She sits alone
Stares at her hands
Tries to get comfortable on a chair with uneven legs.
the rain outside falls
steadily
quietly.
It drains will.
Blankets and muffles everything
but the thoughts in her head
Smashing against her eyeballs,
her eardrums,
her sinuses.
Trying to find an escape.
She stifles them. Keeps them banished.
Never will they see the world.
They revolt. Take bits and pieces of her.
Miniscule amounts of humanity. Soul.
murdered in retaliation.
The bodies never found.
She stares at her hands.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Private Eyes Are Watching You 2.0
Private Eyes Are Watching You.
Jonathan sat up suddenly. He had been laying on the couch, reading a book when what sounded like a knock came from the outside wall in his living room. That didn’t make sense to him. That meant someone would have to be knocking from the outside of the house, against a wall with no windows, for no discernable reason. And if someone was out there knocking, the motion detecting flood lights would have come on. He glanced over to the clock on the cable box. It read 12:45am. He chalked it up to late night jitters and paranoia. He lay back down and attempted to get back into his book.
Two minutes later, he heard another knock. He ever-so-slowly and methodically put his book down on the coffee table as if he was moving through molasses. As the book gently began to rest against the table, another knock came; this time much louder, and knocked at even, short intervals four times. He jumped up, and the book and his glass of water crashed onto the table, soaking the book, and his feet as the water sloshed its way off the coffee table. He knew he heard something that time, and that someone was on the other side of his wall. He began to think to himself that if someone was on the other side of that wall it wouldn’t take them long to realize that they could just move around to the back side of the house and have access through the windows. The worst part he thought was that the windows were all wide open. It was a beautiful night, and a nice cool breeze had been blowing in. His sudden fear had pushed his brain into fight or flight mode, and really more flight, than fight. He wanted nothing to do with going near those windows. The knock came again, this time more hurried. However, it sounded like it was moving up the side of the house… to the second level…where his wife and kids were sleeping.
Jonathan finally got hold of his senses, and ran out of the living room and upstairs to the master bedroom. His wife was sound asleep. He paused at the door in the dark. The bedroom window was open here also. And then he heard the knocking again. Right there at the window. The cause of the knocking sat staring directly at him; his bedroom blinds. The blinds had been gently swaying in the breeze, and occasionally would knock against the window sill when a slightly stiffer gust would blow in. Since this window and the windows in the living room were directly above and below each other, it must have caused the knocking to sound like it was coming from outside. How his wife managed to sleep through the commotion, he had no clue, but at least he now knew what had frightened him.
He headed back downstairs, and checked the back door. He noticed that the back light hadn’t been switched on, and cursed himself. Had someone really been out there he would have never known. He then went and shut the windows and continued to read. The motion lights came on a couple times, but when he looked outside, all he saw was some leaves blowing around, and once there was a rabbit munching on a dandelion. The knocking continued, but was much quieter with the windows shut, and no longer sounded like it was coming from outside. Jonathan finished another couple chapters, and decided to head to bed.
As he turned off the lights on the main level, and walked past the front door, he couldn’t help but feel like there was something out there. He peered out the tiny glass window of the door, and saw nothing but his quiet suburban street.
“Just a little jumpy still from earlier” he said to himself.
Still, he headed up the stairs at a quickened pace. He got ready for bed, closed the window in the bedroom, and then climbed into bed with his wife and promptly fell asleep.
The next morning his daughters were outside playing in the backyard. Amelia came running into the house.
“Daddy! Daddy! How come the side of the house is all dirty?” she exclaimed.
“What do you mean?” he asked. He and his wife were fairly methodical about keeping a clean house.
“There’s feetmarks on the house!” Amelia stated. Jonathan was about to ask Amelia to show them to him, but just then, Abigail came walking in. She was older by two years then Amelia, and with all the wisdom her five years could muster stated “Amelia, don’t you know ANYTHING?? That’s where the doggy climbed up last night!”
“What dog?” Jonathan asked.
“What dog?” asked Amelia.
“The doggy that talked to me last night.” Said Abigail. “We talked about you Daddy. I wanted to come get you so you could meet him, but he said I couldn’t. That I couldn’t tell…UH OH! I wasn’t supposed to tell you about him.”
“You must have been dreaming.” He stated. “Dogs don’t talk, and can’t climb houses”.
“This one can! He’s a big doggy. He has red eyes, and looks scary, but was nice to me. He said tonight we could go play together.”
“Abby, it was just a dream.”
“IT WAS NOT!!! I’ll show you! Come look where he climbed up.”
Jonathan took both his daughter’s hands and walked outside. They led him around to the same area he thought he heard the knock the night before; the outside wall of the living room that had no windows. And up the sides of the house, in the siding, where what appeared to be dried muddy foot prints. Large, dirty, somewhat canine looking with pads and claw marks gouged into the vinyl siding. All the way up to the second floor. He couldn’t see any marks, but he scanned over the backside of the house looking for more prints, or anything out of the ordinary. And at his daughter’s window, he saw that the screen appeared to be pried at and bent from the window.
“See daddy, the doggy wanted to play. He said we can tonight when he comes back!”
Abigail, let go of Jonathan’s hand, and ran off to play on the swingset.
Jonathan sat up suddenly. He had been laying on the couch, reading a book when what sounded like a knock came from the outside wall in his living room. That didn’t make sense to him. That meant someone would have to be knocking from the outside of the house, against a wall with no windows, for no discernable reason. And if someone was out there knocking, the motion detecting flood lights would have come on. He glanced over to the clock on the cable box. It read 12:45am. He chalked it up to late night jitters and paranoia. He lay back down and attempted to get back into his book.
Two minutes later, he heard another knock. He ever-so-slowly and methodically put his book down on the coffee table as if he was moving through molasses. As the book gently began to rest against the table, another knock came; this time much louder, and knocked at even, short intervals four times. He jumped up, and the book and his glass of water crashed onto the table, soaking the book, and his feet as the water sloshed its way off the coffee table. He knew he heard something that time, and that someone was on the other side of his wall. He began to think to himself that if someone was on the other side of that wall it wouldn’t take them long to realize that they could just move around to the back side of the house and have access through the windows. The worst part he thought was that the windows were all wide open. It was a beautiful night, and a nice cool breeze had been blowing in. His sudden fear had pushed his brain into fight or flight mode, and really more flight, than fight. He wanted nothing to do with going near those windows. The knock came again, this time more hurried. However, it sounded like it was moving up the side of the house… to the second level…where his wife and kids were sleeping.
Jonathan finally got hold of his senses, and ran out of the living room and upstairs to the master bedroom. His wife was sound asleep. He paused at the door in the dark. The bedroom window was open here also. And then he heard the knocking again. Right there at the window. The cause of the knocking sat staring directly at him; his bedroom blinds. The blinds had been gently swaying in the breeze, and occasionally would knock against the window sill when a slightly stiffer gust would blow in. Since this window and the windows in the living room were directly above and below each other, it must have caused the knocking to sound like it was coming from outside. How his wife managed to sleep through the commotion, he had no clue, but at least he now knew what had frightened him.
He headed back downstairs, and checked the back door. He noticed that the back light hadn’t been switched on, and cursed himself. Had someone really been out there he would have never known. He then went and shut the windows and continued to read. The motion lights came on a couple times, but when he looked outside, all he saw was some leaves blowing around, and once there was a rabbit munching on a dandelion. The knocking continued, but was much quieter with the windows shut, and no longer sounded like it was coming from outside. Jonathan finished another couple chapters, and decided to head to bed.
As he turned off the lights on the main level, and walked past the front door, he couldn’t help but feel like there was something out there. He peered out the tiny glass window of the door, and saw nothing but his quiet suburban street.
“Just a little jumpy still from earlier” he said to himself.
Still, he headed up the stairs at a quickened pace. He got ready for bed, closed the window in the bedroom, and then climbed into bed with his wife and promptly fell asleep.
The next morning his daughters were outside playing in the backyard. Amelia came running into the house.
“Daddy! Daddy! How come the side of the house is all dirty?” she exclaimed.
“What do you mean?” he asked. He and his wife were fairly methodical about keeping a clean house.
“There’s feetmarks on the house!” Amelia stated. Jonathan was about to ask Amelia to show them to him, but just then, Abigail came walking in. She was older by two years then Amelia, and with all the wisdom her five years could muster stated “Amelia, don’t you know ANYTHING?? That’s where the doggy climbed up last night!”
“What dog?” Jonathan asked.
“What dog?” asked Amelia.
“The doggy that talked to me last night.” Said Abigail. “We talked about you Daddy. I wanted to come get you so you could meet him, but he said I couldn’t. That I couldn’t tell…UH OH! I wasn’t supposed to tell you about him.”
“You must have been dreaming.” He stated. “Dogs don’t talk, and can’t climb houses”.
“This one can! He’s a big doggy. He has red eyes, and looks scary, but was nice to me. He said tonight we could go play together.”
“Abby, it was just a dream.”
“IT WAS NOT!!! I’ll show you! Come look where he climbed up.”
Jonathan took both his daughter’s hands and walked outside. They led him around to the same area he thought he heard the knock the night before; the outside wall of the living room that had no windows. And up the sides of the house, in the siding, where what appeared to be dried muddy foot prints. Large, dirty, somewhat canine looking with pads and claw marks gouged into the vinyl siding. All the way up to the second floor. He couldn’t see any marks, but he scanned over the backside of the house looking for more prints, or anything out of the ordinary. And at his daughter’s window, he saw that the screen appeared to be pried at and bent from the window.
“See daddy, the doggy wanted to play. He said we can tonight when he comes back!”
Abigail, let go of Jonathan’s hand, and ran off to play on the swingset.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Song for the Dead 2.0
Song for the Dead.
She scurried from the kitchen, around the corner and into the living room. The worn and faded oak floor was cold on her bare feet. Goose bumps raced up her naked legs, but terminated where the bottom of his t-shirt met the middle of her thighs. She plopped down on the couch, careful not to spill the bowl of Marshmallow Matey’s she held in her hands. The boy who lived here was still asleep. His roommate was never around; he was probably at his boyfriend’s apartment again. She turned on the television. MTV was playing a marathon of “Undressed”. She found that as acceptable breakfast entertainment and dug in. She felt comfortable in his tiny apartment. Something about it just felt right.
The boy woke and sleepily shambled down the hall to the living room, pausing to take in the scene before him. She sat on his couch slurping up the last of the milk from the cereal bowl, wearing nothing but his Get Up Kids t-shirt and a pair of boy shorts. His heart nearly burst with joy, and although he tried not to, he couldn’t help but grin. He hadn’t seen her in two years, and now here she sat in his living room.
She saw him standing there grinning. She could tell immediately this had been a mistake. She loved him, but knew he loved someone that no longer existed. It had been two years since they had last seen each other, and that distance fueled much of what led up to this point. She started sobbing.
He stood there, saw the color go from her face, and saw her start crying. He walked over and put his arm around her. She shrugged him off. He again tried to just touch her, to provide some comfort, but she again rejected his attempt at comfort. She stood up crying, and walked back to the bedroom. He meekly attempted to follow, but she locked him out. He pleaded with her to open the door, to just let him in, and to talk about whatever was bothering her. She said nothing. She opened the door, walked out fully dressed and left without saying a word.
She couldn’t leave fast enough. Every minute there had felt familiar and comfortable and warm and impossible. She walked out the apartment door, not even glancing back at the boy or saying goodbye. Down the stairs and out the of the building lobby, she nearly broke into a run. She slowed herself when she reached the sidewalk, and then continued down the street, talking herself back into being calm and composed. When she reached the corner, she sat at the bench, and waited for the #4 bus. She wanted to put a million miles between herself, that apartment and someone she no longer was.
She scurried from the kitchen, around the corner and into the living room. The worn and faded oak floor was cold on her bare feet. Goose bumps raced up her naked legs, but terminated where the bottom of his t-shirt met the middle of her thighs. She plopped down on the couch, careful not to spill the bowl of Marshmallow Matey’s she held in her hands. The boy who lived here was still asleep. His roommate was never around; he was probably at his boyfriend’s apartment again. She turned on the television. MTV was playing a marathon of “Undressed”. She found that as acceptable breakfast entertainment and dug in. She felt comfortable in his tiny apartment. Something about it just felt right.
The boy woke and sleepily shambled down the hall to the living room, pausing to take in the scene before him. She sat on his couch slurping up the last of the milk from the cereal bowl, wearing nothing but his Get Up Kids t-shirt and a pair of boy shorts. His heart nearly burst with joy, and although he tried not to, he couldn’t help but grin. He hadn’t seen her in two years, and now here she sat in his living room.
She saw him standing there grinning. She could tell immediately this had been a mistake. She loved him, but knew he loved someone that no longer existed. It had been two years since they had last seen each other, and that distance fueled much of what led up to this point. She started sobbing.
He stood there, saw the color go from her face, and saw her start crying. He walked over and put his arm around her. She shrugged him off. He again tried to just touch her, to provide some comfort, but she again rejected his attempt at comfort. She stood up crying, and walked back to the bedroom. He meekly attempted to follow, but she locked him out. He pleaded with her to open the door, to just let him in, and to talk about whatever was bothering her. She said nothing. She opened the door, walked out fully dressed and left without saying a word.
She couldn’t leave fast enough. Every minute there had felt familiar and comfortable and warm and impossible. She walked out the apartment door, not even glancing back at the boy or saying goodbye. Down the stairs and out the of the building lobby, she nearly broke into a run. She slowed herself when she reached the sidewalk, and then continued down the street, talking herself back into being calm and composed. When she reached the corner, she sat at the bench, and waited for the #4 bus. She wanted to put a million miles between herself, that apartment and someone she no longer was.
AM/PM 2.0
I pulled off the road at 2:13am. I’m not sure why I remember the exact time, but it’s something that has always stuck with me over the years. I was in the middle of Nebraska somewhere, on some state or county 2 lane, making a run south to Amarillo. Back then, I tried to stay off the interstates. I always found trouble there. Or it found me. Was never quite sure. There’s less to worry about on those back roads anyway. Sure, it’s less convenient and sometimes a lot slower, but I saw more of America that way. Hell, that was the main reason I took the job. And I wasn’t afraid to drive all night. You’d be amazed at how many people won’t drive overnight.
So, like I said, it was 2:13am. Had to be late September, early October. Days were still warm. Nights were starting to get chilly, but not into frost season yet. Moon was full, and probably the brightest I’ve ever seen. Got out to stretch, took a walk around the van. I took in the sounds of prairie at night; the wind rustling the long, dry grass, a cricket chirping. The road was deserted. I hadn’t seen anyone in at least an hour. No houses out there either. I hadn’t seen anything really in quite a while. It was peaceful. Probably the most peaceful I’d ever felt. I climbed up onto the hood of the van, and spread out, resting up against the windshield. Stared into the nothingness of a sky filled with stars, it stared back. I came to a realization of how insignificant each and every one of us truly is. How can we be so self-important, when the universe could really give a shit whether we existed at all? I was as important to the universe as a single piece of sand in the Sahara was to me. Not important, significant or meaningful at all. And I was content. Something about that comforted me. Right down to my core. I guess I can’t really explain it. I hopped off the van, went over to the side of the road and took a piss. As beautiful as it was there, I had to get a move on it. I had to be to Amarillo by 3pm. Jumped back into the van, turned on Coast to Coast AM and did my best to get the hell out Nebraska.
So, like I said, it was 2:13am. Had to be late September, early October. Days were still warm. Nights were starting to get chilly, but not into frost season yet. Moon was full, and probably the brightest I’ve ever seen. Got out to stretch, took a walk around the van. I took in the sounds of prairie at night; the wind rustling the long, dry grass, a cricket chirping. The road was deserted. I hadn’t seen anyone in at least an hour. No houses out there either. I hadn’t seen anything really in quite a while. It was peaceful. Probably the most peaceful I’d ever felt. I climbed up onto the hood of the van, and spread out, resting up against the windshield. Stared into the nothingness of a sky filled with stars, it stared back. I came to a realization of how insignificant each and every one of us truly is. How can we be so self-important, when the universe could really give a shit whether we existed at all? I was as important to the universe as a single piece of sand in the Sahara was to me. Not important, significant or meaningful at all. And I was content. Something about that comforted me. Right down to my core. I guess I can’t really explain it. I hopped off the van, went over to the side of the road and took a piss. As beautiful as it was there, I had to get a move on it. I had to be to Amarillo by 3pm. Jumped back into the van, turned on Coast to Coast AM and did my best to get the hell out Nebraska.
Summer Air 2.0
The gravel spewed up from the tires as she sped away pelting him with rocks, and leaving a cloud of dust and dirt to turn his tears to tiny splotches of mud on his face. She was leaving for good this time. She wanted more than what he could give her. More than the simple life they had. More than he wanted or was capable of. He turned back to the old farmhouse, and slowly made his way back up the hill.
He headed directly for the kitchen and began to fix his lunch; a simple sandwich, potato chips and a glass of tap water. He sat down at the table and ate in silence. When he finished, he got up, washed his plate and cup and left them to dry on a worn out dish towel on the counter. He headed upstairs, and went to their bedroom to begin clearing it out.
An hour later, all of her remaining things lay in the 55 gallon drum behind the barn, ready to be burned. But he couldn’t bring himself to start the fire. The quilt she had been given by his grandmother, the framed pictures of the two of them at the Corn Palace and Wall Drug, the jacket he had bought her in Thunder Bay. Clothing, photos, her box of trinkets acquired from auctions, and trips they had taken together. A billion memories and smells and feelings all now residing in a rusted out burn barrel which he stood next to holding a jerry can of gasoline, and the Zippo his grandfather left him. He faltered as he went to pour the gas into the barrel.
All was quiet except the sound of the warm breeze pushing it’s way through the prairie grass, a cicada buzzing somewhere in the distance, the hens gently clucking around back. He stood there; eyes closed, standing in the summer sun, taking in the quiet sounds of his life. He breathed a sigh of warm, thick summer air, poured the gas in, and lit the contents of the barrel. There were chores to do.
He headed directly for the kitchen and began to fix his lunch; a simple sandwich, potato chips and a glass of tap water. He sat down at the table and ate in silence. When he finished, he got up, washed his plate and cup and left them to dry on a worn out dish towel on the counter. He headed upstairs, and went to their bedroom to begin clearing it out.
An hour later, all of her remaining things lay in the 55 gallon drum behind the barn, ready to be burned. But he couldn’t bring himself to start the fire. The quilt she had been given by his grandmother, the framed pictures of the two of them at the Corn Palace and Wall Drug, the jacket he had bought her in Thunder Bay. Clothing, photos, her box of trinkets acquired from auctions, and trips they had taken together. A billion memories and smells and feelings all now residing in a rusted out burn barrel which he stood next to holding a jerry can of gasoline, and the Zippo his grandfather left him. He faltered as he went to pour the gas into the barrel.
All was quiet except the sound of the warm breeze pushing it’s way through the prairie grass, a cicada buzzing somewhere in the distance, the hens gently clucking around back. He stood there; eyes closed, standing in the summer sun, taking in the quiet sounds of his life. He breathed a sigh of warm, thick summer air, poured the gas in, and lit the contents of the barrel. There were chores to do.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Battles
Another Creative Writing class poem. This was supposed to be a poem about a ritual, and it was hard to find one with meaning. It's definitely not my favorite thing I've written, but either way here it is...
Battles
Droopy eyes signal
shuffling up the stairs.
An invasion.
D-Day every night.
The master bath as Normandy.
We invade.
Take our turns rushing,
attacking.
Our teeth.
Hair.
Faces.
Scrubbed. Clean.
The battle over, we retreat
to bed.
Battles
Droopy eyes signal
shuffling up the stairs.
An invasion.
D-Day every night.
The master bath as Normandy.
We invade.
Take our turns rushing,
attacking.
Our teeth.
Hair.
Faces.
Scrubbed. Clean.
The battle over, we retreat
to bed.
Stories We Tell Ourselves
A poetry assignment from my Creative Writing class.
Stories We Tell Ourselves
We two, flying over the prairie
birds weightless by flight.
In between yesterday and tomorrow
we have endless, boundless hope.
I'm free, if only for the next 20 miles.
You grab hold of my hand.
Carelessly, without thought,
without pretense. Two become one.
The skyline looms.
Home waits.
It's dark maw waiting to
swallow me back into
the waiting loneliness.
We drive on forever.
never return; run far away.
It's easier than letting go.
I'm shaken from that dream
as we come to a stop at a traffic light.
We start back up.
The hum of Goodyears on pavement
echoes over the pleading bard
"Without you..."
He's never been so right.
My mind drifts.
You're silent.
I wonder if you are thinking
exactly what I am.
You stare across the vast wastes.
Contemplating the great mysteries,
thinking of all the answers
to questions that are never asked.
I feel insignificant, little, and vapid.
My thoughts are strictly centered
around you.
The car comes to a rest.
We say goodbye.
You let go of my hand.
We tell ourselves
lies to be able to part.
We won't be alone.
We will be strong.
Stories We Tell Ourselves
We two, flying over the prairie
birds weightless by flight.
In between yesterday and tomorrow
we have endless, boundless hope.
I'm free, if only for the next 20 miles.
You grab hold of my hand.
Carelessly, without thought,
without pretense. Two become one.
The skyline looms.
Home waits.
It's dark maw waiting to
swallow me back into
the waiting loneliness.
We drive on forever.
never return; run far away.
It's easier than letting go.
I'm shaken from that dream
as we come to a stop at a traffic light.
We start back up.
The hum of Goodyears on pavement
echoes over the pleading bard
"Without you..."
He's never been so right.
My mind drifts.
You're silent.
I wonder if you are thinking
exactly what I am.
You stare across the vast wastes.
Contemplating the great mysteries,
thinking of all the answers
to questions that are never asked.
I feel insignificant, little, and vapid.
My thoughts are strictly centered
around you.
The car comes to a rest.
We say goodbye.
You let go of my hand.
We tell ourselves
lies to be able to part.
We won't be alone.
We will be strong.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
The Children of Joven
A little note here. This is basically a continuation of a previous story, Car Trouble. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. I wanted to revisit Car Trouble, and a line from a song that's been stuck in my head all week sort of enabled and inspired this take on the North Woods world that these two stories inhabit.
The Children of Joven
The children sat around the campfire salivating as the smell of the roasting meat wafted through the air, and the tiny bits of fat and grease that dripped into the fire spat and crackled. A tiny child, no more than 3 years old, sat playing with a set of deer antlers that had just been removed that afternoon. A deer skin was strung up between a couple smaller pine trees. The Elder child, Joven, kept watch over the fire and the meat skewered and roasting over it. As he slowly rotated the spit, he gazed wearily across the expanse of water formerly known as Little Mantrap Lake. Now, it was just a nameless body of water, one of thousands in the territory. The Children had moved their encampment into an abandoned former fishing lodge and resort. Fishing camps, summer resorts, and vacation homes in the area were common, and likely to be uninhabited. After the Blast, there was no need for recreation. Everyone left alive was too busy attempting just to survive. Most grabbed hold of civilization and held on to it tightly, afraid it would abandon them. Some relinquished themselves to the chaos, and abandoned civil life and the laws of men zealously; eager to become one with the death and chaos that now freely walked the lands.
The Children didn’t fall into either category neatly. They just were. Their leader, Joven, was born into the civilized world. His parents were killed in a raid by the Soulless on his hometown when he was just five years old; he was adopted by the remaining townsfolk. They took care of him as best they could over the next couple years, but he was largely left to his own. When the Soulless returned to finish the job they started, he was able to escape with two of the younger children in town, and they headed west. Miranda and Cody were pale, ghostly white twins who rarely spoke let alone made any noise at all. At the time of the raid on their hometown, they were just three years old. They had been the ones that gave Joven his new name. He had been Justin when he was born, but the twins had trouble pronouncing his name, and it always came out as Joven. Now, 5 years later, they still followed him, and they had gathered thirteen other children with them. Children that were abandoned, unwanted, or like Joven’s parents, murdered by the Soulless. They survived as best they knew how. Sometimes in a larger town, they could rely on a handout, and the entire group of Children would panhandle or attempt to solicit handouts. Most times, they relied on theft or salvaging what they could from the abandoned or destroyed towns. They’d wandered across the northern half of the territory, with no exact location as their goal. Their only aim was to survive as best they knew how.
As the sun began to set, the four oldest children aside from Joven went to gather their spears and hunting gear. Joven relinquished cooking duty to Cody, and went to a cabin to grab his rifle. As the four eldest stripped down to their underclothes, and donned their animal skins and deer skull headpieces, Joven walked out of cabin #4 with his rifle in one hand, and a rope in the other. At the end of the rope was a man, roughly in his 50’s, bound and gagged, face bloodied. Joven dragged him next to the fire, into the circle of Children. With the sun setting, the shadows of the fire elongated and danced across the faces of the Children. As the man looked around, he saw a body, stripped naked, laying just outside the circle. One of the legs was missing, and the person had been shot in the head. Joven stepped forward towards the man and ungagged him. It was then that the the four eldest started to chant. “Elslay Efra Joven”. Over and over, louder and louder. The rest of the children began to join in. As Joven moved away, he trained his rifle on the man. The four eldest moved in with their spears. The man glanced around, hoping for anything he could use to defend himself. It was then that he saw the spit, and the body’s missing leg, slowly being turned and roasted on a spit by a cherubic looking pale child. Cody grinned at him, and mouthed something, but no sound came out. The man collapsed to his knees, and began to scream.
The Children of Joven
The children sat around the campfire salivating as the smell of the roasting meat wafted through the air, and the tiny bits of fat and grease that dripped into the fire spat and crackled. A tiny child, no more than 3 years old, sat playing with a set of deer antlers that had just been removed that afternoon. A deer skin was strung up between a couple smaller pine trees. The Elder child, Joven, kept watch over the fire and the meat skewered and roasting over it. As he slowly rotated the spit, he gazed wearily across the expanse of water formerly known as Little Mantrap Lake. Now, it was just a nameless body of water, one of thousands in the territory. The Children had moved their encampment into an abandoned former fishing lodge and resort. Fishing camps, summer resorts, and vacation homes in the area were common, and likely to be uninhabited. After the Blast, there was no need for recreation. Everyone left alive was too busy attempting just to survive. Most grabbed hold of civilization and held on to it tightly, afraid it would abandon them. Some relinquished themselves to the chaos, and abandoned civil life and the laws of men zealously; eager to become one with the death and chaos that now freely walked the lands.
The Children didn’t fall into either category neatly. They just were. Their leader, Joven, was born into the civilized world. His parents were killed in a raid by the Soulless on his hometown when he was just five years old; he was adopted by the remaining townsfolk. They took care of him as best they could over the next couple years, but he was largely left to his own. When the Soulless returned to finish the job they started, he was able to escape with two of the younger children in town, and they headed west. Miranda and Cody were pale, ghostly white twins who rarely spoke let alone made any noise at all. At the time of the raid on their hometown, they were just three years old. They had been the ones that gave Joven his new name. He had been Justin when he was born, but the twins had trouble pronouncing his name, and it always came out as Joven. Now, 5 years later, they still followed him, and they had gathered thirteen other children with them. Children that were abandoned, unwanted, or like Joven’s parents, murdered by the Soulless. They survived as best they knew how. Sometimes in a larger town, they could rely on a handout, and the entire group of Children would panhandle or attempt to solicit handouts. Most times, they relied on theft or salvaging what they could from the abandoned or destroyed towns. They’d wandered across the northern half of the territory, with no exact location as their goal. Their only aim was to survive as best they knew how.
As the sun began to set, the four oldest children aside from Joven went to gather their spears and hunting gear. Joven relinquished cooking duty to Cody, and went to a cabin to grab his rifle. As the four eldest stripped down to their underclothes, and donned their animal skins and deer skull headpieces, Joven walked out of cabin #4 with his rifle in one hand, and a rope in the other. At the end of the rope was a man, roughly in his 50’s, bound and gagged, face bloodied. Joven dragged him next to the fire, into the circle of Children. With the sun setting, the shadows of the fire elongated and danced across the faces of the Children. As the man looked around, he saw a body, stripped naked, laying just outside the circle. One of the legs was missing, and the person had been shot in the head. Joven stepped forward towards the man and ungagged him. It was then that the the four eldest started to chant. “Elslay Efra Joven”. Over and over, louder and louder. The rest of the children began to join in. As Joven moved away, he trained his rifle on the man. The four eldest moved in with their spears. The man glanced around, hoping for anything he could use to defend himself. It was then that he saw the spit, and the body’s missing leg, slowly being turned and roasted on a spit by a cherubic looking pale child. Cody grinned at him, and mouthed something, but no sound came out. The man collapsed to his knees, and began to scream.
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