Jackie Part 2

Part 1


Jackie’s POV ~~~ 4 years later

I took a crumb of bread, threw it in the fire and watched it burn. Between bites, I saw the fire dance, tendrils of the flames swirling around the scraps of wood. The smoke breathed into my bones like a dragon, and my spirits raised up a bit higher like a knight’s war call.

I like watching the fire. My mother said I got that habit from my father, and he said I got it from her. My puzzling parents, as always.

I wish it was always now.

Two candles, in a shelf by the door, one extinguished and the other desperately holding onto its light represented them. The remaining flame climbed up the wick, and fell again, raising itself back up in a continuous cycle. My father’s flame, it was, still alive after the eight years he hasn’t came back, maybe more so than ever.

Suddenly, the fire puckered up, licking the corners of the paper behind. Cautiously, I fanned the paper out, but not before the last thing I wrote on it scorched, painted a dung colored brown. September 31,—- the year was gone.

Flustered, I crumpled up the paper, snowballing it into the fire. The white tumbled into the raging orange, as the red consumed both the colors.”Phoo!” I blew out my father’s last flame. “Bye bye, mother and father .” Memories flashed by, and as always, came back to stab me in the chest, the knife cold and hard.

I slammed the door, scrambling into the grass, blades brushing against my bare ankles.

Today, the grass was a bit pointed, frozen by last night’s frost. The ground was sparsely covered at this season, but nonetheless, this was the day that Jack fought the beast a hundred or so years ago. I was just waiting for the bells to ring, when the townspeople would gather around the beanstalk, fruitful with flowers and life.

“Heyo!” Christian greeted me, grinning widely. His limp brown noodle-like hair was in a ponytail, and he was wearing a tan scumbag shirt. A bandage was taped on his cheek, newly acquired. “What’s up? Such a normal day, isn’t it?” He was trying his best to be a charmer.

“Today is the hundred and eighth anniversary of Jack slaying the giant! Did you forget?” I pulled his ear.

“It’s today?” He seemed startled, scratching his head stupidly.

“It is, you dunce!” I let him go, and he hopped like a bunny, freed from my grasp.

He hollered, “Oh boy! I can’t wait! Let’s go, Jackie!” He held my hand, racing toward the middle of the city. He ran, almost tripping me off my feet. Tendrils of his hair flew in my eyes, as I blinked rapidly, in a bewildered flurry of hair and quick wind. Soon, we were at the Beanstalk. I could see why he was, in fact, the Running Champion of the Hallows.

“Come one, come all!” The village minister welcomed the swarms of people with open arms, his blubbery form, jolly, unfitting with his outfit of dark black, “Today, we preach the powers of Jack sent by God, hundreds and hundreds of years ago!” The good-hearted man was yelling his blessings, sitting on the circular structure of smooth stone, surrounding the green plant, sprouting into the clouds.

From my place below, I saw vines swirling around the stalk, light pink flowers blooming, and as my eyes eventually climbed up to where it seared the hefty layer of puffy clouds. The scent of vanilla coated the air, my most recent favorite smell of candles. Wanting to smell more of the delicious scent, I followed my nose, landing on a precious pink flower, on the lower vines of the Beanstalk. As I went down to smell it, the petals collapsed on each other, closing its doors to its sweet center. I turned my head, as another heavy waft of vanilla flooded my senses. The flower opened back up again! Rushingly, I bounded for it again, unceremoniously greeted by an explosion of mustard pollen dust. With my face caked in yellow, I dumbly looked onto my friends in front of me. What an embarrassment!

The group of raunchy boys laughed at me, including Christian.

“Look at Jackie, smelling the flowers! Such a girly-girl, isn’t she?” Tom, the big, strong one of the group teased.

“At least I’m not as dumb as you!” I annoyingly played with his hair, “Shut up!”

“Shut up?” He was outraged, “How about you shut up!” Tom punched me the stomach, sending me flying with the blow, “You weak little girl!”

I got up to my bearings, cracking my neck, ready for a fight. This guy was not messing with me again! Gritting my teeth, I kicked his shins, confusing him. He stole a single glance at his ankles, when I delivered a solid punch to his face. He ricocheted into the rock hard stone, grunting like a caveman as he got up to his feet. Tom stared me down, his expression like a bull chasing red. From the corner of my eye, I saw bloody teeth scattered behind his large body.

“Guys! Break it up!” Christian yelled, pushing Tom away from me. His heels screeched against the dirt, dust emitting from them.

“Yeah, Tom!” Kev was on his side, cheering him on, like a little rodent. He pumped his skinny arm into the air, screaming an almost incompressible war cry, “Kill her!”

“Stop it!” Christian stopped pushing Tom. He gave us both a sly smirk, “Do you guys really want to be fighting in front of the minister?” The minister, noticing Christian’s cue, frowned at us. It was the first time I’d ever saw a negative emotion on him, and like his cloak, it certainly didn’t fit him well.

“Or…” he added, “The minister’s daughter? You know her, Kev. It looks like you’ll be her man quite soon.” For good measure, he added a high whistle.

“Really?” Kev questioned. He didn’t quite get Christian’s plan to stop our fight.

Instantly, Tom straightened, a fragile blush forming on his cheeks. I sat down, fixing my hair and brushing the yellow pigment off my face. They aren’t anything but embarrassments! I thought to myself, I couldn’t believe what Maria would do if she saw me like that! I’m so stupid! I tossed the last of the dust off my clothes, scooting to the front. All the townspeople will be here soon, so I needed to get a good, frontward seat for the storytelling. Even if I heard the story a million times, the story of the boy who killed the giant, I never got tired of it.

“You’re so funny!” Maria tapped my nose, giggling. Neatly, she folded her legs, crisscross-applesauce, hands on her knees along with a playful smile splayed on her face. Her black hair curled carefully around her chest, covering one half of her schoolgirl tie. Her glasses were large saucers, and developed bifocals from when I saw her last. “I saw the little duel you had there. And the explosion with flower dust!” A mischievous daft shone from her voice, “You like flowers, don’t you?”

“Y-y-y—yeah.” I stuttered. Staying calm in front of a rich person wasn’t easy, especially when you eat candies from the bottoms of shoes. “I do.”

“What’s wron—” Maria was interrupted by the tolling of bells, always playing the tone they do at midnight. This morning, it marked not only the noon hour, but a special ceremony as well: The 108th Storytelling of Jack, the hero of our village.


©SPINETTE SPYDER

Mellow Yellow Episode 22: A Lovely Boat Ride

TICK and TOCK  are in a tree, watching LENA and JOHN go on a boat ride down a stream.

JOHN: California exists, Len! Can you believe it?

LENA: No.

JOHN: What do you mean?

LENA: No, I don’t believe in California.

JOHN: But it’s real!

LENA: No it’s not. It’s just a figment of some terrible songwriter’s imagination.

JOHN: But Tick said―

LENA: Since when has anything Tick said made any sense?

JOHN: Well, that one time, she said…

LENA: …

JOHN: …

LENA: …

JOHN: One time she said, “The night sky is nothing but a black bottle of milk with pinpricks of firefly juice.”

LENA: Exactly!

JOHN: Exactly what?

LENA: You’ve proven my point.

JOHN: No, I’ve proven my point.

LENA rolls her eyes, frustrated.

TOCK: Should we tell them?

TICK: I suppose…

TOCK: But “should” isn’t the same thing as “will”.

TICK: I love it when you finish my…

TOCK stares blankly at TICK.

TICK starts stripping leaves from the tree.

TOCK: What are you doing?

TICK: I’m making a song.

TOCK shrugs and starts watching LENA and JOHN with vulpine focus, who continue to argue incessantly over unimportant subjects.

TICK (singing in her strangely melodic voice): ♩ Row, row, row your boat/gently down the stream/when you hit the waterfall/then you’ll start to scream ♩

LENA and JOHN: AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!

 

~~~~END

Jackie

I saw that Arachnid was putting her story A Dreamer in the Darkness up here, so I decided to put up my story Jackie here too. I hope you enjoy it!

Giant’s POV

-Have you ever seen a giant climb down a beanstalk? No? Well, this is what I did that night… so long ago.

Found one.

The little girl scuttled away, racing through the fields, her feet making these soft taps in the dirt. The dust billowed upon my face, as I stifled a cough, hoping desperately that she did not hear me in the still sound of the night. Choo! I sniffled. Not apprehending my presence, the adolescent ran off into the village, wearing a mask of urgency and with a slight crook in her thick eyebrows displaying swallowed, compressed fear.

I crawled through the forest of trees, my giant monstrous body causing them to rattle. Leaves crunched under my hands as I hastily tried to maneuver myself, every move a hideous crash. A few paces later, I perked up, surveying a villa. It was small, quaint, with wind slipping through the cracks of sleeping huts. Then I saw her. A blast of red, then the lock of the door. Click!

Circling around the suburb, I restlessly settled myself down near the home the adolescent sneakily slid into. I looked through a window, eager for the story I was about to unravel. The girl’s eyes were wide as she flinched at each minuscule squeak. I folded my fingers together, tight, as my eager thoughts flipped to dread, waiting for what was to come next for the poor girl.

She trudged down the hall, as my curiosity went along with her, my vision darting towards the next window, inside a kitchen. The teenager was haphazardly throwing damaged pieces of silverware, opening wooden cupboards and loudly calling for someone. Seamlessly, her tension softened into concern which, of course, quickly fastened into worry.

-Humans have crazy emotions.

Her ragged breath blew in and out, fixing itself with the rhythm that the house was bouncing along with the thumps of my heart. Ta-dum, ta-dum, tad-dum. It was the only constant thing among the chaos of her crashing, clashing and screams.

“Mother!” The call was adamant.

Nothing.

Immediately, like lighting, the girl’s boots clunked up the steps. With my curiosity on full blast, I grabbed the top of the house, pulling my face closer, almost so the very tip of my nose touched the window. This one uncovered a bedroom and an older woman sleeping peacefully. I hope her daughter doesn’t disrupt her calm tranquil dreams. I swiped a quiet , calculating finger across the window, feeling the texture of smooth glass. It was new to me—- I never had felt it before.

Then a red swish flew through the door. The girl, I thought, recalling when I saw the red haired teenager enter the hut. Her cheeks were red, her hair matted with sweat, as she climbed onto the bed. She whispered something, something I couldn’t hear from the outside, so without weighing the consequences, I pressed my ear against the wall. Warningly, the house wobbled, dirt and planks falling from the roof. The girl fell on her napping mother, somehow failing to wake her up, but didn’t even gaze in my direction. Thank goodness. My shoulders fell, as I blew a gust of air from my lips, fogging up the window.

The girl’s shrieking cry emanated from the room, an incredible, incoherent cry that shook me from my head to my toes. Tinglings of the shriek vibrated in my mind, as I wiped the fog off the window, slowly unclothing the scene, my eyes progressively dilating, my brows folded in disbelief. I gasped, my fingers fanning in front of my “o” of a mouth.

The mother’s chest was scarlet with blood, a knife glinting from the wound. The mother’s blanket was thrown to the floor, and with that a terrifying secret.

-Don’t ever ask me to describe “death” of those creatures.

I ran away. Up the Beanstalk, in the middle of the town. Giant goblets of water drooped along my long, narrow face, flicking themselves off my jaw, wetting my hair and chest. I clutched at my breasts, thankful that I still have mine. Remorsefully, I took one last look of the village. It was so beautiful, with eerie hidden horrors lurking inside, a world of stars never seen above the clouds. I was so sorry I had to leave so soon.

A early rising lumberjack yakked at my appearance. He withdrew his axe, quickening my departure.


Part 2


©SPINETTE SPYDER

A Dreamer in the Darkness: Part 3 (Short Story)

Part 1

Part 2


I’m curled up on the cold, cement floor of a small, windowless room in the basement. After Blue left, Shabby pulled me inside, his grip even tighter than Blue’s, and shut the door. I tried to memorize the stars. It felt like the last time I’d see the sky. He didn’t talk to me at all, he just shoved me in this little room and left. I didn’t get any food and my stomach is growling.

I have nightmares when I finally fall into the darkness that has been tugging on me, tearing me to shreds.

 

Three days have passed, and I’ve started to fall into a routine. Twice a day, I’m given bowls of cold oatmeal that slide down my throat like an eel. It’s always slipped in through a panel on the door. The food is disgusting, but I still eat it. Every other time I’m given food, I make a nick on my sword with a rusty nail I found to keep track of the days that have passed. There’s a small bathroom attached to this room where I bathe and get my water. My sword is always clutched tightly in my hand.

No one has come to rescue me. I burst into tears quite often. Obviously, I’m upset I’m still here, but I’m more upset that I didn’t tell Mother and Father that I love them before they left. I can’t help but think that was goodbye forever and I did it wrong.

Once, a long time ago, Mother told me, “Don’t ever get into a stranger’s car.” I forgot and I’m cursing myself.

 

It’s my birthday today. I’m finally actually six. My sword tells me three months have passed. I cannot remember the color of Father’s eyes or the smell of Mother’s hair, but my tears have dried up. There’s nothing left. I’m having trouble sleeping. Whatever brief moments of rest I do manage to capture are plagued by dreams of dark shapes that try to steal me away and rip me apart as Mother and Father watch. There are tears, but nothing can be done.

 

I’ve been staring at the wall for a few minutes, or possibly a couple hours, when I hear the door open. The sound claws at my ears until they bleed scarlet and I drown in my moon-warmed blood.

I don’t turn around, so Shabby walks across the room until he’s in front of the wall. I haven’t seen another human in around 94 days. Shabby doesn’t quite fit his name anymore. He’s in much better hygiene. He’s taken a shower and cut his hair and shaved and his teeth are still white and straight. He’s wearing new clothing.

He smiles at me in a way that tells me I’ve just seen evil’s face. It’s so much worse than poisoned candy. He’s hiding something behind his back and won’t let me see it. I don’t think I want to.

“I’ve drained all the ransom money I could from your dear parents, so you’re of no use to me anymore,” he sneers. He sees a treasure to take when he looks at me. I shiver.

He steps forward and his smile is scary and I don’t know what he’s got behind his back and I’m scared. I scream and swing my sword.

My left-hand shudders as the sword hits his head and he stumbles, tripping over a crate, and he falls and groans. What was in his hand has fallen and it’s a gun.

I freeze, but I have to act now, before he can hurt me. I run forward, fast enough that you cannot see anything of me but my essence, and I grab the keys to my dungeon from a hook on Shabby’s pocket. He lunges at me, but he’s disoriented and I’m fast and I skitter out of his way, but I stumble and fall to the cold stone floor. I scramble up and hurry to the thick door trapping me here, away from the moon, and shove the key into the hole and dart outside and slam the door shut behind me, locking Shabby inside. I can feel the vibrations through the door as he bangs on it.

I run up the stairs to the main floor and I make it as far as the porch when my knees give up and the tears come. They don’t stop until water fills my lungs and steals all my air, but Mother isn’t here and Shabby’s in the basement and I have to get far away. I clutch my sword and I dry my tears on my dirty sleeve and I march on.

The house isn’t in the middle of nowhere. It’s in a tiny neighborhood and there are street lights and other signs of life. Really, the house looks like every other house here, even though it’s actually a prison.

I’ve been walking for awhile when I see another person at a street corner, and I quicken my pace despite my dying muscles. As I approach the man on the corner, I slow down. Can I trust him? But then I see he’s wearing a uniform and he has a sirencar next to him. He’s an officer. Mother says that I can trust officers above all other adults. They don’t count as strangers. I’m still wary. I’ve learned my lesson.

I tap his elbow and he glances down at me and stares.

“I’ve just run away from a dungeon,” I tell him, pointing at the direction from which I’ve come. “There’s a man who stole me and he tried to hurt me with a gun.”

He blinks three more times then says in an awed voice, “You’re Sam Warner. Everyone thought you were dead.” But I am clearly alive.

 

The officer said something into his walkie-talkie and more officers came. They asked me to tell them what the house and Shabby and Blue looked like. Now, I’m in the backseat of a sirencar with a dark-haired officer lady. She says she’s going to bring me to my parents.

***

Mother, Father, and I sit by the fireplace and we watch the snowflakes drift outside like puffy miniature clouds. I sip my hot chocolate, burning my tongue. I love it anyway.


© ARACHNID WEAVER 2018

Mellow Yellow Episode 21: True Love

TICK, TOCK, ARA, and CHLOE are at a diner, waiting to be served.

CHLOE: We are just throw away characters! We have no story!

ARA: Except Mellow Yellow, I guess. I was in Outside In for a very short period of time.

TICK and TOCK: So… are we here to organize your next debut?

CHLOE (nodding): Yes.

ARA: But I’m dead!

CHLOE: I could bring you back to life with true love’s kiss! And it’ll be with a sunset and flamingos and gummy worms and dramatic lighting.

ARA (Catching on): OOoooh with stars too! (bumping TOCK’s shoulder) I’ve heard that you make a great star.

TOCK: I guess I am

CHLOE: And since the sun IS a star, you can be the sun too!

TOCK: Wait. That won’t fit into the story… It’ll be too cheesy.

TICK: Not to mention the mouth to mouth tension.

ARA: We don’t have to debut in Downside Up. I mean, we can always go to Ned the Narwhal, right?

CHLOE: NEIGH! WE’LL BECOME HORSES!

ARA: So… not Ned the Narwhal. How about SOSP?

CHLOE: I do approve, but did you like my pun? It was hilarious! (Laughing at own joke)

ARA: What pun?

CHLOE smashes ARA into a conveniently placed brick wall

CHLOE (ugly crying): ARA! WHY DIDN’T YOU GET MY JOKE? HOW COULD YOU?

(starts eating Tic Tacs)

TICK and TOCK look at each other with questionable faces.

RUE walks up to the table sporting a suit and tie.

RUE (In a silent French accent): Hello, good madames! Here is what you ordered! (Puts down plates and plates of shrimp sticks, red velvet wall cake, and little pieces of LENA’s rotten baloney)

TICK: Thank you, waiter. As you see our guests are a bit… emotional no— (Goes to sleep) ZZZZZ

RUE shrugs and walks away.

Suddenly JAY rushes up to the table.

JAY: Sorry, I’m late! (gobbles up some shrimp) So… when and where is the new debut of ours?

TOCK: Haven’t decided. (Rolls eyes at ARA and CHLOE) And you actually have working emotions!

JAY: Yeah. I got them fixed by MANAGER OPPA. So when is the debut?

TOCK: They said they wanted it in Ned the Narwhal with a sunset, flamingos, gummy worms, dramatic lighting, and stars. Ara will come back to life with a true love’s kiss and you will probably just be awkwardly standing there, censoring the mouth to mouth tension.

JAY: What part of the story? How long are we in it?

TOCK: Maybe just a sentence. In the middle. I’ll type it up once I get home.

JAY, CHLOE, and ARA: JUST A SENTENCE!?

TOCK: It’s important to be a necessity to the plot.

CHLOE: What if we are the judge’s three children? And Ara is from Earth so she can’t marry me legally. But the judge wants me to be happy, but he cannot break the law, so he sends me to Earth! And then on Earth, we kiss in front of a sunset once finding each other on the vast land!

TICK (awake from her slumber): GREAT IDEA!

TOCK: That will definitely be written into the story!

CHLOE and ARA: Hooray!

JAY: What about me?

TICK (ignoring JAY): I guess it’s settled.

JAY: WHAT ABOUT MEEEEE?

 

~~~END

 

*THis is AN Epilogue, oh WoW im sMarT*

TICK: So, Author, will Chloe, Ara, and Jay make a comeback?

AUTHOR: NEVER!

LICORICE: (running away) AAAAAH! SOME EARTHLINGS ARE KISSING IN FRONT OF THE SUNSET! THEY ARE CAUSING A SCENE! UNICORNIA IS BREAKING!

TICK: Really? WHOA!

TOCK: (Taking TICK’s chin in her hand) I wonder if we kiss now if the whole world would implode!

LICORICE: DON’T DO IT!

The world becomes a black hole

AUTHOR: THE SHIP HAS FINALLY SAILED! (ship sails in distance)

JAY: They’re sisters remember!? The line that you put on that family tree was a mistake!

AUTHOR (with dread): What have I done?

 

~~~END

 

A Dreamer in the Darkness: Part 2 (Short Story)

Part 1


I stare at him. My mind has gone blank. Mother and Father are so strong. Who could hurt them? There’s urgency in his eyes. He keeps glancing around my house and then back outside. I can tell he’s in a hurry to get going. He’s an adult. I can trust adults, so he must be telling the truth, and my parents are in danger. I still haven’t grasped this impossible possibility.

“I’ll be a moment,” I say. “I need to grab something to help.” He gestures for me to be quick.

I run upstairs and rummage through my toy chest, scattering my things throughout my room. I find what I need and tug it out. It’s a wooden sword Father made last summer after he read The Three Musketeers to me.

As I’m walking down the sweeping staircase, I notice the man reaching toward the oil painting on the wall. I slow down for a moment, but I shake away any doubts. He’s an adult, and adults always do what’s right.

Father says I walk like a cat, my steps near-silent, but now I stomp down the rest of the stairs. The man is startled, but he quickly collects himself. He clears his throat and says, “Shall we go, Sam?” For a fleeting moment, I wonder how he knows my name. I tell myself it’s nothing.

 

His car is a couple houses down from mine. He could’ve parked it closer; it’s not as if we have guests over in the middle of the night. The man’s car is a rusty truck with two rows of seats. It looks like his clothing: old and well-used.

The man opens the back door and motions for me to get inside. I stare at him. He looks at me like I’m insane and asks, scowling slightly, “What?” He’s getting more hurried. I can tell by the way his brow is furrowed. He keeps glancing left and right.

“There’s no car seat,” I say.

“Car seats aren’t important,” he replies. I disagree, but I’m not supposed to talk back. I get into the car, but without a car seat, I can’t see out the window. It’s too high up.

We drive for twenty minutes and it seems like the man, who I’ve decided to call Blue for his clothing, is trying to hit every pothole in the road. Each bump and break is jarring and I slam against the seat belt. I shove my sword inside my jacket to protect it from the rough ride.

When we finally stop, Blue opens the car door and my eyes trace up the long gravel drive to a ghostly house in the midst of nothing. The vinyl is a putrid shade of gray, like a graveyard’s tears. I look at Blue, bewildered, and say, “This isn’t the restaurant.” My parents had taken me there with them before. It was nice with flickering candles and a sweet smell, although I never found out what the scent was.

Blue ignores me and grabs my forearm. He’s hurting me, but I fail to wriggle from his grasp. I have to half-run to keep up with Blue’s long strides as he leads me up the long gravel drive.

 

I stumble on the porch steps, but Blue yanks me forward. He pounds on the door, so hard I’m surprised his fist doesn’t go through the frail wood. When no one answers, he knocks on the door again, this time so loud that I would shield my ears if Blue weren’t holding my arm so tightly.

The door is opened by a glowering man who’s even shabbier than Blue. He’s narrow and he’s got long and scraggly hair that’s in dire need of a brush. When his grayish eyes find my face, the frown disappears and is replaced with a crooked grin. His teeth are extremely white and they clash with the rest of him. I decide to call him Shabby in my head.

Shabby is still looking at me and I shrink under his searing gaze. He asks Blue, “Is this the Warner kid?” Blue nods and Shabby gives him money.

Blue hands me to Shabby then heads down the long gravel drive and gets in his truck and drives away. I suddenly want him to come back. I want him to take me back to evil Emmica.

Part 3


© Arachnid Weaver 2018

Mellow Yellow Episode 21: Revenge

TICK is braiding her hair, humming Rawr.

JOHN: Why are you humming that?

TICK: Hmm?

JOHN: Why are you humming that―that disgrace instead of California Gurls?

TICK: What’s a gurl?

JOHN: Well, it’s like a mashup of girl and hurl. It really is quite obvious. I’m almost surprised you couldn’t figure that out on your own.

TICK shrugs lazily.

JOHN: And no one knows what Cali―

TICK (angry): I didn’t ask you what California is. I know what it is, anyway.

JOHN: (jaw drops) You―you know what California is?

TICK: (Shrugs. Says nonchalantly while unbraiding her hair) Yes. That’s what I just said. It’s an area of land, called a state, in another country in an alternate universe where the writer of the song is from.

JOHN doesn’t believe her and walks away, shaking his head in an attempt to remove this insanity

TICK braids her hair again

TOCK enters and stands silently in the doorway for fourteen minutes and 32 seconds before leaving again.

TICK is unbraiding her hair when she hears a doorbell. She opens it and calls over her shoulder

TICK: Quinn! It’s for you!

QUINN walks in and yelps

QUINN: Yelp

An army of bread sandwich ghosts led by BREAD SNADWHICH III converge on QUINN and he is never seen from again

 

~~~~END

 

A Dreamer in the Darkness: Part 1 (Short Story)

Hey guys! I recently wrote a short story, but it’s far too long to put in one post because humans have short attention spans, so I’m going to break it up into a couple parts. As you are reading it, the beginning may tickle your memory because I did post the first page or so when the story was still a fledgling, but now it has been completed and is somewhat different.


Ihug my blue teddy bear, Zachy, tightly as my parents prepare to leave. Mother says his name is actually Zachary, but my little two-year-old tongue couldn’t say so many syllables and he became Zachy from then on.I like “Zachary” much better. It sounds more refined, but Zachy will forever be “Zachy.” It’s too late to change it.

My parents are going on a date tonight. I asked them not to. It’s cold and cloudy tonight, and I can tell I’m going to have nightmares. Father said I’m a strong boy and as long as I have Zachy and Emmica I can do anything. I said I’d be brave for him.

Mother hands Emmica, my babysitter, some money. She smiles at them. Her smile is like poisoned candy. I don’t like her, but my parents think she is lovely. Mother says to trust Emmica, that she’ll always do what’s best for me.

Emmica is a pretty girl, like the kind you see on TV. She has straight, white teeth and green eyes and dark brown hair. One streak is pink and blue. I haven’t figured out how she makes her hair colorful. I’ve tried concentrating, but my hair has not turned orange yet. My floppy yellow hair always stays floppy and yellow no matter how much I try to change it.

My parents hug me and then leave. I flinch as the door slams, locking me inside with Emmica. As soon as the front door is shut, Emmica’s pleasant smile morphs into a scowl. I grimace. She doesn’t like to be here, but she also loves to collect money. She says, her voice sweet, “If you need anything, I’ll be at Izzy’s,” and heads out the door. I flinch again as it closes.

I gape at where she used to be. I don’t think Emmica is supposed to leave me alone, as I’m only five—nearly six—and children are always supposed to be with someone older. I’ll tell Mother about her when they get back. Maybe then I’ll get a new babysitter who has a pleasant smile.

Izzy lives close by and Emmica likes her much more than me. I don’t like Izzy. Sometimes, she plays loud music at night and makes it hard to sleep. I can feel it echo in my bones.

Emmica has never left before, and I’m alone for the first time. Usually, she never pays attention to me, but she stays with me. I’m scared, but I’m almost six. I can do things by myself and I’m strong.

I’m hungry. I may be almost-six and I may be able to do things by myself and I may be strong, but I cannot cook. It’s already an hour past my dinner time and the door doesn’t open. Mother gave Emmica a key a few weeks ago, so she shouldn’t need my help to come inside.

I’m at war with myself. I want to find Emmica because I want food, but I’m not supposed to leave by myself. My hunger wins. I grab my sweater and a set of keys from the closet and I head outside. My friend, the moon, is hidden by heavy clouds that hang low in the dark sky. A biting breeze blows litter and dead leaves across my feet. I shiver.

I walk down the porch steps and the driveway until I’m on the sidewalk. I run, unsettled by the night, next door to Izzy’s house and ring the doorbell. Nobody answers. The music is playing today and I can feel the porch shaking under my feet. I count 120 seconds then ring the bell again. There are neon lights in the windows behind the curtains.

This time Emmica answers. The door flies open and she leans against the frame. There’s a fading smirk on her electric-blue lips and her eyes are glittering. She’s wearing a short maroon dress and shoes that make her look like a giraffe. I have to tilt my head back to see her face. Music pounds behind her and I can hear people shouting.

“Well?” she asks. The happiness has drained from her face and has been replaced with her usual expression. It looks like she’s eaten a sour grape.

“I’m hungry.”

She smiles that ugly smile and says, “You’re a smart boy, Sammy, right? You can figure it out.” I wince. No one but Mother is allowed to call me Sammy.

She slams the door in my face.

Emmica told me I could figure this out. I look at my kitchen and think it’s improbable.I’m not allowed to touch the knives or the oven or the microwave and I don’t know how to cook.

I open the refrigerator and scan its contents. There’s milk, but I can’t make cereal since the milk jug is too heavy for me to lift. The freezer is too high for me to reach and I’m not supposed to stand on the chairs since I fell one time and broke my arm.

The clock says it’s past my bedtime. I sigh, giving the kitchen one last long look before heading upstairs to brush my teeth and head to bed.

I spit into the sink and when I look up, I see that I’m frowning, so I make a silly face and smile. Smiling is so much more pleasant than frowning unless you smile like Emmica.

I’ve just slid between the freezingcovers when the doorbell rings. It must be Emmica. She’d want to return before Mother and Father come back, but she has a key. She shouldn’t need to ring the bell, but maybe she left her key at home.

I slip out of bed and pad down the stairs, but I stop before reaching the door. Usually, Mother or Father answers the door and they always look through the peephole, but I can’t reach it without standing on a chair. But if it’s Emmica and she doesn’t have a key I need to open the door for her because she can’t spend the next three or four hours on the porch and I need her to make me food.

The door bows open and it isn’t Emmica standing on the other side of the threshold. The street lamp on the far side of the road flickers, turning the tall man in front of me into a shadow. He takes up too much space.I have to take a step back to breathe.

The street lamp flickers for a bit longer, caught between light and darkness. It chooses darkness, but the light from inside casts a warm glow on the man’s face.

“Hello,” I say. It comes out meeker than I intended, so I try again, stronger.

The man is strangely dressed in a baby blue suit. Father always wears black or white, or if he’s feeling spontaneous, a color like vanilla pudding. The suit is sharp and creased in all the right places, but it’s old. It’s worn so thoroughly in some places there’s only thread and I can almost see his white shirt beneath. The edges of the sleeves are frayed enough that it looks like he’s decided to tape his dog’s shed fur to the edges of his sleeves. The man doesn’t have a beard, but he doesn’t not have a beard either.

He says, “Quick, come with me, Sam. Your parents are in danger. Only you can save them.”

Part 2


© Arachnid Weaver 2018

Mellow Yellow Episode 19: Pool Party

In CYRA’s homely cottage, setting up a kiddie pool

CYRA: (whipping LUR) All done! I think your blood has filled up the pool!

LUR (weakly): Get me out of here.

CYRA: Yay! I’m going to change into my swimsuit, okay? You wait here.

LUR: I’m tied up! (struggles with the ropes)

 

***

 

CYRA: I’m back! (Now dressed in a green bikini, and is untying LUR)

LUR: What is this? A pool party?

CYRA: Yeah! I got the drinks too! (holds up a wine glass filled with blood. ZHAN’s eyeball floats on top) Want one?

LUR: No.

CYRA: Not even with these silver noodles he had clenched in his hands? (slurps TICK’s hair) They are quite tasty.

LUR: NO.

CYRA: Don’t you want to have some fun? (Puts hand on his shoulder)

LUR: … (Flashbacking wildly)

CYRA: Hello? Lur? (waving her hands frantically in front of his face) Oh well, I guess I could just look in that bag that you have…

LUR: … (Lost in the land of Flashback)

CYRA: (rummaging through his bag) Let’s see… bullets, an array of forks from different countries that don’t exist, Slugventures, and a single by Katy Perry. (Rubbing dust off the cover) Ooooh! California Gurls! This is perfect!

LUR: (back from his journey) Hey! What are you doing?

CYRA places the disk into a conveniently placed disk player.

California Gurls plays

LUR (Singing along): CALIFORNIA GURLS, WE’RE UNDENIABLE, DAISY DUKES… (Looks from his swim trousers to her bikini frantically)

CYRA: EIFFEL TOWERS ON TOP! (An Eiffel Tower grows out of the ground behind them)

QUINN is in the bushes with popsicles, ready to fire, along with his army men, JOHN, and LENA.

CYRA and LUR: FUN, FRESH, FIERCE, SO HOT. WE’LL—

QUINN: FIREEEEEWEEE! (JOHN fires the popsicles, but they melt in the air)

CYRA and LUR: MELT YOUR POPSICLE!

QUINN: So this is the true power of the Fire Nation.

JOHN: Yes, they are almost untouchable!

LENA: But it looks like they are having a lot of fun. Look at those yummy snacks they have!

JOHN: Let’s go!

JOHN and LENA rip off their clothing (they are wearing bathing suits), running toward the pool party, leaving QUINN all alone.

QUINN: Hello darkness, my old friend.

LENA: (wearing a blue bathing suit, settling down in the blood pool) Hey guys, what’cha up to?

JOHN: Yeah. What up? (In red swim trousers)

LUR: (with an idiotic smile) The Eiffel Tower!

JOHN’s eyes narrow.

CYRA sucks on ZHAN’s disembodied finger

JOHN: You are supposed to say “the ceiling” (Disgraced, he leaves the pool, tripping over the finished glasses of ZHAN’s blood)

LENA: I guess it’s just us now, huh?

LUR: Hey! I just realized now that I can escape!

CYRA takes LUR, folds him into a sandwich, and sits on him. She finishes him off with a dagger to the cheek.

LUR: Ow.

LENA: (Petrified) What? Is this stuff not fruit punch?

CYRA grabs LENA’s swimming suit, folds her into a burrito, and uses her as a footrest. She slurps her ZHAN-blood desperately trying to fit the eyeball into her mouth.

JOHN: (In the bushes with QUINN) The Fire Nation is truly despicable.

QUINN: Yes. (bites Bread Snadwhich three)

 

~~~END

 

It’s Kind of Like Cinderella! (A Short Story)

Today (actually yesterday), I wrote a story based off of and including eight randomly generated words. The story took a very odd turn.

So here are the eight words:

bucket ~ first on the bucket list!

miniature~ yay! cute things!

summon~ the first thing I think of is an exorcism.

herbs~ pickle, pineapple, strawberry!

beg~ so it’s gonna be about a poor street rat.

shoes ~ red heels have such a lovely aesthetic to them.

purring~ meow, meow.

seduce ~ I’m going to have fun with this one!

It’s Kind of like Cinderella!

“Oh, Maria!” Kara’s cheeks lowered into a fiery bliss, “Look at these new shoes!”

Maria watched her go tap tap with her heels in moonlight, enjoying the sliding reflection on the tips, but even more so the toes tucked inside them. She sighed hollowly; the sight of her feet was enough to seduce her.

Cautiously, Maria took her hands and brushed them against the shoe, noting the pure quality of plastic but also the mere millimeter she was away from touching Kara’s ankles. She could feel herself heating up already, desire welling up in her veins. All she would have to do is lower the bucket.

“Do you like them?” Kara purred softly.

Maria blinked twice. Surely she was imagining things, since her friend never was this appealing before. Was it her perfect feet summoning her? Those baby-like miniature red nails?

“It’s nice,” was all Maria managed to say.

It was as if the stars of Paris, France were ready to supernova in her chest. Her thumb teetered on the edge of the plastic just about ready to touch Kara’s skin, to build a portal to unlimited toe grazing. Oh my, Maria thought in pleasure, I just need to move my finger! Why won’t it move!

Kara stepped away to look at the stars above them, grinning, “It’s so pretty out here.”

Maria’s hands clenched the brick bench she was sitting on, a cold, hard floor to bring her back to reality. Still, the girl hoped, taking on this idiom she learned recently, If it’s called being between a rock and a hard place, where is the rock? The flame of desire didn’t go out yet; Maria would do anything to touch those feet.

For some odd reason, Kara’s voice seemed more poetic rather than the usual squeal, “I know this is weird, but can you…” A clumsy poet begging for money, but the nonetheless, she continued, “give me your…”

“What?” Maria questioned. Did she want to swap shoes? Jackpot!

“…Your feet?” Kara’s face beamed bright pink, “Please! I know it’s weird! I just want to touch them, maybe take a picture? Just for a bit!” she begged.

A new fresh-herb confidence waded over Maria as she kicked off her tennis shoes, stomping to her goal. She gently took off her friend’s heels, placing them on the cement, making sure to caress the undersides of her toenails while she was at it. Kara gave her private smile, urging her to go ahead.

THE END.

Mellow Yellow Episode 16: Proposal

ZHAN and TICK are in the living room, watching a movie called Downside Up: The Horror of an Uninteresting House.

TICK snores.

ZHAN: Tick, wake up. This is the best part!

TICK: It’s so late… (blowing mucus bubbles)

ZHAN: But this is the perfect time. The stars are shining, and look, there is your favorite one now!

TOCK climbs on the ceiling in a silver suit.

TICK: I’m sleepy…

ZHAN winks at TOCK.

TOCK lights the TV on fire.

TICK: Oooh! Look at how realistic this is! You are right, Zhan, this is the best part!

The fire is spreading around while TOCK is eating some popcorn in the corner.

TICK: Special Effects! (Starts to fall asleep, almost collapsing in the fire)

ZHAN: I will save you! (Takes her in his arms and uses the conveniently placed rope to swing her out of the zone of the fire.)

TICK snores.

ZHAN (Using the also conveniently placed fire hydrant to put out the fire): It’s gone now, love.

TICK snores.

ZHAN: Tick? (cries) Are you alright? Tick?

TOCK provides dramatic lighting.

ZHAN: NOOooooo OoooOooooOoOO OoOoOooOoooOOooOooO OoOoooOOo oOooO O!

TICK: Your scream has awoken me, Zhan.

ZHAN: Tick! (Hugs TICK)

TICK hugs back even though she doesn’t know why she is hugging him.

ZHAN: After this frightening occurrence, I have seen how much you mean to me. (Secretly reading off lines written in his jeans pocket.) So will you do me the honor of marrying me? (Holds up a ring made out of Tick’s hair.)

TICK: Of course…

ZHAN: Really! (genuinely surprised) You will?

TICK: Not.

ZHAN: Oh yeah, there’s Tock, right?

TICK: Not.

 

*A while later*

 

TOCK (dragging TICK away as she goes to sleep again): You didn’t really mean that, did you?

TICK (sleep talking): You are a very nice star.

 

~~~END

 

A Challenge

Dear nonexistent readers,

Due to the impending doom and sneaky approach of midterms, it seems as though the days have inexplicably shrunk.

Apologies to all who have been here long enough to have read this post before, but I will be reposting an old post.

Authors are the ultimate problem-solvers. Think about it. They have solutions to everything, both possible and impossible, outside and inside of the imagination. How many narrow escapes have your favorite characters made? Daring last-minute rescues?

Every narrow escape and every daring last-minute rescue was planned and executed (with a pen) by the author.

They wrap up loose ends with a bow for their livings! There is no problem that an author cannot solve.

How many times have you stayed awake late into the night, biting your nails as you are sure that your slippery favorite character has finally met circumstances out of his or her unlimited capabilities? How sure were you that this was your slippery favorite character’s horrible demise? How many snotty tears of grief did you cry for your slippery favorite character’s inevitable end?

But how many times did your slippery favorite character reveal a complex plan to save them all that has been brewing since the first page? Or how many times did unexpected help arrive at the last moment?

The answer to this, dear nonexistent reader, is every single time because your favorite slippery character was slippery enough to slip through the cracks of the slippery pickle.

But you must remember, dear nonexistent reader, that an author not only solves the problem but creates the problem in the first place. Thus, the author can always create a solution because they, unlike the poor, slippery main character, can change the problem.

In an underground cell, deep under the ground with no possible means of escape, the author can provide the slippery main character with a bobby pin in his or her hair and the skills necessary to pick a lock.

On the brink of starvation, the author can provide the slippery main character with a bow and arrows and the skills necessary to hunt. (Or a gourmet meal prepared by an excellent chef could mysteriously appear on his or her slippery doorstep.)

So I challenge you, dear nonexistent reader, to solve this unsolvable problem. I challenge you, dear nonexistent reader, to save the slippery main character from his inevitable demise.

Character had never been trapped before. He had unlimited power and unending skill. He could do anything and everything the first time with utter perfection. But now, now he was trapped and he did not know what to do. His mind was blank. All the ideas that normally fought for space in his head had suddenly disappeared.

His arms were bound to his sides with iron bands. His legs were locked together similarly. He was trapped in a coffin-like steel box, sealed completely, except for five nickel-sized holes above his head for air, through which water was steadily trickling in.

The water was up to his wrists already, and it was so, so cold. No one knew where he was, where he could be. No one would’ve looked for him anyway.

A single thought bloomed like a golden crystal of snow in his otherwise empty mind, I am going to meet my inevitable demise…

A Celebration

Wonderful pineapples, dear nonexistent readers.

I would like to announce the one-monthaversary of our first book, Slugventures: The Adventures of a Slug.

To celebrate, Spinette and I will be hosting an imaginary party. Spinette wanted to invite multiple people, but I later stole the invitations from the post office we agreed that we only need my spiders and my cactus for the party to be a blast. But I did grudgingly agree to invite Ned the Narwhal, as well. [Check out Ned’s blog here. (Spinette types them as Ned only possesses flippers and is lacking in the finger department, and fingers are necessary for typing purposes.)]

So I present *drumroll* OUR FIRST BOOK!!!:

 

Slugventures is the documentation of the adventures of a certain slug named PeeWee who is racing to save the Unicornian race from the perils of imprisonment.
He is racing against a similarly named slug, PeaWea, who is the definition of evil (according to certain dictionaries). PeaWea is determined to expose the secret of the unicorns and doom them to lives behind iron bars.
PeeWee is assisted only by a set of various acquaintances: a unicorn, another unicorn, a dog, another dog (who is special), a fly (who is really more of a nuisance), and a snail.
They travel to the farthest reaches of space and traverse the Earth, hunting for a way to save the world and Unicornia, the land of the unicorns, from PeaWea.

Inverse Q&A

If this were a Traditional Q&A, I would probably be answering the questions, but as this is not a Traditional Q&A and is instead an Inverse Q&A, I will be asking you, dear nonexistent readers, the questions and as you do not exist, you will not answer.

  1. Do you eat grapes with a fork?
  2. Do you take baths, showers, or other?
  3. Do you consume soup with a fork?
  4. What other activities do you use a fork for?
  5. Do you enjoy the music of Envision Dragons?
  6. What is your favorite Envision Dragons song?
  7. Do you prefer a pen, pencil, or highlighter? (For everyday writing purposes, not for everyday highlighting purposes.)
  8. Jam or butter with your toast?
  9. If you answered “jam” to the previous question, otherwise known as Question #8, what kind of jam do you prefer with your toast?

A Challenge

Authors are the ultimate problem-solvers. Think about it. They have solutions to everything, both possible and impossible outside of the imagination. How many narrow escapes have your favorite characters made? Daring last-minute rescues?

Every narrow escape and every daring last-minute rescue were planned and executed (with a pen) by the author.

They wrap up loose ends with a bow for their livings! There is no problem that an author cannot solve.

How many times have you stayed awake late into the night, biting your nails as you are sure that your slippery favorite character has finally met circumstances out of his or her unlimited capabilities? How sure were you that this was your slippery favorite character’s horrible demise? How many snotty tears of grief did you cry for your slippery favorite character’s inevitable end?

But how many times did your slippery favorite character reveal a complex plan to save them all that has been brewing since the first page? Or how many times did unexpected help arrive at the last moment?

The answer to this, dear nonexistent reader, is every single time because your favorite slippery character was slippery enough to slip through the cracks of the slippery pickle.

You must remember, dear nonexistent reader, that an author not only solves the problem but creates the problem in the first place. Thus, the author can always create a solution because they, unlike the poor, slippery main character, can change the problem.

In an underground cell, deep under the ground with no possible means of escape, the author can provide the slippery main character with a bobby pin in his or her hair and the skills necessary to pick a lock.

On the brink of starvation, the author can provide the slippery main character with a bow and arrows and the skills necessary to hunt. (Or a gourmet meal prepared by an excellent chef could mysteriously appear on his or her slippery doorstep.)

So I challenge you, dear nonexistent reader, to solve this unsolvable problem. I challenge you, dear nonexistent reader, to save the slippery main character from his inevitable demise.

Character had never been trapped before. He had unlimited power and unending skill. He could do anything and everything the first time with utter perfection. But now, now he was trapped and he did not know what to do. His mind was blank. All the ideas that normally fought for space in his head had suddenly disappeared.

His arms were bound to his sides with iron bands. His legs were locked together similarly. He was trapped in a coffin-like steel box, sealed completely except for five nickel-sized holes above his head for air, through which water was steadily trickling in now.

The water was up to his wrists already, and it was so, so cold. No one knew where he was, where he could be. No one would’ve looked for him anyway.

A single thought bloomed like a golden crystal of snow in his otherwise empty mind, I am going to meet my inevitable demise…

Slugventures Review

The title has probably led you to believe that there will be a review of Slugventures in this post. But, obviously, I will not be reviewing my own book, as that would be very vain of me.

Following the colon will be links that will direct you to reviews of Slugventures done by other people:

Teenage Book Reader

Make sure to check out their blogs as well. They’re probably awesome.

 

Slugventures Part 2

 

I am aware that you have all been waiting and waiting and waiting some more for Slugventures to finally come out on Kindle. I have come to notify you that your wait is finally over.

Dear future nonexistent reader,

You must read Slugventures: The Adventures of a Slug—a book full of wit, cunning, and absolute stupidity—to fulfill the life goals you didn’t know you had.