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+---- Thread: t'was the night before christmas | round i (/showthread.php?tid=4954)
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t'was the night before christmas | round i - The Elves - 11-30-2015
| 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds; While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and you in you cap, Had just settled down for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, You sprang from your bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window you flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave a lustre of midday to objects below, When what to your wondering eyes did appear, But a green furry man and eight tiny demons All wearing antlers, so ugly and fake, You knew in a moment he must be The Grinch. But what can you do? This is no ordinary Grinch, not the guy from the Seuss books whose heart ends up growing three sizes too big. His eyes glow a strange, hideous green, but you cannot see pupils. His fake little reindeer run on two legs, cackling, the snow turning to slush in their wake. Something is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. There’s another clatter on the roof, and you hear more cackling, the gremlin-like noise of the demons. They are clambering down through the chimney. No one else seems to have heard them, and you look around. Maybe this is a dream. You’ve never walked on two legs before, after all. Never had a bed, or children for that matter. But it feels real. The hair on the back of your neck is standing up, a cold sweat beginning to soak through those cheesy red christmas PJ’s you wear every year. But what do you do? Do you pinch yourself, try to wake up? Do you run to save the children, do you wake up Mamma (or Papa, whatever the case may be for you)? Do you run downstairs and try to save the gifts? Oh, the gifts! You can already hear the demons down there, destroying Christmas. You worked so hard on that tree, put so much effort into those gifts… Christmas. It is so much work, isn’t it? Briefly, you consider going back to bed. Let the Grinch ruin Christmas. Then you’d never have to do it again. Your children are spoiled enough, after all. The demons on are on the stairs now. Something heavier, larger, is on the roof. Their master, that demon Grinch. You have no more time to decide. You have to act.
|
RE: t'was the night before christmas | round i - Blazed - 11-30-2015
I see things, things I have never seen before. Climbing the roof, into the house, then the kargest one follows them all. Down, the stairs, the chimney, the tree I decorated myself, into ruining the precious presents I would have opened in the morn. Why, oh Why? I think, already running for something to use to kill, and stop dead. "Is this simply a dream?" I almost say out loud, hearing them come closer. I pinch myself, but feel nothing. Is it because I was being taught to relish pain, which made me insensitive? Or is it, indeed, a dream and nothing more? One comes through my chamber's door, and shrieks in delight at the prospect of attacking me. A lower, deeper sound follows from farther away, some sort of growl. I reach for my bat - isn't this used to hit baseballs? - and it all ends. I am asleep, it was only a living nightmare. Nothing more, yet I heard a noise only too similar to that demon in my dreams. "Mother! Wake up!" I cry to my mother, standing at her chamber door. But it was late, just too late to save Mother. I swing the door open, screaming out of rage as I see my mother lying bloody and dead, with a demon-thing sitting on her chest and eating her flesh. "Die, stupid demon! I want my mother back!" I cry, sobbing as I run around and around, trying to reach the demon-thing and kill it.
RE: t'was the night before christmas | round i - Nayl - 11-30-2015
covet and myrina's creation |
RE: t'was the night before christmas | round i - Anahera - 11-30-2015
while the morning stars sang together
ANAHERA
Marijuana x Freiya
RE: t'was the night before christmas | round i - Kataclysm - 11-30-2015
{ Kataclysm }
Me and God? We don't get along well.
RE: t'was the night before christmas | round i - Lirren - 11-30-2015
And inside you're burning
with some secret yearning
Wide silvery eyes snap open to find bright shafts of moonlight streaming through the clear panes of glass separating the warm bedroom from the cold, wintry night outside. Those silver eyes blink in mild surprise and sleepiness. It is nighttime, so why is she sleeping?
She loves the night more than she loves any other time, when the moon is high and the stars twinkle brightly in the velvety black sky. Normally, she would be awake, would be basking in the glow of the stars as they filled her with quiet reassurance. But then memories tumble through her mind, a jumble of conflicting histories and knowledge.
She is a horse, red and teal, with starlight in her soul and a loving, doting sister. She is a woman with a busy, sharp-minded husband and two young children. She is a carefree and blissful filly with joy in her heart. She is a middle-aged woman with a life full of responsibility and burdens weighing her down.
For a moment, she doesn’t know who she is.
She sits up suddenly, blankets falling to her waist as she rises into abrupt wakefulness. She turns her head slightly, gaze falling upon the man in the bed beside her. Her husband, she knows. Married now for nine years. Nine long years. He had married her because she is beautiful. She had married him because he is wealthy. Isn’t that how the story always goes?
And suddenly, she remembers it is Christmas.
Oh, but she loves Christmas! The parties and the presents. The food and the wine. The merry cheer. The thrill of Christmas morning, when her children open presents with wonder and joy upon their faces. There had never been Christmas before, not in the Dale with her sister. Only snow and cold.
A sound outside startles her from her reverie, drawing her attention to the large window overlooking the back yard. Flipping the covers from her pajama clad legs, she slips from the bed and approaches the window. Below her is a wide, smooth expanse covered in icy white snow, untouched by tracks. Her eyes are immediately drawn to the only movement across the moonlit lawn.
Her first reaction is incredulity. Santa is not real, is he? But then she sees what it is more clearly and confusion is replaced by horror. It is not a jolly old elf that she sees, but a terrible furred monster with glowing green eyes and cackling horde of antlered demons. They disappear quickly from sight, but all too soon she hears a great ruckus coming from the roof.
”No…” she breathes in disbelief and dread. She must be dreaming. That is the only explanation. They cannot be real. Santa is not real and neither are they. But then the scrabble of feet and cold, callous laughter echoes up the hallway through her partially open door, and she knows they are.
She briefly considers simply going back to bed, pretending this is not real. Pretending that she is still a lighthearted young mare and that these dual memories do not tug at her consciousness. Pretending that she won’t wake up to Christmas destroyed.
Christmas… destroyed.
The thought spurs her into action. It is the one time of year she can be free and merry, the one time of year she doesn’t have too many bills and a cold marriage as her only solace. She bolts for the door, stocking clad feet slipping as they leave the rug and hit cold hardwood. But she manages to keep her balance and slips quietly through the door into the dark hallway.
She is too late. They are already on the stairs. She can hear the crashing and cackling from below, the thump of little feet on the steps. The rending and clacking of the lighted garland being ripped from the banister.
Suddenly she is furious. She wishes she were still that horse, child of the stars and keeper of their light. She would use that beautiful power, teach them a thing or two about enraging a daughter of the night.
But alas she is only human.
The heavy footfalls of the Grinch are echoing on the roof now, a steady toll spelling doom upon Christmas. With a shriek of combined fury and terror, she charges down the hall, barreling straight for the handful of ugly devils littering the stairs. She nearly slips down the steps, forgetting for a moment that she is wearing socks and that wood floors are slippery. But she catches herself, grabbing at one of the demons for support. Realizing what she has done, she lets out a small scream and flings the beast over the railing. But before she can get her bearings, before she can recall exactly what it is she thought she might do against these creatures, they are upon her, snickering gleefully as they pin her arms to her sides.
She is a small and slender woman, one who has had little need to strengthen herself, and they have no trouble subduing her. She snaps her mouth shut, determination replacing horror as she represses a scream. She prays that her children have not woken, that they remain in their bed and, hopefully, out of harm’s way. She would find a way out of this, if not through strength, then through trickery.
They carry her through her once lovely house, now littered with tinsel and paper. Ornaments are scattered about the floor, freed from a tree that now lay on its side. She mourns the loss of that perfectly decorated tree, of the beauty Christmas brings to her home.
And then he is before her, a wide grin upon his hideous green features. She is dumped unceremoniously at his feet, the gleeful laughter of the antlered demons telling her that they are not done with her. She glances around wildly, hoping to find something with which to defend herself. Hoping beyond hope that she might yet be able to save Christmas.
Lirren
starlit daughter of joythief and carnage
RE: t'was the night before christmas | round i - farren - 12-01-2015
f a r r e n
Soft light from the nightlight illuminated his room, the fish in the tank by the window swimming peacefully as he slept, their shadows swimming on the wall behind them. There is moonlight streaming in from his window, a tree brushing softly against the frosty glass. It is quiet, and the whole world is asleep.
Mostly.
He wakes and does not know why; sleep crusts the corners of his eyes, his hair tousled and sticking up from sleep. He blinks, clearing his eyes, a yawn stretching out his mouth. He is warm and sleepy, young enough to carry the blind confidence the young do. His room is warm and cozy, and he wants to curl back up under his favorite blanket and fall back asleep. He is moments from sleep, snuggled back under the quilt his mama made for him, covered with patches of special fabric she said would protect him. But he is awake enough to hear the twinkling of bells, and he immediately shoots upright, eyes wide with realization - Santa's sleigh is covered in the gentle-sounding bells, and it is Christmas, and he is awake and could that actually be Santa? He tosses the blankets from his footie-pajama'd legs, grasping the quilt in his hand as he pushes himself out of bed.
Mama always told him stories about how Santa wouldn't come if he was awake - Santa was good enough to know if he was up! - but he couldn't resist a peek. Santa couldn't possibly know if he peeked, right? So he tiptoed over to the window and peered through to the white space beneath the tree, searching for the marks of the reindeer in the immaculate snow. He could hear the bells, they were growing louder, but he couldn't see anything outside.
And just as fast as the bells had sounded, they stopped.
A pout tugged at his lips - suppose Mama had been right? - and he turned, reluctantly to get back into bed. He froze just as quickly as he had turned, his blood running cold. He had heard just as many stories about the Grinch, about how he had hated Christmas but had turned out to be just fine in the end. This Grinch, this...monstrosity, was not the fluffy green man from the movies. This was devil, incarnate, a yellowed smile stretching across his lips. Small fingers curled tightly around the quilt, praying that his Mama had been right about it saving him as the monster approached. He was frozen in place, fear contorting his features and widening his eyes, his knuckles whiter than the new-fallen snow outside his room. One step closer and he screamed, the monster letting out a noise that shook him to his core, making him cringe and moan in pain.
He knew nothing as adrenaline took over, his legs pumping has he carried himself out the door and down the hall, crying for his parents but receiving no response. His quilt was wrapped around his arm, his hand gripping the stair railing desperately as he fled the monster, the Grinch, footfalls like thunder echoing through the otherwise silent home. Laughter surrounded him, edged with something sinister, and he swore he saw eyes watching him, saw hands grabbing for his ankles, for his clothes, his quilt.
Terror drove him as he slipped into the living room, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight before him; little monsters, little devils, were tearing apart the tree, the presents, destroying both memories and hard work from his parents and himself, tears spilling down his cheeks as he felt the overwhelming pressure of being alone. He could hear sounds from above, the thundering steps as the monster approached a room, and he could hear screams and silence just as quickly, the laughter surrounding him again, and he couldn't take this, he was only a kid!
And suddenly, he refocused on what was before him, to the little demons devouring memories to come and memories to cherish, to find them watching him, with fanged smiles twisting at their bloodied mouths. A whimper escaped his lips as he fled again, gathering his quilt tightly in his arms as he escaped into the kitchen and into the pantry, shutting the door with trembling fingers. He tried to barricade the door with boxes, with a broom, with a step-stool he used to get the cookies from the top shelf, before huddling on the ground, pressing deep into the corner, darkness surrounding him as he inhaled the comforting scent of his quilt, of his mother, and suddenly he was crying again, tears streaming down his cheeks as he hid his face in the soft fabric. He could hear them outside, tearing apart the kitchen, looking for him, the thunder approaching once again as the monster came back.
He is only a child, scared and alone, with a quilt to serve him comfort - Christmas had been his favorite, but this would stay for him for years to come if he lived, this pantry the only thing saving him, and he didn't know if it would live up to the task.
RE: t'was the night before christmas | round i - Hestia - 12-01-2015
we're setting fire to our insides for fun
Kryten
RE: t'was the night before christmas | round i - Pollock - 12-01-2015
SLAM.
He sits bolt upright, his chest heaving with the thump-thump of his pulse in his ear. His room is dark. The only light filtering in comes from around the navy blue sheet nailed to the chipped frame in front of his window. Dark, and cold, “fuck.” The furnace's ignition switch is still failing. “Piece of shit,” He mutters, hunching over his half-bent legs. He runs his right hand through the front of his hair, before moving to spread his arms straight up to stretch. The movement is too sudden, and pain shoots through his left shoulder. The boy grunts through clenched teeth, “Damnit.” Right. He reaches with his right hand and touches his left shoulder. It dislocated when he tripped and fell down the stairs two days ago. He sighs, grabbing the collar of his shirt. “Ahh. Fuck.” Sweat dampens the red cotton with bright white snowflakes in rows. A big swoop from his collarbone to his belly button. It has cooled, plastering the red material uncomfortably against his hairless chest.
He kicks his legs off the side of his bed and pulls back his covers, pushing his body up with his strong arm. (His sheets are soaked, too. But... what is all this?) He sways, blood rushing to feed his too-quick uprightness. The teenager pulls his shirt first off from the right and then gingerly down his left arm. Throwing the red shirt to the side, he rifles through a pile of maybe-or-maybe-not clean clothes, extracting from it a grey, striped t-shirt. He shrugs slowly into it. His shoulder, still not examined by a doctor, is painfully swollen and weakened. It'll heal on its own, his mother had assured him. Heal up just fine. Probably more scared of a visit from child protection than an honest guess at a subject she has no clue about. Dumb bitch. Sixteen years old — too old to be protected. Not a child by definition.
She wouldn't have to worry about that again. But habit can be hard to buck.
Besides, he couldn't be bothered to go on his own.
Thump. He flinches, whipping around to face his bedroom door. He grabs for his phone from its spot face down on his bedside table, and presses the power button on the side. It's too bright for a moment, his vision fuzzes over — 3:00 AM. His mother isn't supposed to be back yet, if she is coming back at all. He hadn't been counting on it. He would find her in over-worn makeup and clothes in the morning. Slumped in an armchair, encouraging ("encouraging") swiftness in his present unwrapping. No. He reaches out into the dark to replace the phone, but his aim is off and it makes only cursory contact with the tabletop. Pressing his eyes closed tight as it hits the hardwood, he waits in tense motionlessness. Nothing, and then enough nothing to loosen his muscles and bend over to inspect the health of his phone. Cracked, but likely usable. “Ugh. Of course.” Thud! He tosses his phone onto his bed, too piqued now.
He bounds silently across his room, pressing his palms and left ear against his door. Bump. He looks up with narrowed eyes. Up? There is nothing up. Well, nothing but... What. The. Hell. he mouths each words singularly into the dark, wrapping his right hand around the doorknob. He blinks, his eyes lingering on his pale, lanky hand. “Wha—,” he yanks his it away from the knob, and spreads his fingers out wide, turning his hand over and examining both sides. “What the...” He shakes his head and grabs the knob again. He tries to refocus. But images intrude his mind — he reaches back with his good hand, touching his tender shoulder blade. No wing (of course no wing why would there be a wing you lunatic?)... but... “This is insane,” He grabs the knob again, with more purpose than before and turns it slowly. The clicking of its innards sound entirely too loud, click-click. And the lock has retracted fully, the door ready to swing (creak, really) open. But, he has learned just how to manage the motion of the door to mitigate the tired squeal of the hinges. (Sneaking out has it's advantages.) He knows his bedroom window as intimately. He begins to push slowly, his breathing increasing in speed.
Just down the hall he hears a garbled jibbering. Not of this world, not natural. He tugs the door back in haste and it settles in the frame with a clunk! He moves quickly to turn the knob's lock, clink, and stumbles back. A pile of guitar song books catching his heels nearly upends him. “No way,” The boy whirls around, tumbling for his bed in the dark, searching for the phone with both hands. There. He clicks it on — 3:00 AM. Desperately he tries to swipe the screen to activate the menu, but it stays, frozen. 3:00 AM. Must have sustained more internal damage than it looks. “Just f-f—ah! great,” He mimes a throwing motion before tossing it back on his bed, crawling up and across it with a wince. He kneels for a moment in front of the window and looks down at those odd fingers on his red-and-white clothed thighs. “Just breathe Elliot you damn...” He places his head in his hands, rustling his darkened blonde hair. (Elliot? Is that it? Yes, Elliot Poll...) He pushes out an warning exhale. The last thing he wants is more meds.
He hooks his right index finger around the back of the sheet, pulling it away inch by inch. His room is on the second story of their squat and brown subsidized, attached housing. He looks down on three back lawns — his and his neighbours', left and right. The houses on the street are attached in brown-bricked trios. All three are brightened by LEDs on a string. He hadn't bothered to put up lights on their gutters this year. The dad next door had simply bridged the gap so all three households had some cheer. (He had lit and made-up the tree downstairs with care, though.) His mother had brought him cookies, of course. Whore.
The moon is fat and round, obscured in part by greyish clouds. It has a mighty glow, and the lawn below nearly looks like it could be an overcast day. Instead the whole scene just looks otherworldly, the brightness an alien source. There are four black and oddly shaped figures standing around a lifeless young crabapple. Short. (Maybe a foot tall?) A few weeks back, the two small children from next door had festooned it with an old string of multi-coloured, incandescent Christmas lights with their dad...
His mouth is dry, and his tongue feels thick. He lets the sheet back a bit, so that he can just barely peek down on the lawn. The creatures look to be in conference, pointing and moving with quick motions. One shoves another and crosses its arms with machismo; the other two wave their arms wildly. Suddenly Elliot hears tittering outside his door behind him, like a conversation or an argument. And then his doorknob wriggles. He turns to watch it (must be two, one on another's shoulders), his hand moves instinctively to cover his mouth. From outside the window, a thud and a sudden darkness eclipses his room. He turns back in a flash, hand still in place. His finger drags the sheet back a centimeter, a millimeter more. Hanging, with one arm from his roof and pointing emphatically with the other, is a green, humanoid... monster. It is two arms' lengths (and a window pane) away.
Elliot Pollock (or is it just...) stifles a yelp. But he is helpless to return the sheet to its original position in fear of alerting the creature to the movement. Or perhaps just because of fear in general. It drops down with a heavy thud and straightens up, stomping towards the gremlin-like gathering. He thinks he can hear the muffled sound of a voice. Is it English? He seems to instruct the group like a field general, and they begin to skitter up the trunk of the tree, biting the thick string and shattering the coloured glass.
The green monster turns and Pollock can see now that he is sickeningly tall — well over six feet. He is portly and... hairy?; his face human enough but twisted and exaggerated by a wide and horrible grin stretching impossibly from ear to ear. His eyes are worst of all, like green headlights. He seems content with the destruction and strides across the snow to... is it his backdoor, maybe? Elliot jumps back from the window and onto his feet and the floor. “Oh fuck,” He whispers. For a second he comes to an epiphany... but of course, those things don't work here. He feels it, understands it, with an admixture of nausea and frustration. Besides, how the hell would he even go about turning invisible, hmm? Keep it together Pollock, christ. He turns around and around, umm-ing under his breath.
In his closet is a graphite hockey stick, and a .22 air rifle that his father had left him. A slow loading, one pellet at a time, .22 air rifle. “With maybe 10 pellets left. If I can even find the box,” He agonizes, slowly sliding down to sit on the floor with his back against his bed, facing his door. He raises both hands, with effort, to grab a fistful of his shaggy hair each. And who the hell knows what those little things are even made of. They could have rock hard exoskeletons, or they could be armoured. He couldn't see them clearly enough. It could kill a rabbit or groundhog, easy. (He had tested that out extensively.) And Him. Too big. It will take a good knock with the stock, best case scenario, to the head somewhere. The stick, he thought, is out of the question. It is weakened by overuse — snapped, it could be a carbon fibre spear. But that's about it.
His mind churns. Scenarios play and replay in his head. (I'm an okay shot. Just okay at range. Close quarters? With a long barrel?) The stick would be lighter, but the heft of the rifle would swing faster. All this is well and good, but aside from a few fistfights Elliot had never really defended himself. His home. Especially not armed. And not against...
Downstairs he hears a great clash. Maybe the decorative ceramic bowl be had painted as kid. The one with happy snowmen, red and blue scarves whipping in the wind. Likely in quite a few shattered pieces right now. More thumping and banging, a great racket gathering. The tree, with it's glittering bulbs, candy canes and winking warm-white lights. The paltry, but cherished, selection of gifts. He couldn't bear to think. He almost didn't hear the sound of pattering feet, and then much more regular strides, up the stairs. And down the hall. And stopping.
“In here?” The voice is deep and theatrical. There is excitement, but in a dangerous way, Pollock thinks. Like a hound finding a squirrel up a tree.
Frantic tittering in response.
“Well. We should take a closer look. I like to be... thorough.”
His doorknob wriggles, and Elliot begins to think. He needs to get his rifle, maybe a zip-up from the closet if one catches his eyes immediately. And he needs to slip out the window. Fast. Really fast. And then a voice surfaces in his head, just barely. It slathers with venom, and he shakes his head against it.
(You're weaker here than even there. It growls, it's a slap to the face, and the boy doesn't even know why. Let's see how deep we can go, hmmm? It sounds so familiar. Better remember who you are fast, because you're all you have.)
He sits bolt upright, his chest heaving with the thump-thump of his pulse in his ear. His room is dark. The only light filtering in comes from around the navy blue sheet nailed to the chipped frame in front of his window. Dark, and cold, “fuck.” The furnace's ignition switch is still failing. “Piece of shit,” He mutters, hunching over his half-bent legs. He runs his right hand through the front of his hair, before moving to spread his arms straight up to stretch. The movement is too sudden, and pain shoots through his left shoulder. The boy grunts through clenched teeth, “Damnit.” Right. He reaches with his right hand and touches his left shoulder. It dislocated when he tripped and fell down the stairs two days ago. He sighs, grabbing the collar of his shirt. “Ahh. Fuck.” Sweat dampens the red cotton with bright white snowflakes in rows. A big swoop from his collarbone to his belly button. It has cooled, plastering the red material uncomfortably against his hairless chest.
He kicks his legs off the side of his bed and pulls back his covers, pushing his body up with his strong arm. (His sheets are soaked, too. But... what is all this?) He sways, blood rushing to feed his too-quick uprightness. The teenager pulls his shirt first off from the right and then gingerly down his left arm. Throwing the red shirt to the side, he rifles through a pile of maybe-or-maybe-not clean clothes, extracting from it a grey, striped t-shirt. He shrugs slowly into it. His shoulder, still not examined by a doctor, is painfully swollen and weakened. It'll heal on its own, his mother had assured him. Heal up just fine. Probably more scared of a visit from child protection than an honest guess at a subject she has no clue about. Dumb bitch. Sixteen years old — too old to be protected. Not a child by definition.
She wouldn't have to worry about that again. But habit can be hard to buck.
Besides, he couldn't be bothered to go on his own.
Thump. He flinches, whipping around to face his bedroom door. He grabs for his phone from its spot face down on his bedside table, and presses the power button on the side. It's too bright for a moment, his vision fuzzes over — 3:00 AM. His mother isn't supposed to be back yet, if she is coming back at all. He hadn't been counting on it. He would find her in over-worn makeup and clothes in the morning. Slumped in an armchair, encouraging ("encouraging") swiftness in his present unwrapping. No. He reaches out into the dark to replace the phone, but his aim is off and it makes only cursory contact with the tabletop. Pressing his eyes closed tight as it hits the hardwood, he waits in tense motionlessness. Nothing, and then enough nothing to loosen his muscles and bend over to inspect the health of his phone. Cracked, but likely usable. “Ugh. Of course.” Thud! He tosses his phone onto his bed, too piqued now.
He bounds silently across his room, pressing his palms and left ear against his door. Bump. He looks up with narrowed eyes. Up? There is nothing up. Well, nothing but... What. The. Hell. he mouths each words singularly into the dark, wrapping his right hand around the doorknob. He blinks, his eyes lingering on his pale, lanky hand. “Wha—,” he yanks his it away from the knob, and spreads his fingers out wide, turning his hand over and examining both sides. “What the...” He shakes his head and grabs the knob again. He tries to refocus. But images intrude his mind — he reaches back with his good hand, touching his tender shoulder blade. No wing (of course no wing why would there be a wing you lunatic?)... but... “This is insane,” He grabs the knob again, with more purpose than before and turns it slowly. The clicking of its innards sound entirely too loud, click-click. And the lock has retracted fully, the door ready to swing (creak, really) open. But, he has learned just how to manage the motion of the door to mitigate the tired squeal of the hinges. (Sneaking out has it's advantages.) He knows his bedroom window as intimately. He begins to push slowly, his breathing increasing in speed.
Just down the hall he hears a garbled jibbering. Not of this world, not natural. He tugs the door back in haste and it settles in the frame with a clunk! He moves quickly to turn the knob's lock, clink, and stumbles back. A pile of guitar song books catching his heels nearly upends him. “No way,” The boy whirls around, tumbling for his bed in the dark, searching for the phone with both hands. There. He clicks it on — 3:00 AM. Desperately he tries to swipe the screen to activate the menu, but it stays, frozen. 3:00 AM. Must have sustained more internal damage than it looks. “Just f-f—ah! great,” He mimes a throwing motion before tossing it back on his bed, crawling up and across it with a wince. He kneels for a moment in front of the window and looks down at those odd fingers on his red-and-white clothed thighs. “Just breathe Elliot you damn...” He places his head in his hands, rustling his darkened blonde hair. (Elliot? Is that it? Yes, Elliot Poll...) He pushes out an warning exhale. The last thing he wants is more meds.
He hooks his right index finger around the back of the sheet, pulling it away inch by inch. His room is on the second story of their squat and brown subsidized, attached housing. He looks down on three back lawns — his and his neighbours', left and right. The houses on the street are attached in brown-bricked trios. All three are brightened by LEDs on a string. He hadn't bothered to put up lights on their gutters this year. The dad next door had simply bridged the gap so all three households had some cheer. (He had lit and made-up the tree downstairs with care, though.) His mother had brought him cookies, of course. Whore.
The moon is fat and round, obscured in part by greyish clouds. It has a mighty glow, and the lawn below nearly looks like it could be an overcast day. Instead the whole scene just looks otherworldly, the brightness an alien source. There are four black and oddly shaped figures standing around a lifeless young crabapple. Short. (Maybe a foot tall?) A few weeks back, the two small children from next door had festooned it with an old string of multi-coloured, incandescent Christmas lights with their dad...
His mouth is dry, and his tongue feels thick. He lets the sheet back a bit, so that he can just barely peek down on the lawn. The creatures look to be in conference, pointing and moving with quick motions. One shoves another and crosses its arms with machismo; the other two wave their arms wildly. Suddenly Elliot hears tittering outside his door behind him, like a conversation or an argument. And then his doorknob wriggles. He turns to watch it (must be two, one on another's shoulders), his hand moves instinctively to cover his mouth. From outside the window, a thud and a sudden darkness eclipses his room. He turns back in a flash, hand still in place. His finger drags the sheet back a centimeter, a millimeter more. Hanging, with one arm from his roof and pointing emphatically with the other, is a green, humanoid... monster. It is two arms' lengths (and a window pane) away.
Elliot Pollock (or is it just...) stifles a yelp. But he is helpless to return the sheet to its original position in fear of alerting the creature to the movement. Or perhaps just because of fear in general. It drops down with a heavy thud and straightens up, stomping towards the gremlin-like gathering. He thinks he can hear the muffled sound of a voice. Is it English? He seems to instruct the group like a field general, and they begin to skitter up the trunk of the tree, biting the thick string and shattering the coloured glass.
The green monster turns and Pollock can see now that he is sickeningly tall — well over six feet. He is portly and... hairy?; his face human enough but twisted and exaggerated by a wide and horrible grin stretching impossibly from ear to ear. His eyes are worst of all, like green headlights. He seems content with the destruction and strides across the snow to... is it his backdoor, maybe? Elliot jumps back from the window and onto his feet and the floor. “Oh fuck,” He whispers. For a second he comes to an epiphany... but of course, those things don't work here. He feels it, understands it, with an admixture of nausea and frustration. Besides, how the hell would he even go about turning invisible, hmm? Keep it together Pollock, christ. He turns around and around, umm-ing under his breath.
In his closet is a graphite hockey stick, and a .22 air rifle that his father had left him. A slow loading, one pellet at a time, .22 air rifle. “With maybe 10 pellets left. If I can even find the box,” He agonizes, slowly sliding down to sit on the floor with his back against his bed, facing his door. He raises both hands, with effort, to grab a fistful of his shaggy hair each. And who the hell knows what those little things are even made of. They could have rock hard exoskeletons, or they could be armoured. He couldn't see them clearly enough. It could kill a rabbit or groundhog, easy. (He had tested that out extensively.) And Him. Too big. It will take a good knock with the stock, best case scenario, to the head somewhere. The stick, he thought, is out of the question. It is weakened by overuse — snapped, it could be a carbon fibre spear. But that's about it.
His mind churns. Scenarios play and replay in his head. (I'm an okay shot. Just okay at range. Close quarters? With a long barrel?) The stick would be lighter, but the heft of the rifle would swing faster. All this is well and good, but aside from a few fistfights Elliot had never really defended himself. His home. Especially not armed. And not against...
Downstairs he hears a great clash. Maybe the decorative ceramic bowl be had painted as kid. The one with happy snowmen, red and blue scarves whipping in the wind. Likely in quite a few shattered pieces right now. More thumping and banging, a great racket gathering. The tree, with it's glittering bulbs, candy canes and winking warm-white lights. The paltry, but cherished, selection of gifts. He couldn't bear to think. He almost didn't hear the sound of pattering feet, and then much more regular strides, up the stairs. And down the hall. And stopping.
“In here?” The voice is deep and theatrical. There is excitement, but in a dangerous way, Pollock thinks. Like a hound finding a squirrel up a tree.
Frantic tittering in response.
“Well. We should take a closer look. I like to be... thorough.”
His doorknob wriggles, and Elliot begins to think. He needs to get his rifle, maybe a zip-up from the closet if one catches his eyes immediately. And he needs to slip out the window. Fast. Really fast. And then a voice surfaces in his head, just barely. It slathers with venom, and he shakes his head against it.
picture © Henry Potter
RE: t'was the night before christmas | round i - Xiah - 12-01-2015
xiah