will call their names, willing her to summon them inside.

A shadow slinks along the diner's brick facade as a howling wind blows in. The gust lashes at the ears of the little grey people in the crowd, who clutch at their beanies and pull at their scarves. Heavy footsteps move quickly through their midst. The crowd parts. The people move aside, making way without knowing why. Ahead of them, the diner doors open and close with a violent clatter that startles them. They jump. They glance suspiciously at one another, then trade sheepish smiles.

It was surely the gust that rattled the doors.

Inside, it's warm. It's crowded. Piggy's Diner does not take reservations, especially not during the morning rush. But a lone table in the back stands empty, awaiting the Keeper.

He sits down and places his order: T-bone, rare; two eggs sunny-side-up, extra runny.

His stomach whines as he waits. The hunger gnaws at his belly like a wolf pup searching for a teat. Its got teeth, this hunger. Rupert begins to wonder — about the house waking up, about how dangerous it is to be among this many people. He begins to wonder if he will make it to nightfall.

And there's more than hunger in his stomach. There's a sinking feeling. Dread. The house wakes up at dusk, or it's supposed to. Why, then, did it wake up so early? He doesn't know. What he does know is what it means.

The arrival of the Analyst.

Judge and Jury, the Hand of Fate itself, standing between the Keeper and the desperate Wilderness. The Analyst is the only thing that can chill a Keeper's bones.

The meal arrives and is devoured in short order. When the Keeper is through, the table is a greasy mess, covered in brown flecks of gristle and beef, crimson specks of blood. He lifts the plate and tilts it back, dropping the runny eggs down his gullet, relishing the wet, oily feeling and dreaming of the fatty treats and plump goodies to come.

Later, when the waitress and busboy discover the appalling mess at Table 13, they grumble to one another. Both of them search their memories, but neither of them, no matter how hard they try, remembers who was sitting here.

The Keeper is sitting alone in the House, gritting his teeth with hunger, when the knock at the door finally comes.

On the porch, he finds the Analyst, short and solidly-built. The man — if he can be called that — is casually inspecting the eaves and jotting something down in a notepad. There's an unusual aroma about him, which The Keeper faintly detects, but which his nerves do not let him focus on.

"Nicely maintained," the Analyst murmurs, scribbling quickly. When he's done, he punctuates the paper with the violent stab of his pen, then looks over the Keeper's shoulder.

"That is the collection, isn't it?"

The Analyst breezes inside, moving past the Keeper without a word of greeting.

The vintage display cabinet is one of the only real pieces of furniture the Keeper owns, aside from the sofa, the comfortable chair, and a little end table for his lamp. He doesn't even own a bed. He doesn't need one.

"Very nice," the Analyst murmurs, nodding.

The cabinet is dark blue. Long, arched windows on the double doors offer a view of the gruesome items contained inside. The top shelves boast an assortment of jars. In each, a different body part – a finger, an ear, an eyeball — floats in a reddish liquid. Small hooks have been installed in the bottom of one of the lower shelves, and from these hooks dangle bones of various sizes. A collarbone, a jawbone, one small tibia, two fibulas. Everything is neatly-cleaned. Nothing is broken. There is even a small hand with all of the carpals and metacarpals, all held together, every joint connected, by a thin twine of steel.

"It's a shame," the Analyst sighs. He steps back and, for the first time, looks at the Keeper, smiling broadly. "It's good to see you, Rupert," he says, and makes his way to the comfortable chair.

My chair.

Trailing warily behind the Analyst, the Keeper takes a seat on the larger adjacent sofa. He has to sit at an uncomfortable angle in order to look at the Analyst, who for a minute or two says nothing at all, merely flips through his notebook. Sitting this close to the Analyst, the Keeper identifies the familiar scent emanating from his enemy. His mouth begins to salivate.

"Are you a son of a bitch, Rupert?"

The Keeper winces, but says nothing.

"Judging by how well-maintained this place looks, I would have to guess no, you're not. That fine cabinet over there," he gestures with his pen, "indicates a noble spirit. It indicates fine taste. And yet—"

The Analyst stares coldly at the Rupert. Whatever humor that broad face had held before was gone now.

"—you seem intent on being thrown out with the other dogs."

The analyst draws out that last word, showing his teeth. Suddenly, he reaches into his front pocket and pulls out a bit of dried beef. Rupert's jaw goes slack, then tight. A lump jumps into his throat. The Analyst doesn't take a bite of the beef, nor offers it to Rupert. He simply turns it over, inspecting it carelessly. His mind is clearly elsewhere.

"The House is a privilege, Rupert," he finally says. "In return, we ask for nothing from you but loyalty. And that demands certain tributes. Nobody doubts that you have done well that regard, of course."

The beef is inches from his face. Rupert's nostrils begin to sniff involuntarily at it. Sharply exhaling, he wipes his nose, pretending to cough. Drool begins to froth at the corners of his mouth.

"However, more important than tributes is the well-being of the House itself. I'm not telling you anything new, I'm sure."

Rupert swallows. He shakes his head, agreeing. His hands are trembling. Rupert balls them into fists.

"A restless house is a unhappy house. And an unhappy house wakes up from time to time. I'm sure you didn't enjoy being rudely pulled from your slumber this morning? And this early in the day?"

Too early to properly feed.

"But how much worse do you think it is for us? The Homeowners."

A long whine travels through Rupert's bowels. It's practically a howl in the quiet living room. The Analyst leans forward in his chair. He looks at the stick of dried beef in his hand, then at Rupert.

"What's wrong, Rupert? Hungry?"

Thick threads of drool are hanging heavily from Rupert's wide lips. When the Analyst tosses the stick of beef at him, Rupert cannot help himself. He jumps forward and snaps it out of the air.

Ah!

The flavor is delectable, more savory than Rupert could have dreamed. His teeth chew it to pieces, spreading a buttery warmth spreading over his tongue and into his gums.

Exquisite! Is this what the Homeowners eat year-round?

For a moment, Rupert's hunger is driven back. He whines just like a beaten dog, grateful for its master's mercy. Through misty eyes, Rupert finds the Analyst staring at him.

"This house is a privilege." He practically spits the words at him. "When I throw a dog a bone, I expect he does his duty."

The hunger slowly returns. Rupert can feel it begin to pull at his intestines, and he doubles over slightly. He can't even bring himself to stand as the Analyst rises from his comfortable chair and marches towards the front door, which he opens before pausing at the threshold.

"Keep the House fed," he says, glaring at Rupert. "Keep it content. Or you'll be seeing me again."

The door closes. Rupert is panting. Hunger is rearing its head again. His stomach feels terribly empty. He knows the Analyst's threat is sincere. He's made some error, some dire mistake. He needs to fix it.

But first, he needs to feed.

#the analyst #rupert

[strawberryhierophant]

Anger is a Wound

Do you remember the guy who shot you the finger after cutting you off in traffic? Almost certainly, your first thought was something like, "What a jerk."

Your language was likely more colorful, but the point is you perceived this person as a problem.

And he was, in a very real way. His actions were dangerous, and could have caused a serious problem for you. He could have caused a wreck. It is understandable that this person made your angry.

But is it justified? Is anger ever justified? That's a juicy problem for another time...

For the moment, I just want you to consider this:

When people cause problems for us, we tend to think of them as having problems. We rarely think of them as wounded.

My point here is not to justify the guy who cut you off in traffic, but to get you to interrupt the anger before it blooms. There's a famous quote, a cliché at this point, that anger is a poison that corrodes the vessel which holds it.

Similarly, Carrie Fisher famously said that resentment is like taking poison and expecting the other person to die. The same is true of anger. It behooves us to stop anger dead in its tracks anytime it rears its venomous little head. And you don't stomp it out; you identify it, acknowledge it, and choose to step around it.

It's hard. It's work. In the moment, it can be difficult to do without some type of trick or technique. And that's what I'm hoping to offer you.

Most of the things that anger us involve hostile people in our lives — the backbiting co-worker, or the rude barista, or the dog-owner who snapped at you when his little pooch attacked your dog at the dog park.

Okay, that last one was me, I admit it.

At any rate, these people can attack you. They do so in various ways. It may seem that they have problems. But nobody started out that way. Nobody started out as a backbiter; they habitually fell into a pattern of behavior as a response to events in their own lives.

Angry people are trapped. When they lash out, they are lashing out at the bars on their cage. Some of them actually feel regret after doing so. They go home and think about you, and how they were such jerks for blowing up at you without reason.

Others have long forgotten that there is an alternative to anger. And this is actually a more pitiful case. These people don't deserve your retaliation. They deserve your sympathy. Something is wrong with them. But the problem isn't in their essence. It is in their experience. Something in their lives went wrong and warped them.

I know, because it happened to me.

It's important to remember that, when Anger enters your life, it's your choice whether or not you step into its cage. One way to stop it is to find the humanity in those who are most hostile to us. And the best way to do this is to remember:

This person does not have a problem. This person has a wound.

#self love #self care #self help #anger #anger issues

[strawberryhierophant]

Rupert Meets the Analyst

Rupert is sitting deep in thought, alone as always, when the doorbell rings. The Analyst stands at his doorstep. A short but solidly built man wearing a gray suit and ridiculous wire-rim eyeglasses with circular frames, he is inspecting the eaves of the house conspicuously, jotting something into a small notepad. He wields the pen the way a surgeon wields a scalpel, delicately, deftly. When he's done scribbling, his large hand punctuates the paper with a violent pop of the pen.

"Well, Rupert," the Analyst says, looking directly at him. "I suppose I'll let myself right in."

In the living room, the Analyst finds Rupert's cabinet — one of the only pieces of furniture in the entire house — and leans in close. Behind the glass, jars line the cabinet shelves. Each one contains some severed body part — an eye, an ear, a finger — floating in a viscous yellow liquid. Below the jars, an assortment of bones hang from a series of small hooks. Jawbones, collarbones, skull fragments, a small tibia. The Analyst nods appreciatively.

"A fine collection," he admits

He walks over to Rupert's favorite chair — Rupert's only chair — and takes a seat. The man looks comfortable. He seems at home, as though he's spent countless hours reclined right here in this living room.

As though he owned the damn place, Rupert thinks.

Hiding a scowl, he takes a seat on the larger sofa adjacent to the comfortable chair. He has to sit at an awkward angle to face the Analyst, who is smoothing his suit, beaming pleasantly. He pins his gaze directly on Rupert's face. His small eyes are twinkling.

"You look like shit," he says.

Rupert feels his face flush with anger, but does not respond.

"Won't be long now," the Analyst goes on, gesturing at the room.

When Rupert still doesn't respond, the man leans forward in his chair, still smiling.

"You think you're hungry today?" he asks quietly, almost whispering. "It's nothing to what it's like out there."

Till now, Rupert has been trying to hold the Analyst's stare. But it wavers.

"Out there, with the other scum. No better than common dogs."

Rupert forces himself to look at the Analyst. He will not be intimidated in his own house.

He looks god damn triumphant.

"At any rate," the Analyst says, leaning back into his chair. "I'm here to remind you. Purely a formality, you understand. After all, by my watch," the Analyst pulls a pocket watch out of his coat pocket, "you still have several hours. I suggest. You make use of them."

Rupert is practically shaking. He does not even move when the Analyst stands up. He can't walk the man to the front door, but sits there, grinding his teeth.

"Fine house," he says, one last time. "Keeps out the scum."

And then the door closes, and Rupert is once more sitting alone.

#writing practice #the analyst

[strawberryhierophant]

Sensitivity

Anger is the coarse, defensive shell worn by the ultra-sensitive soul.

The world has failed to understand them. And so they turn against the world.

Massage the shell, and it becomes an open hand. Some open hands need to be lifted up, saved.

Others will reward you by lifting you out of an ocean that you couldn't see yourself drowning in.

The ultra-sensitive soul is everywhere. It rarely looks sensitive.

#sensitivity #empath #sensitive #inner child #emotions #anger #inspirational #life quotes

[strawberryhierophant]

Against Debate and Persuasion

The Art of Persuasion Is Bullshit

I could explain myself. But I don't want to. I am living in a world fucking obsessed with debate, a culture that celebrates skilled interlocutors. Just look at YouTube:

SO-AND-SO *ABSOLUTELY DESTROYS* SO-AND-SO!

These sorts of titles dominate the platform. They absolutely destroy. They completely crush the smug algorithm..

But I don't care about debate — not really. And I don't care to persuade anyone. I'm at the point where the idea of sitting there and having to justify myself to someone else for the thousandth time bores me. And what's more, the very idea puts the onus on me. Why do I have to do the legwork for someone who disagrees with me when they could do it themselves?

I'm not talking about people who can listen, just so we're clear. People with humility, open-minded people, these folks I can talk to. But nothing about my conversations with such people is ever about persuasion. I'm never focused on constructing logical propositions to convince them of some idea.

Again, to be clear, I am talking specifically about people whose innate reaction to my beliefs is reticence or disdain, or a combination of both. To give you an idea of what I'm saying, let me paint you a picture.

The Analogy

Suppose I tell you: I discovered a beautiful spring bubbling out of the meadow over there.

In response, you say: I highly doubt that. A spring? Here? Maybe in that mountain way over there, but not here.

I respond: Well, I did see it. It's right over there if you want to go and see for yourself.

And of course, you could.

But instead, you say: I don't think I will go over there on my own two feet. But, if you'd be willing to crouch down like a good boy and allow me to hop on your back, I'd be willing to let you carry me there.

This is what most "debate" is like. There are two people, presumably adults, who are fully capable of seeing things from alternative points of view, who very often refuse to do so on specific issues or ideas. Their aim is to be skeptical, and to act as a defender of some group, whether political, religious, etc.

Obviously, it would be a huge waste of my time to argue with someone like this. You see, I would much rather talk to the person who says: Yes! You know, I found a spring right around an area just like this.

Such people, I could have a conversation with. There would be nothing persuasive or argumentative about our interaction.

And I'm not saying that I never try to persuade anyone of anything. I am saying that I'm tired of trying to persuade people who have no interest in being persuaded, but who take glee in remaining skeptical about X, Y, or Z. These people are everywhere. And for such people, there are those who are naturally gifted, or interested, in the art of persuasion, who will hash it out any day of the week.

As for me, bring me a kindred spirit. I don't need an interlocutor.

#essay #persuasion #persuade #argument #debate

[strawberryhierophant]

On the Ceiling

It's amazing how almost nobody looks up. And why would they? Really. I mean, they're so wrapped up in their own bullshit.

I always see them come in, lugging books or bags, or both. First thing they do when they enter, all of them, is search the place with their eyes.

Is my favorite table taken? Is there a place with an outlet? I need my computer charged to 100% at all times. I want the window seat.

Most of them need it to be quiet. Students, mainly, but you get the occasional suit taking a break from the office, coming out to enjoy the crowd. But all of them, whoever they are, come to do work. So if it's too packed, too noisy, usually they'll leave without even bothering for a to-go coffee.

The rest stay. They claim real estate, spreading their belongings as widely as they can. In one chair, they'll drop their bag. In another, a jacket. They buy not just coffee but snacks, and they spread everything all over their tables just like you'd spread food on a blanket at a picnic, all over the damn place. I wonder how filthy their homes look, some of them, they leave behind such a god damn mess. I'm glad I don't have to clean it up. I just watch from up here.

Now, I said almost nobody looks up. Some do. But even then, you'd be surprised. They actually look away.

First time it happened I was new to it all. I'd just moved here. I'm sure you don't even notice it anymore, being from here and all, but to me, i thought it was funny. Everything's a repurposed warehouse, even the apartments. Maybe it's a city thing, I don't know. Either way, when I got here, the thing that got me was, why would you spend so much time renovating an old warehouse and just leave the ceiling like that? All beams and ductwork, iron and sheet metal, just hanging overhead. Looks dangerous, if you think about it, like the whole thing could collapse on you.

I mean, you clear out this big space, fill it with new furniture and redo all the brick. You install some new lights. Then you go and name the place some shit like Bodega Noir Coffee and Workspace to attract the hip clientele. But you never bother to change the old warehouse ceiling. You just slap a coat of black paint on the the overhang like you ran out of money at the last minute and you're hoping nobody looks up. Which, like I said, mostly they don't.

The first time someone noticed me, I was new, like I said. To be honest, I don't know what put the idea in my head. Mainly, I guess I just wanted to see if I could do it. I'd done some urbex before. I had some friends who'd done a little phrogging. You never heard of that? Look it up. It's wild. Anyway, I guess the idea just popped into my head thinking about all this stuff. I guess really I should tell you about how it happened the first time.

It was that big coffee shop by the railroad tracks. You know the big one with the small shops in the back? The one with the really high ceiling? Well I ended up there randomly. Turned out I'd shown up on a day when the shops were all closed. That whole back area was dark. Nobody around. I was about to head back to the counter and grab a cup of coffee when I realized how nobody was even looking up. Everyone had a laptop open looking so damned absorbed.

So I scaled the wall. Easy as shit. I had a little experience climbing. Like I said, urbex.

Anyway, I'm expecting someone to say something. I get all the way to the crossbeams and sit my happy ass down. Look down. Everyone's still got their faces in a computer screen. Not even the baristas noticed me. I sat there for a good while before I decided to hop down. Laughed it off. But the next day i went back and did it again. This time the shops were open. But the workers were all on their phones, or counting registers, or doing inventory. None of them noticed me.

Before long I realized that, so long as I found a good spot and didn't move too much, I could stay up in the ceiling pretty much all day, just sitting on the crossbeams, Indian Style as we used to say.

Now, I've always been quick. I saw the possibilities right away. I applied at a few of these coffee shops, stayed just long enough to learn the entry codes, or to make copies of the keys, then made up some excuse about a "big job" that I had to take, and split. From there, it was just a matter of showing up after everyone had left and I'd stay overnight in the place. In the morning, I'd watch the place fill up, then hop down and make friendly with the staff. I'm good with people. Most of them liked me. I got some free drinks out of that.

Anyway, the point is this: the first time someone actually saw me. That shit scared me, if I'm honest. But in a good way. Exhilarating, I guess, like skydiving. I've never been, but I can imagine.

So this place is like all the rest. Hip decor, big empty space, and those ugly warehouse ceilings with all the sheet metal ductwork and iron crossbeams. I'm up in the ceiling. I'm looking at this guy for some reason. He reminded me of someone. Suddenly, he looks up. We make eye contact. He sees me. I mean, no doubt in my mind he sees me. I freeze. I feel scared. Exhilarating. I think something's about to happen, right? He's gonna tell the baristas. Maybe he's gonna scream. Shit, maybe he'll pull out a gun, I don't know.

You know what he did? I mean I already spoiled it already, telling you earlier, but he didn't do anything. He just looked away. He pretended he didn't see me. I watched him first look out the window, then look back at his computer. He pretended to work for a few minutes. I didn't take my eyes off him. I couldn't. Finally, this guy looks around the shop. He gets up, stuffs his laptop into his bag, and gives me one last look. A quick one. Then he skedaddles. I mean, he knows I'm there and he doesn't even tell anyone.

What did I feel? Confused, yeah. But more, I was angry. I mean, that sorta person is just a liar, aren't they? He saw me, I know he did, and he told himself he didn't. He lied. I was so damn mad. I knew people were self-absorbed. But that shit really was another level.

Well, he never came back. I only ever saw him once more. And he saw me. And he couldn't pretend anymore. I made sure of it that time.

From then on, I found myself hoping that someone to look at me. I waited and waited for it to happen again. Sometimes I was sure someone was, but then I'd look and the person's eyes would be fixed on the computer screen. You can feel when someone's eyes touch you, you know. They've actually done studies. It's a real thing. I began to feel it, but I could never catch the person in the act. I realized after a while, that if I closed my eyes and paid real hard attention I could tell where the eyes were, the ones that were looking at me.

And so I began to pick them out, one by one. I'd wait for them to leave. They'd still be pretending not to see me. Just like I said before. Liars, all of them.

Most of them lived near the coffee shops they visited. They walked. I followed. I found where they lived. These old warehouses provide lots of cover. I came back after dark. You pick up a lot of little tricks for sneaking into places doing urbex.

And the rest you know. I plucked out the eyes. For lying. Because they looked right at me and looked away.

But what you want to know is where they are. You found the eyes. Where are the bodies? Haven't you been listening? God damn it. It's funny. People are a fucking joke.

Nobody ever looks up.

- Writing Practice 3/16

#ceiling #phrogging #horror story #short horror

[strawberryhierophant]

Rupert in my own way

Most people cannot go a whole day without eating. But most will not go a whole hour. After breakfast or lunch they, nibble here and there on this or that, without even being aware of what they do. A slice of cake after a nice, big lunch, for instance, is a very fine idea indeed. It staves off the grumbles of hunger until dinnertime. Then, before bed, a bit of baked chicken is just the thing! It sets the dreams into rich motion so that, well before these sated folk ever crawl sleepily into bed, the pleasant fullness in their bellies has already worked its magic. Still smacking their lips contentedly, they pull their blankets over their legs and are instantly snatched up into a delicious sleep, so that they are snoring before the pillow even catches their heads.

Meanwhile, in the forest, the black bear may lumber out of his winter cave. He goes along, snapping greedily at the few sprigs of sweet-grasses in his path. His winter coat hangs loosely from his bones. Starving, he will scavenge the forests. or fish in the melting streams. Sometimes, he will even maul the odd family which has unwisely chosen to camp, so close to winter, in the great beast's domain. Their screams make no difference to him. Six long months of hunger are driving the poor animal. He is running on instinct, and will do whatever it takes to soothe his ravenous belly without a second thought.

That is six long months for the bear. But only six months. it's no wonder that Rupert, who always went a full year between meals, should wake up with only one thing on his mind.

REFLECTIONS: Good stuff, but this story will be short. SHOW rather than TELL the fact that Downing's citizens are always eating. Example: in the diner, they are shown scarfing down their food; Example: in the bookstore, the mothers are eating eclairs, while the children maybe have cotton candy. IDEA: Maybe that's why Downing is such a good town for Rupert. People cannot RESIST the temptation of food. So Halloween is literally a feeding frenzy for him. He sets out treats and the children come in droves. This is great if you choose to go with the idea that "children no longer celebrate Halloween"; it will be more profound.

*******

I: [This will have a brief sketch of Rupert walking down the street, unsure of why he woke up so early. He'll duck into the bookstore and encounter the child before withdrawing because eating the kid would be "against the rules"]

II:

The diner was packed to the gills. Each table boasted half a dozen eyes at least, all of them prepared to zero in on Rupert if he was not careful.

Spotting an empty booth at the back of the diner, Rupert made his way through the defensive line of waitresses. He was astounded by their speed, these tiny, hunchbacked, elderly woman. They came dashing between the tables and booths like well-trained soldiers advancing through an obstacle course. They came wielding pitchers of tea, and bearing giant trays of food which they held aloft almost above the tight white curls on their little round heads. These old veterans came charging madly at their tables so that Rupert had to side-step and backtrack and duck and twirl as he moved through the fray.

At last, and amazingly, he arrived at the back of the restaurant and slipped into the tight space of the empty booth, casting a quick series of sharp glances about him. This was unorthodox. Rupert did not like venturing into public spaces, much less into a crowd of this size. But for some reason he had awakened early — by several days at that! And if he was going to last, he had to eat something.

Luckily, he was well-rested and not all that far from the house. Nobody had seen him, and so Rupert began to make his presence known, slowly, subtly, just enough to attract a young waitress to his booth — just enough, and no more.

The waitress arrived without a word of greeting, which satisfied Rupert. He placed his order with the young woman, who jotted it down without once looking at him and bounced away.

Rupert stared at the back of her long neck as she departed. Her little legs in their black tights poked out from the bottom of her skirt like a pair of fireplace pokers. Rupert wrinkled his great nose. The poor girl resembled a newborn giraffe. Hardly any fat on her whatsoever. She was like a bundle of long bones thrown into a tight bag of flesh.

When she returned to silently drop off his meal, Rupert investigated the large T-bone and found it cooked through. Not a bit of pink. Lifting it, he found its dark grey juices, like filthy water, pooling underneath it on the white platter. The eggs, too, were all wrong. He had requested them extra runny, but they were as solid as could be. The firm, yellow yolks stared up at him like a pair of gawking eyes.

He ate everything with the violent impatience of a hungry wolf. He rent meat from bone until not even gristle was left. For a while afterward, he gnawed on the bone, leaving it white and clean and sharp. Finally, raising the plate up to his open wide open mouth, he slurped down the leftover eggs in one go and threw a crumpled bill upon the table.

When he was gone, only the busboy seemed confused by the strange mess at Table 13. He paused to scratch his head as he wiped it clean. He knew for a fact that he had passed this table several times that morning, and he seemed to recall it always being empty.

[a quick sketch of Rupert waiting by the door (reading the paperback thriller he originally picked up at the bookstore lol) eagerly listening to the children outside. The scene ends with him knowing they will come, as they always do (tempted by treats, as all of Downing is). BUT, his hunger is so profound that he actually begins to doubt if they will. And then, to lead into the next scene, he will wonder what he'll do if they stop showing up altogether. Will he have to become a "hunter" (thought with disdain), or find another food source?]

III: [Rupert tries to hunt, but fails]

[strawberryhierophant]

Rupert Triple Redux

The plump little creature babbled and cooed and sucked on its fist. Its flesh looked creamy and doughy and delicious.

Rupert's eyes, as big as dinner plates, peered over the top of his paperback thriller at the appetizing sight. His long fingers clutched his book, squeezed involuntarily, as though he were attempting to strangle it. He began to pant like a dog. Drool hung from his maw in frothy ribbons, and a growl escaped his throat.

What harm could it to? he thought. The fat little beast, secured by a sling across its mother's chest, was dangling there like a slab of meat in a butcher's shop, ready for the taking. What difference did it make if he helped himself to just one?

"Not until tonight!" a little voice piped up, the words ringing loudly in the quiet bookstore, though nobody seemed to hear it but Rupert. "You know the rules!" it said.

Rupert swatted the reminder away as though it were a pesky fly.

"Yes, the rules," Rupert said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Frankly, I don't know that the rules apply in times like these."

"Rules," the voice said, "Keep the world from collapsing into chaos. You remember chaos, don't you?"

Indeed, Rupert did. His memory, like his life, was long. And chaos was one of the reasons why he alone remained.

Still, this knowledge did not curb his hunger. There were facts and there were facts. And only one thing was certain: if he did not feed soon, soon there would be no Rupert at all. The steady growl in his throat became a desperate whine, echoing the whining in his much diminished belly.

And yet, Rupert knew the voice was right. With things as they were, he couldn't afford any mistakes. He would need to play this smart.

And so, defeated, he left the succulent creature behind with its mother and exited the bookstore.

Somehow, however, his feet carried him further into the city, instead of back to his home. Eventually, he found himself in front of a small establishment with the words PIGGY'S DINER in dull neon letters flickering over a pair of thick double doors.

"Don't be stupid," the voice said.

"Stupid?" Rupert roared.

"You're far from the house, now. It won't be able to hide you at this distance."

"But what if it can?" Rupert murmured, thinking hard. Faintly, he could detect the scent of a glorious T-Bone sizzling on the flat top inside.

"You've never been this far before," the voice reminded him.

"Exactly!" Rupert returned. "So it might work! We've never tried it."

"You're thinking with your stomach now, not your brain."

The two argued in this way for a short while out on the cold sidewalk. It was October, and very chilly. The meager autumn sunlight did little more than send the grey shadows skirting about the edges of the diner. With most of the residents of Downing either at work or cooped up in their warm homes, the entire city looked abandoned. One would have thought Rupert was the only living soul walking the cold, dim streets of the city.

Just then, however, a man in a wool hat came barging out of Piggy's, his jaw set as he braced against the cold. A tantalizing aroma of bacon and eggs and hash came rushing out through the open double doors and caught Rupert by the nose, pulling him into the diner against his better judgment.

It was close to lunchtime by then, and the place was nearly full. Rupert found an empty table at the rear of the restaurant and took a seat, deliberately drawing just enough attention then to attract a nearby waitress. She did not look at Rupert as she approached, but seemed to be almost sleepwalking. Rupert placed an order with the woman, speaking in the usual manner he assumed whenever he was forced to interact with the denizens of Downing, using his words as a buffer in order to keep his distance, and letting the House at the End of the Sidewalk do the heavy lifting.

The exchange was completed without incident, and when he saw the waitress depositing his ticket in the service window, where the line cook looked at it and dropped a T-bone onto the grill, Rupert breathed a sigh of relief. Satisfied, he momentarily forgot the hunger gnawing in his belly.

"You were saying?" he sneered.

"So she didn't see you," the voice replied, unimpressed.

"None of them see me." Rupert looked around. The diners appeared not to notice him, despite his very impressive, if lean, frame, and other conspicuous features.

"So what?" the voice replied.

"So what?" Rupert growled. "It means I might not need them coming to me, that's what!"

The voice said nothing.

"Setting traps and snares, like a coward. Hiding in the house, when I could be — hunting."

The sound of the word brought an ugly, crooked grin to Rupert's face.

"I say you stick to what you know," the voice replied. "You're no hunter. Old dogs and new tricks and that sort of thing."

"You've brought yourself right into the center of a crowd."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures."

"Desperate, perhaps. Not stupid."

"The house is gone! What do you expect me to do!"

The hunger continued to gnaw at him. Rupert sat doubled over, clutching his belly. In the delirium of his hunger, visions of Halloweens past paraded themselves before his eyes. He saw his house at the end of the sidewalk. A gaggle of costumed goodies bounced across the lawns and throughout the neighborhood, pausing below the glow of streetlights and rushing beneath the darkness of the great oaks. One by one, or in groups, they came shouting and laughing and celebrating, filling the night with their delectable scent, drawing nearer and nearer, traveling house to house, dizzy with excitement, until at last they came bounding up Rupert's porch and lining up at his doorstep, to be plucked out of the glittering night and into the darkness of his jaws.

When the waitress dropped the platter before him, Rupert pounced upon it. He ripped the T-bone steak apart. It exploded in his hands as if it had been tossed into a wood chipper, sending a blast of blood and gristle and bone onto the sunny side up eggs. Their yellow yolks seemed to stare up at him, on the verge of tears, like the eyes of one forced to witness an unthinkable atrocity.

But the only eyes that watched Rupert were those of his invisible companion, who said nothing. The other diners seemed entirely absorbed in their own meals.

[strawberryhierophant]

Rupert: All the Deets

Most people can't go a full day without nibbling on something. A slice of cake, for instance, after a heavy lunch is nothing to be ashamed of. It takes the edge off those pesky rumblings of hunger that groan sporadically in the belly, and prepares one's digestion for the large dinner to come. And just before bed, a bit of baked chicken is just the thing. It sets the dreams into rich motion, so that before one's head even hits his pillow the body is instantly snatched up into a delicious cloud of sleep.

Only the lowly beasts go long periods without feeding. The unfortunate bear emerges from his winter cave in the spring, crazed with hunger, his heavy coat hanging from his bones. Eagerly, he feeds on whatever is scattered about, scavenging what he can, snapping up the berries and sweet grasses, or, if an unlucky hunter should cross his path, mauls his prey with a ravenous violence.

And this after only half a year without food!

It's understandable then that Rupert, who always went one full year between his meals, woke up from his own hibernation with a single thing on his mind. He came lumbering down his front porch steps, groggy, but compelled by the sharp pang in his belly to depart his little house at the end of the sidewalk. Instinctively, he made for Piggy's Diner where, he knew, a very decent breakfast could be had without any trouble.

Rupert found an impatient crowd of patrons already lined up outside. Stamping the cold out of their boots, and chatting cheerfully amongst themselves, they waited patiently for the hostess to summon them out of the October chill and into the warmth. Rupert, however, simply skipped to the front of the line. The little people did not observe him as he went, nor as he hauled open the diner's double doors. But when the doors clapped shut behind him with a violent clatter, they all jumped collectively, and searched eagerly amongst his neighbors, curious to know who amongst them had dared to enter the diner without being summoned.

Rupert ordered the meal in his usual manner. The waitress did not look at him, merely jotted down the order: T-bone steak, rare Two eggs sunny side up, easy

The platter of food arrived without incident. Rupert picked the steak with his hands. Nobody paid him any mind. For one long moment, the hunger rattled Rupert's lean, broad-shouldered frame. He hovered there over the slab of beef, clutching it between his fists, shaking like a wrestler grappling with his opponent. The other diners, apparently absorbed in their own meals, failed to notice any of this.

Then, in a flash of teeth, the meat in Rupert's hands seemed to disintegrate. As though it had been feed into a wood chipper, there was a brief explosion. Flecks of blood and gristle sprayed over the table, staining the tablecloth. The eggs were splattered in red, their bright, runny yolks trembling like the horrified and tearful eyes of one witnessing a slaughter.

And still, nobody turned to cast disapproving looks. Rupert devoured his food like a starving wolf and nobody even glanced his way. He may as well not have been there. He did not plan for the waitress to run up to him when he rose from his chair to leave, waving his unpaid bill.

"Don't forget the check, honey!" the small woman shouted in his direction. She did not actually look at Rupert, but her hand placed the white ticket down onto the blood-stained table — onto his table.

Rupert glared at the old woman, but she was already bouncing away, fishing a pencil out of the bun on her head and scribbling down an order, which a very heavy-set man at a neighboring table was describing to her in great detail.

Rupert dug into his pockets and found a twenty. His eyes furtively scanned the diner. He wielded the sharp, beady glance in his eyes like a blade, daring anyone to look his way.

But nobody did, and so he dropped the crumpled twenty onto the bloody table and made a beeline for the exit.

His stride was soundless. His tall, broad figure passed between the tables and booths as though he were an insubstantial spectre. The waitress did not look at him again. Nobody did.

But somebody did notice him. Two people. Two very frail, very old ladies, shuddered as his long shadow passed over one table, and one said to the other, "Awful draft in this place."

The other woman pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "Eggs are overcooked, too," she replied.

Alarmed by this exchange, Rupert darted out the front doors. He burst out into the cold morning and right into the crowd of waiting patrons, which seemed to have bloomed with the breaking dawn. He pushed his way past them all. They did not seem to notice, but he continued moving quickly up the sidewalk, rushing towards the corner, which he rounded, and disappearing from view.

Meanwhile, back at Piggy's, a busboy and waitress were grumbling over the mess left by a mysterious guest at Table 13.

"Savages!" the waitress muttered. She pulled the crumpled twenty out of the carnage of blood and gristle, holding it aloft between her thumb and index finger, as though it were a suspicious stray hair. She made a face. "Don't people have any table manners?"

"Your table, Liz," the busboy replied, wiping the mess dutifully.

This mundane exchange concealed a deep disquiet that neither of them could shake. Almost, they were overcome with a sense of dread. Each of them was trying to remember who had been seated at Table 13. A certain something seemed to flash there at the edge of the memory, refusing to be recalled. A silhouette? Or a dark figure. A tall man, maybe. The presence — whatever it was — lingered in the mind, just out of reach, refusing to take shape...

But the breakfast rush was in full swing. Under its onslaught, Table 13 and its mysterious guest were soon forgotten. But for the remainder of the shift, neither the waitress nor the busboy could not stop shooting nervous glances over their shoulders.

Rupert, meanwhile, was traveling quickly up the sidewalk, caught up in his own sense of apprehension, and thinking over the events at Piggy's.

The waitress had not actually looked at him. He was sure. Her eyes had not looked into his face. And yet, she had delivered the ticket, and it had been intended for him.

"They're remembering," a voice said suddenly. Rupert nearly jumped out of his skin. He faltered, nearly tripped, and paused for a moment to look around.

There was nobody there.

He resumed his walk back up the sidewalk which cut through downtown Downing and lead back to his house.

"You can't see me?" the voice asked.

Rupert ignored the Wisp — which is what it was. A wisp. Rupert knew it, though he could hardly believe it.

"Well I can see you," the voice called out, with more cheer in its voice than Rupert liked.

"They can't, but I can. And soon—" Rupert could hear the smile, though he couldn't see it. "Soon they'll be able to see you, too."

Rupert scowled and picked up the pace. But he was listening.

"

"The voice was familiar to him, and he remembered its owner, as he remembered everything. His mind, like his jaws, was a steel trap which let nothing go.

But he would not be shaken. Quickly, resolutely, he collected himself and continued up the sidewalk which traveled the entire length of downtown Downing, and ended at his own little house in the small neighborhood beyond. The gallery of shops on either side of him — the florist's and the baker's and the banks and the notaries — seemed to huddle together for warmth, shivering off the grey chill which clung to them like a shroud. Dawn was breaking, but it brought a meager light which served only to send the shadows skirting before the little shops. Their pretty, brick facades, bright with windows shining with the glow of white fluorescents within, resembled the smiling faces of jack-o-lanterns in the gloom.

[strawberryhierophant]

Rupert's Halloween

reworked for class

For breakfast, Rupert decided on a rare T-Bone steak with a side of runny eggs.

It arrived without incident, and for a moment, just before pouncing upon it, Rupert clutched the steak between his two giant fists, hunching over it, like a wrestler grappling with his opponent, shaking with hunger. Then all at once, Rupert's teeth flashed and the meat disintegrated as though it had been fed into a wood chipper. A violent splatter of blood and gristle sprayed over the table, staining the runny eggs jostling upon the large white platter. Their bright yellow yolks trembled like the tearful eyes of a helpless witness to a slaughter.

But there were no witnesses. Not really. Piggy's Diner bustled with its usual morning crowd, but none among them noticed the enormous stranger at the rear of the restaurant, much less his appalling table manners. Nor, when he rose from his chair, revealing the full extent of his height, did the waitress bother to flag him down with his unpaid bill. She did not in fact recall having served him at all.

Only two very old, very frail women, bundled up in wool skirts and sweaters and scarves, appeared to register Rupert's presence when his heavy shadow passed over their table.

"Ungodly draft in this place," one of the women muttered, shuddering.

The other pulled her shawl tighter across her shoulders. "And the eggs are overcooked, too," she said.

Rupert was well out the door and far up the sidewalk before the slaughter at Table 23 was discovered. He was rounding the corner and disappearing while the busboy and waitress bickered and cleaned up the mess, neither of them certain about who had been sitting there, both of them fairly sure that this particular table had not been occupied for the past half an hour.

Outside, dawn was breaking. A meager light set the cold shadows skirting about the brick buildings. The menacing October chill draped itself around downtown downing while rows of shops on either side of Rupert seemed to huddle together for warmth, their faces bright and cheerful, like jack-o-lanterns, beaming with the yellow glow of the fluorescent lights within.

As Rupert strode down this gallery of storefronts, he thought of the delightful night to come. The sun sinking, the darkness growing, and goodies appearing suddenly on every corner, like little phantoms. Succulent treats on every corner. Every Halloween! Always, a pleasant smorgasbord of savory delights came running up his drive, one by one, tramping up his porch, unaware of what lay in store for them. It was only one night of the year, but it was enough. It had always been enough.

A broad smile spread over Rupert's face as he considered the procession of savory morsels to be enjoyed that night. His great nose pulled in a faint aroma of fresh pumpkins somewhere. Despite his great hunger, and the fierce chill, and his own hatred for the town of Downing, just then the morning seemed perfect to him. His smile broke into a delirious grin of satisfaction, and he could have laughed, if it were in his nature.

"Rupert!"

The voice rang out suddenly in the silence. Startled, Rupert nearly tripped over his own feet. Then the voice called out again, in a mocking, sing-song way.

"Rupert, Rupert!"

The voice was very small, as though someone were trying to shout into a tin can. It sounded far away, but to Rupert it seemed to clang as loud as a bell.

And he remembered its owner, as he remembered everything. The last time he'd heard this particular voice, it had shouted "Trick or Treat!" (like all the rest) before Rupert opened the door and silenced the voice and led it inside. And then the voice had become a scream.

Normally, the voices said nothing more. They ended there, as screams, which were plucked from the throats of their owners, never to return.

And yet, this voice had returned. And it was singing!

"Rupert, Rupert! Tooth and claw!"

Bristling, Rupert growled in return, "Well! What do you want?"

"I saw you this morning," the voice said, "when you left the house."

"And?"

Rupert was alarmed by this news, of course. But he refused to show it.

"

In the air floated the faintly familiar smell of sugary sweets and chocolates, which the owner of this voice had last consumed.

Rupert's eyes scanned the air nervously. The jack-o-lantern shops seemed to beam brighter, enjoying Rupert's discomfort as he passed quickly up the sidewalk. The Wisp followed along behind him, matching his brisk pace.

"So you see," the Wisp went on, "I remember. And that means they'll remember, too"

The sidewalk curved slightly as it neared the borders of downtown Downing. It sloped upwards as it brought him into the small neighborhood there. Rupert muttered and picked up the pace. The Wisp followed along easily behind him.

"And not just me!" the voice continued. "They'll remember all of us!" Then, almost furtively, the voice said, "I can see it, you know? Whatever it is that keeps you hidden. It looks smaller than before."

Rupert growled. He charged forward, his elbows swinging violently as he went.

"You're hungry," the voice laughed, "I can tell."

Indeed, Rupert felt a stab in his belly just then. He grimaced. It had been only a few minutes since he had devoured his steak and eggs, and yet a shockingly loud series of whines was now traveling through his intestines, which rang out like a horde of little lambs bleating in his belly.

"Who's that?" a second voice called out.

"Rupert, you idiot!" the first voice said.

"That's him? He looks so skinny."

"He's starving," the first voice said, cheerfully.

"It's his face gives him away," the second voice said. "Jesus, he's uglier than ever!"

Rupert was racing like a madman by this point, up the sloping sidewalk, lurching this way and that way, trying to evade the chattering Wisps.

"When they finally remember us," the first voice said to Rupert, "they'll go looking for you."

"And then they'll fix you good!" said the second voice.

"They'll wring you by the neck!"

"They'll turn you into pumpkin puree!"

"They'll scoop out your brains and use you for a jack-o-lantern!"

"Serves him right!"

"Damn you!" Rupert roared.

He was running madly now, past front lawns and fences and mailboxes, his pounding feet kicking up the dead leaves and sending them sailing behind him as he ran, faster and faster. He flew over the pavement, despite his great size and bulk, at a magnificent speed, racing towards house at the end of the sidewalk, where he lived.

"Look at him go!" the first voice shouted.

"Rupert, Rupert!" the second voice cried out, then broke out into a mocking song:

Rupert! Rupert! Tooth and claw! Snatches kids and Eats them raw!

With these words ringing out behind him, Rupert arrived at the picket fence encircling his house, nearly skidding to a stop as he unlatched the little door, and barreled up the walkway then stamped up the porch steps and, at last, barged into his own house as though he were a violent attacker hoping to catch an unsuspecting resident by surprise.

"Damn you," Rupert hissed once more he he slammed the door shut behind him.

For a moment, he simply stood there shaking with rage. Those disgusting little worms. Who did they think they were, boasting and insulting him? Hadn't he been the one to send them to the Land of Wisps to begin with? And he could send them back, easily. It was simply a matter of —

A pang of hunger struck him then. It squeezed his insides, twisting them in a vise-like grip, and sent Rupert slumping over with a groan against the door. He leaned there listening to the voices outside as they shouted and congratulated one another. Rupert did not want to admit it, but they were right. If he failed this Halloween, it might all be over. The Forgetting would be dispelled, and the citizens of Downing who for many, many years had supplied Rupert with his annual meals would see things clearly. They would awaken all at once, as though from out of a dream — and whatever came next would not be good.

Rupert considered this, leaning miserably against the door. He thought about the irritating Wisps, about their hideous gloating, and about the possibility of their return. He thought about T-bones and eggs, and Halloween, and the glowing jack-o-lantern shops — and the brief whiff he'd caught of fresh pumpkin outside of Piggy's Diner.

And so, in this way, Rupert began to hatch a plan.

***

Later that morning, through the pungent smell of dead foliage littering the cracking concrete of the sidewalks outside, Rupert's great nose detected a familiar aroma, and a plan began to form in his mind. At once, he marched out of his house in the direction of the pumpkin patch. The growling in his belly was matched by the growling in his throat as he hurried.

#short story #short horror #creativewriters #creative writing #writerscommunity #shortstory

[strawberryhierophant]

Rupert at the costume shop (writing practice)

[for a writing class]

This hunger wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all.

Rupert strode forcefully into the costume shop, feeling something more than pure desperation and hunger now. His nose had caught the scent of real pumpkins as he walked by and abruptly entered the shop. The smell had conjured a memory of a useful spell. An old trick, really, but quite reliable. It had been decades since Rupert had employed it.

Egad! Had it really been decades now? There once was a time when this particular trick had been no more than one weapon in his yearly arsenal. It had been as much a part of Halloween as the feeding itself.

And now?

Rupert shook his head. He really had been lax. He'd grown lazy during the time of plenty, relying purely on what had seemed an endless abundance of children to keep him fed. Over the decades, he'd forgotten that Halloween was more than just an annual feast. It meant more than just hiding in his home, lying in wait, like a spider, for his prey to entangle itself in his web. No, this time, Rupert would have to set a snare. He would have to lure the children, and not wait for them to stumble upon him.

Rupert's thoughts marched backwards through the bright fields of his glory days. Even as little as twenty years ago, the sidewalks of this little town had teemed with goodies. There had been no shortage of treats lingering at every street corner, huddling together, shouting and laughing as they came bounding up through his little fence and up the walk and onto the porch, arriving in swarms of four or five — or more! — eagerly knocking upon his door, unaware of what lay in store for them...

Of course, there had been the occasional lean year. But never anything like this! Practically overnight, the supply of children had dried up. It had been perhaps a handful of years since it happened. And yet it had been enough to render Rupert nearly stark mad with hunger.

"You can never be too safe..."

These warnings had first began to be uttered in curious hushed tones. Two mothers, hovering over their coffees, or a small group of men gathered together quietly beside the hardware store counter. The whispers floated through bank teller windows and across fence lines. The faces close, and Rupert sidling up silently, leaning in to listen closely.

"Even in our dear little Downing town," he heard them say, "I get the feeling that there's a terrible danger. As though our lovely little sidewalks are crawling almost with a darkness of some sort..."

Rupert had been startled at hearing these words for the first time. Almost, he refused to take them seriously. After all, not one person in town could possibly remember! The children had all been snatched away silently, cleanly. They had been forgotten — Rupert always made sure of that. In the same way that he always managed to slip by unseen, so too the children always disappeared without incident, without uproar. Certainly, it was among Rupert's numerous gifts to make this so.

"It's idle talk," he told himself. "Nothing more."

And yet, the whispers continued to spread throughout the town. All of this — caution. It had spread like a plague. And now? Very few left their children out of sight at all! And even fewer would let their children out of the house alone for Halloween.

Too many creeps and weirdos about, the whispers warned. Better to be safe than sorry...

Rupert knew. He would need to address this.

But first things first. If he didn't eat something soon, he would certainly perish. Next year, there might not be any Rupert at all.

As he was considering all of this, Rupert, finding the pumpkins in a large bin, began testing them one by one, rapping the thick rinds with his knuckle. He managed to haul three pumpkins into his enormous arms and turned to leave.

He stopped. There, standing at the counter, and talking to the balding, bespectacled proprietor, stood a child.

A boy —  a good one, with fine skin. Well-fed, plump. How his excellent nose had failed to alert him to the child's presence, Rupert could not say. His ruminations must have been deep and absorbing indeed to eclipse his ravenous instincts.

The boy, pointing to something hanging on display behind the register, waved a handful of bills in the air. The old proprietor pulled the item — a rubber werewolf mask — off of a hook and placed it on the counter. Its giant yellow eyes seemed to twinkle at Rupert, and the long, blood-stained teeth seemed to curve into a grin.

"Eh..." the proprietor drawled, adjusting the spectacles on his nose as he checked the price tag, "this one here's twenty three."

The boy's shoulders dropped. Disappointment spread across his face. He clutched the fistful of bills close to his chest.

"I've got seventeen," the boy said, softly.

"Ah... hm." the man's spectacles slid down the bridge of his nose as he nodded sympathetically. He made a broad gesture with his arm. "Well, we have plenty of other masks, as you can see. Plenty in that price range."

"I want this one," the boy insisted.

The man frowned and asked, "I'm sure your mom or dad can pay the difference?" as he returned to his inventory sheet.

The boy blushed.

"I can pay you next week," he said, quietly.

Rupert looked hard at the boy. A wide grin spread over his long face. The wolf mask on the register grinned back. Rupert sidled up behind the boy as silent as a shadow.

"I mow lawns," the boy announced. "I can pay the rest — after. Next week, I promise!"

Rupert pulled the ten-dollar bill out of his pocket. Juggling an armful of pumpkins he placed the bill by the boy's feet.

"Autumn's a tough time for mowing lawns," the proprietor observed, pulling off his spectacles and giving his little red nose a powerful rub.

As Rupert retreated towards the front entrance and pushed his way outside, he poked his head back into the shop and cupped a hand around his mouth

"You've dropped something there, kiddo!"

The boy jumped at the huge bellowing voice. But the proprietor, idly wiping his spectacles clean, appeared not to have heard anything.

"By your feet!" Rupert's voice rang through the shop.

And then he was gone.

#short story #creative writing #creativewriters #writers of tumblr

[strawberryhierophant]

Rupert's Breakfast

[reworked for a writing class I'm taking]

Rupert planted his elbows onto the table, the T-bone clutched between his two giant fists. The next scene was a massacre. Rupert seemed almost to pounce on his steak. Instantly, his teeth rent the flesh from the bone. Flecks of blood and bits of greasy gristle sprayed like buckshot onto the table in front of him, and upon a pair of eggs, sunny side up, which jostled and slid around on their white platter. Like a pair of eyes on the verge of tears, the runny yolks seemed to gawk at the terrible chomping jaws above. They trembled as Rupert's elbows rocked the table. They seemed to understand that in that merciless maw their own bleak destiny was calling them.

But the eyes of the other patrons saw nothing. If they disapproved of Rupert's awful table manners, they gave no indication. There was no turning of heads as Rupert snorted and burped and, finally, sat back to suck and chew upon the long, curved bone, which was all that remained of his steak.

And when at last Rupert rose from his chair, lean and broad-shouldered and enormous, the chatter of the other diners continued without interruption. Rupert dropped a twenty upon the blood-splattered table, and walked away from the massacre, but the waitress did not rush to deliver the bill. Despite his size, he strode soundlessly, swiftly, from his table at the back of the diner towards the front doors. Only two very old, very frail women seemed to register Rupert's presence. They wore thick wool skirts and heavy sweaters, but they shuddered as Rupert's long shadow passed over their booth.

"Dreadful draft in this place," said one of the women.

The other pulled her shawl tighter across her shoulders. "And the eggs are overcooked," she said.

Rupert stepped out into the October chill. Piggy's heavy doors closed behind him with a rattling clang that nobody noticed. He was halfway up the sidewalk before the busboy inside discovered the lone table at the back of he restaurant. The lad had passed it several times that morning, but had not noticed the unsightly mess. He flagged down a waitress and the two regarded the grisly scene. The lad scratched his scalp through his grease-stained cap. The waitress plucked the twenty carefully out of the mess. She held it aloft between her index finger and thumb, eyeing it the way she might a suspicious stray hair.

Meanwhile, the busboy pulled out his rag and dutifully began wiping down the table. He muttered something. The waitress dropped the twenty into her apron. She muttered something back. The two shook their heads.

It was no use. As far as either of them could remember, this particular table had not bee occupied for the past half an hour.

#short story #creative writing #creativewriters #writing practice #original story

[strawberryhierophant]

Dawn broke. The buses arrived, sweeping the commuters off the bus stops. The few pedestrians who remained hurried along the cold sidewalks before disappearing here and there into a bank or a notary's or a costume shop. Soon, Rupert walked alone.

For a long while, his long stride carried him past the gallery of storefronts on Main Street. But then, Rupert stopped abruptly, his feet skidding to a halt. The little black eyes pitted deep below his brow, as sharp as flint arrowheads, darted almost feverishly, scanning the faces of each shop, searching.

His nose lifted into the air. The heavy nostrils, flapping savagely in the October chill, pulled in enormous drafts of air...

There!

Rupert's head snapped left. Turning on his heels, he darted across Main Street's abandoned lanes. A casual observer might have been astonished to see someone of Rupert's impressive build managing such a speed. But even if the city had been teeming with crowds, no one among them would have paid him any mind.

A bell dinged overhead. Rupert pressed into the small shop. No one bid him welcome. A cashier continued busily counting the money in a register by the entrance. He did not even lift his eyes to acknowledge his new customer. Rupert was delighted to find the little bookstore filled with mothers and young children.

And it was the children alone who noticed him, of course. As was often the case, many of them froze instantly in place. Their small hands reached for their mothers, but the women were busy leafing through magazines and browsing novels. As Rupert went silently padding by, one small girl managed to slip quickly behind the safety of his mother's legs, trembling, though her fear could not prevent her from peering out at this magnificent, frightening stranger.

Eventually, after snaking his way through the twists and turns of the store, Rupert came to a stop. He selected a paperback thriller from the shelves. He opened it. His beady eyes, however, did no reading. They remained fixed intently over the top of the page, staring into the Parenting section where a pale, thin (and otherwise worthless) woman stood with her back to him.

When she turned around, the paperback nearly dropped from Rupert's clutches. His jaw fell slack at the sight of the enormous, supple infant hanging from a sling across the mother's chest. The child had its doughy fist shoved into its mouth, and it sucked upon it as though it were a teat. Long streams of drool dribbled down the child's arm. It pooled and bubbled around its mouth.

Picture a roast duck in the oven, sweating marvelously, and glistening in its own juices. Imagine the aroma reaching your nose from across the room, the tightness in your jaws at the thought of biting into the rich flesh, and you'll know what Rupert felt in that very moment.

#rupert #short story #creative writing

[strawberryhierophant]

Rupert's Breakfast

[ reworked for a class I'm taking. ]

Two eggs, extra runny, sunny side up, jostled violently upon the white platter. The yolks seemed to gawk in horror. Like a pair of sickly yellow eyes, they stared up at the looming overhead, who at this moment clutched a T-bone steak between its two giant paws and proceeded to rend meat from bone.

Chunks of gristle, flecks of blood. The huge, chomping jaws sent carnage spraying like buckshot out upon the table. The bright yellow yolks, now splattered red, seemed to tremble tearfully, as if understanding that their own fate, too, lay in that horrible merciless maw.

If the other patrons noticed Rupert's appalling table manners, they did not show it. He sat alone at a small table in the back of the diner, apparently unseen. He smacked his lips loudly. He snorted and burped. Nobody coughed or cleared their throat in disapproval. When he was finished with his steak, he chewed upon the long curved bone, resembling an enormous boy crunching gleefully upon a lollipop.

At length, Rupert rose from his chair and dropped a crumpled bill amidst the massacre staining the tablecloth. But the waitress did not rush over to ask him if he desired dessert.

Despite his impressive size, Rupert strode easily, soundlessly, from the back of the diner towards the front doors. Nobody turned to watch him go. Only two frail older women seemed to register his presence as they wrapped their shawls tighter around their shoulders when Rupert's shadow passed over their corner booth. The silver-haired women shuddered unconsciously, and one of them complained about the "dreadful draft in this place."

Rupert stepped into the cold morning, Piggy's heavy entrance doors slammed loudly shut behind him. He was far down the sidewalk, rounding a corner up the street, before anyone noticed anything. Only then did the busboy discover the unsightly mess in the rear of the restaurant. The young lad, scratching his scalp through a grease-stained cap, motioned a waitress over. He knew very well that he had walked by this table more than a dozen times this morning. But he had not seen this grisly scene.

The waitress approached, then stopped, blinking down at the table. Carefully, she plucked the crumpled twenty out from the midst of the blood and bone and meat. Wrinkling her nose, she held the bill up between her index finger and thumb, inspecting it as though it were a suspicious stray hair.

The busboy pulled out his dishrag and dutifully began clearing the table. He muttered something. The waitress shook her head and dropped the twenty in her apron pocket. She muttered something back.

Who had been sitting here? Where did the mess come from?

But it was no use. The two of them were certain. This particular table had not been occupied for at least the past half an hour. And when the waitress asked the line cook, the scrawny little man waved his spatula around as he insisted that, as far as he could remember, no one that morning had ordered a T-bone steak and eggs.

Nobody! Not once. Check the tickets if you like...

#rupert #short story #horror story #creative writing #writerscommunity #writing practice