The exercise:
Write about: camouflage.
Max woke up early this morning, which lead to an early nap. Since it was around lunch time, I didn't join him right away. So, of course, when I did go to lie down he woke up pretty much immediately.
A late afternoon trip to the coffee shop was definitely in order.
I'm slowly catching up on comments once again. I figure that if, at worst, I do two posts per day then I'm bound to be back on track eventually.
Now all I have to do is two posts per day...
Mine:
The grass in the backyard is reaching for the top of the fence with thin, green fingers. When the wind picks up the blades sway back and forth like worshipers at some dark and unsettling ceremony, setting my teeth on edge. I keep watch from my kitchen window on those days, certain that someone or some thing is using the movement to cover his or her or its approach.
I should have had it cut while a lawnmower was still an option. Now a scythe is likely the best bet and none of the neighbourhood kids will go near it. Not that any of their parents would trust them with a giant blade.
Maybe I should wait for a dry spell and just toss a lit cigarette back there. If the fence catches, or the garage, or the neighbour's house? Acceptable collateral damage. At least to me.
But I don't smoke. And even if I wanted to pick up that horrid habit, I'd have to get to the corner store to buy a pack. Which would require stepping outside, leaving the safety of these walls far behind.
Putting myself directly in the line of fire of whatever might be lurking back there.
Oh, I hear you. Why not go through the front yard instead? As though I'm so mentally deficient that such a brazen idea would never occur to me!
Well, go on then. I dare you. Go see if the front yard is any better than the back.
2 comments:
One step at a time... two posts a day... three murders before lunch....
I can't quite work out if you missed nap time today, or Max was just made to go back to sleep until you'd finished your nap too!
I'm over in Porto again for a few days, seeing my team here and generally having more meetings (I'm starting to think that office workers subsist on meetings and coffee, with Excel thrown in for light entertainment). It's 29C, which is just ridiculous.
Hmm, that's quite some garden neglect your narrator has going on there! I love the fact that the front yard is quite possibly worse than the back, and find myself agreeing with his assessment of acceptable collateral damage. I think he should just man up though, and go out there and rip the grass up bare-handed and by the roots :)
Camouflage
Soft whispers drifted across the expanse of the kitchen to where he was leaning against the counter, a fresh cup of coffee half-way to his lips and the Aeropress stood neatly in the sink. He looked round, lowering the cup as he did so, and saw exactly what he expected: nothing. The kitchen was empty apart from him, and all the way across was deserted until his gaze reached the wall.
The wallpaper seemed to blur momentarily when he looked at it, and then settled down again. He shivered involuntarily, a feeling like tiny cold footsteps walking down his spine, and then lifted his cup and drank. The coffee tasted suddenly bitter.
The whispers came again, this time from the corner where the mop was propped against the wall. He refused to look; the things that were whispering were masters of camouflage, and all he'd see would be the blur, almost like your eyes were tired, before they moved again. And then started whispering when they thought they weren't being observed.
He could almost make out the words as well; he definitely caught his own name being used a few times. They didn't sound angry, but the tone was... retributive.
The whispering stopped, and he realised that someone had come into the room. He looked up, just in time to see his wife disappear in a blur of motion, fading away into the wall.
The whispering started again.
Greg - yup, exactly. Wait, three what now? :P
Ah, the master of horror strikes again. Some seriously fantastic details in this one work to really bring a sense of reality to it.
Which, of course, serves to make it all the scarier.
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