# July 2014 - LM - Stranger at the Door



## Fin (Jul 2, 2014)

Click here for the workshop thread


*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​Stranger at the Door​



The winner will receive a badge pinned to their profile and given a month’s access to FoWF where you’ll have access to hidden forums and use of the chat room.


Have the prompt included in some way into your story.


*The judges for this round are:*

*Folcro*; *Bruno Spatola*; *kilroy214*; *amsawtell*


*Rules*


*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum.
*No Poetry!* Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place for your poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for good competition over there. Some of us fiction people wouldn’t be able to understand your work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges.
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there.
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored.
*Only one entry per member.*
*No liking entries until the scores go up.*
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.* If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word and Google Drive are the standard for checking this. If you feel it’s incorrect, send it to the host of the competition and we’ll check it for you and add our approval upon acceptance.




*There are a few ways to post your entry:*


If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread.
You can opt to have your entry posted in the *LM Workshop Thread* which is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights, in case you wish to have the story published one day. Note: If you do post it in the workshop thread, you must post a link to it here in this thread otherwise your story may not be counted.
You may post your story anonymously. To do so, send your story to the host of the competition. If you wish to have us post it in the workshop thread then say so. Your name will be revealed upon the release of the score.

Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score.

*This competition will close on:*

Tuesday, the 15th of July at 11:59 PM, GMT+1 time.
Click here for the current time.

*Good luck, everyone.*​


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## Kepharel (Jul 3, 2014)

*Withdrawn*​


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## Hitotsmami (Jul 4, 2014)

*Stranger at the Door*
​
It was midnight when the doorbell rang.

  I swept on a robe and hurried down the stairs. Peeking through the peephole, I found a disheveled man with tangled hair and a dirty suit.

  The man rang the doorbell again. “Diane?”

  I opened the door as far as the door chain would allow. “Yes?”

  The man’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh, Diane, it is so good to see you.”

  I blinked. “Do I know you, sir?”

  The man blinked back. He looked down and pinched the ends of his unbuttoned shirt. “O-oh, of course you wouldn’t recognize me. Well, not like this. Uhm, Diane?”

  I nodded. “Yes?”

  “Diane. Yes.” He lifted out a hand. I didn’t take it. “I’m Jon. From Uni. We took law together. You remember. Jon.”

  I thought back, but I didn’t remember a Jon. “Why are you here?”

  Jon’s lip quivered. “Uhm. I got in a car accident. Down the street. Diane.”

  I glanced at the yellow convertible parked at my mailbox. “An accident?”

  Jon looked behind at the car, then back at me. “Oh. That’s my car. Yes. Not a _car_ accident. Well, not my car. It’s just that, well, Diane? Yes, Diane. Can I come in?”

  “No.” I went to shut the door.

  Jon stuck his hand between the door and the frame. “I’ll call the police,” I said.

  Jon gasped. “Oh, no, no, no, no, don’t do that. Diane, I’m different now. Just listen. I’m Jon. We were in law together. I sat next to you a couple of times. We went on a date.”

  I felt like I’d remember Jon on a date.

  “W-we went to that ice rink, remember? You’d never skated before. You almost broke your ass— oh, sorry, you never liked me cursing. Diane. You remember, right?”

  I frowned. “Move your hand. If you leave, I won’t call the police.”

  Jon’s eyes lowered and he appeared to read my doormat. _Welcome_, it said. He looked back up at me. “I just need a little money. Twenty dollars. Just to stay in a hotel. Diane, please.”

  “I’m not giving you anything.” I pushed the door and threatened his fingers. “I don’t even know you.”

  Jon chuckled. His eyes looked right through me. “You don’t even know me. You don’t even know me. Diane, you’re gonna listen to _me_ now. You’ve talked enough.” He slammed a hand so hard against the doorframe that I jumped. “You’re going to listen!”

  I slammed the door shut. Jon must have pulled his fingers back just in time. I took a few breaths to steady myself and then peeked through the peephole. Jon was staggering back to his convertible. I watched him fall in, crank the car, and drive away.

  I didn’t call the police that night, but when I grabbed the daily paper off of my doormat, I noticed something shiny. It was a university ring. A big blue zircon sat on the front. I read Jon’s name on the inside.

  “Hey, Diane.” I looked up to see my best friend walk to the front door. She still wore her morning robe and her hair was up in curlers. “How’s it going? I saw a car out front last night. Everything okay?”

  I smiled and nodded. “Yeah, just some weirdo. He said he knew me from Uni. His name was Jon.” I looked inside the ring. “Jon Bellos.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Did you say…?” She offered a hand and I gave her the ring. She looked at it and gasped. “Jon Bellos.” She said his name like one might talk of a dream turned sour.

  Her eyes met mine and then I realized it. My best friend was Aliena, but everyone called her by her middle name. _Diane._

  Neither of us saw that shiny yellow convertible again. Jon Bellos had chosen the wrong house, and for that, he was just a stranger at the door.


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## Plasticweld (Jul 7, 2014)

*I have no story.               598 words*

This was a first for me, standing on the outside edge of the group.  Not the center of attention, not the one with the best story. 

 Standing there, looking at my feet, wondering “how could it come down to this?” it did not seem right, let alone fair. 

 We are taking a break, socializing and telling stories of our past.  The past it turns out is very important.

I am listening to a young guy.  He is strong and confident, proud of what he has done.  The others are listening.  I can see them lean in as he speaks.  They are careful not to miss a word or a detail.  I am jealous. 

“The place was fully engulfed in flames, thick smoke and heat so hot it was melting the siding off of the house.”  The young guy paused, with perfect timing.  The kind of timing that comes from only telling a story hundreds of times, maybe thousands.  I watched the crowd.  They adored him, and after a sufficient number of audible gasps, he continued.  “The baby’s room was on the second floor.  I crawled upstairs, staying low so I could see and breathe any wisp of remaining air.” He scanned the crowd, soaking up their approval.  “I found the baby in its crib, wrapped it in a blanket and then headed back down the stairs.”  

“Well you all know the rest of the story”

The crowd murmured with appreciation.  Our hero smiled taking it all in.

Up next was a young woman “You all know about my long battle”  “At first we thought we had the cancer beat, but then...”

I had heard her story many times before, so decided to move on.  I was disgusted with myself; even her story was better than mine.


I had lived an exciting life, taken all sorts of risks, done all sorts of cool things. I always had my heart in the right place, but everyone here had their heart in the right place too.  As I said, the past is very important here; what you did and what you accomplish really does matter.   The part that stinks, the part that wears on you, is that it always boils down to that one question, what everyone wants to know.

“So how did it happen?”

You wouldn’t think that in a place where you want for nothing that this would be so important, but it is.  It is after all the last thing you remember, the last time you did something in the flesh. 
I feel cheated.   After a life of adventure and excitement it should never have ended like this. “I died in my sleep.” 
 I have answered the question “How did it happen?” so many times and always see the boredom on someone’s face as I mouth the words. They are all very polite, just not interested.

Back when we were in the flesh, people always referred to it as the perfect way to go.  How wrong they were.  That perfect way has become a millstone around my neck.  I wish it had been exciting, prolonged, or eventful; anything but something as simple as not waking up. 

When death knocked on my door, I just let him in.  I didn’t fight him.  I didn’t wrestle him.  Yes it was easy, too easy.  If only they could have known.  Of all the times I came close, of all of the harrowing experiences, of all the great stories I used to be able to tell about almost not making it. I have been cheated.  For all eternity, I have no story.


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## EmmaSohan (Jul 8, 2014)

Psychology Test

The doorbell rings. I put my movie on pause. I look out the peephole. Two teenage girls. Probably selling something. But they're nice to look at. I open the door.

Girl on the right: "I'm sorry for interrupting you, Mister. I'm Alyssa. I'm doing a project for my high school psychology class. I have to ask random people some questions. It will only take a few minutes. What's your favorite color?"

I guess I can help. "Blue."

"Same as your eyes." She reads off the next question while the other girl writes down my answer. "If you could have any job you wanted, what would it be?"

That's easy. "Judge for the Miss America Pageant." They roll their eyes. Hey! That was funny!

"Okaaay, if you could visit any one place in the world, for free, where would it be? "

"Ayres Rock." That stops her.

"What's that?"

"A big rock in Australia. It's a special rock."

"Interesting choice. Jennifer, don't you think that's an interesting choice?"

The girl on the left nods her head and goes back to writing down my answers.

"We're almost done. If you could change one thing you did in college, what would it be? If you went to college."

Not getting puking drunk so many times. But I'm not telling her that. I guess I have a lot of regrets. "I wish I had tried to do better in my classes."

"Done better in classes. Good. Now, this is a test of your memory. Can you name any women in college that you dated?"

"Randi Bucknell." God, she was pretty. "Carol Sempter, Alexandria Holmes." I think. "Mary Crosswhite. Of course, there were a lot I dated a few times."

"Who was your favorite?"

"Randi Bucknell."

They look at each other. What does that mean?

"Last question. This is a test of your health knowledge. Do you have any genetic diseases?"

"Nope."

"Are you sure?"

I'm sure. "I can't roll my tongue." That's good health knowledge.

"Okay, that doesn't sound serious. Thank you very much for answering. Let's go, Jennifer."

They turn around and leave. I watch them walk away, wish I was younger, close my door, and go back to my movie.


Jennifer: "His answers were kind of creative."

Alyssa: "Except for 'Blue'. They were stupid too."

Jennifer: "Yeah. He wants to go see a rock."

Alyssa: "Not just _any_ rock..."

The stop and face each other, look each other in the eye, and say together "...a _special _rock." They laugh and go back to walking.

Jennifer: "Was that really your father?"

Alyssa: "Of course. Plus he admitted dating my mom. Did you see his eyes? Just like mine."

Jennifer: "Can you roll your tongue?"

Alyssa: "Nope. Bad genes." They both laugh.

They get to their car. Jennifer gets serious. "You didn't tell him that you were his daughter."

Alyssa: "He didn't care. What do you want to do now?"

Jennifer: "I don't know. Hang out at the mall?"

Alyssa: "Okay. Let's go."


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## aj47 (Jul 8, 2014)

*I am a Stranger*

I knock my sequence _rap-a-tap-tap_ and enter.

She is sitting in a chair next to the window, her hair a white halo surrounding her face, mapped with laugh lines around her blue eyes and pain lines around her small mouth. She does not smile. Today, I am a stranger.

                “Are you my new nurse?  Where is my daughter?”

                “Mother, it’s me, Lauren.” 

                “Why, yes it is!  You were just here. Did you finish your essay?”

                “I did.” The essay is a memory. I had to do make-up work and needed to write an essay about something “American” and wrote about motherhood.  She was so proud.  Now, she doesn't  remember.

                She began to tell me about her own mother, and how Mimi would wash clothes in a washer with a wringer.  How Mimi said that when she was a big girl, she could hang them on the line.  But they got a dryer before she was tall enough. She talked about the smell of the iron when Mimi ironed Granddad’s shirts. I had heard it before but tried to remain patient.

                I thought about my “little girl” memories and was only listening with half an ear.

                “When will Billy visit me?” Her question caught me off guard.  Billy was my younger brother who had died of skin cancer.

                “Mom, Billy won’t visit today.” I said over a lump in my throat.

                “Probably taking care of that baby squirrel he found. What did he name it?  Peeker?”

                “Pico.” He had nursed the squirrel back to health and it lived in our yard for a few years before disappearing who-knows-where.

                “Who are you?  Where is my daughter?” she asked again.  This time I didn't expect it.

                “I’m Lauren.  I’m right here.” I choked out.

                “You don’t look like Lauren.  You’re an impostor.  Lauren has longer hair and wears glasses.” I silently cursed the Lasik, though my hair had been short for five or six years; ever since I started coloring it.

                When she gets like this, it’s best to leave.  For me.  I closed the door.

                I went into the restroom and let the pricking in my eyes become full-fledged tears. I dabbed at them with a tissue. _It’s not her fault._ I looked at myself in the mirror.  My makeup still covered the dark patches sufficiently.  I blew my nose and prepared myself to go back in there.  On the days she’s like this, it’s tough to do the hour that I commit myself to.

                I stall for time, first using the toilet, then combing my brown hair and applying some lipstick. 

                They told me she was getting worse.  _I didn't expect it to happen in the middle of a conversation._ I straightened my pendant, the dove that she had given me for Confirmation.  _I will be ready.  I will be strong.  It’s not her fault._

                Walking down the hall to her room, I met Peter, one of the nurses.  He tells me she decided to take a nap.  Relieved and guilty, I feel the pricking again. 

                “I’ll be back tomorrow.”  I tell him.

                “Tomorrow is m day off,” he informs me.  “I’ll see you Tuesday.” 

                “Yes, Tuesday.”

                “You know you don’t have to come every day.” I think this is his idea of comforting me.

                “I promised her and myself that I would see this through,” I tell him, even as the temptation of staying home tugs at my heart. _It’s not her fault. _“She might not know the difference, but _I_ will.”

                “I see.  Well take care and have a good evening.” He went back to the station and did something on the computer.

                I walked back to her room, opened the door as quietly as I could and saw her in bed, looking so peaceful.  So vulnerable.  So old.

                I went back to my car, mourning the loss of my mother. _It’s not her fault._


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## Bishop (Jul 8, 2014)

*A Pair Of Docks* By Patrick Bishop


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## Ibb (Jul 8, 2014)

*Abroad*

Jesus Christ. Who are you?

He showed me his wrist—to do this he peeled back the cuff of his sleeve—and waited while I studied his flesh. Wrapped round his forearm, and beginning, I surmised, at the wrist itself, the tattoo of a snake coiled around the arm like a winding staircase down his limb. I realized that I was only able to see this because as my eyes lifted from the tail, to the base, and at last to the head, the cuff was peeled further away from where it had been originally unfurled. The man had been watching my eyes and adjusting the view accordingly. The moment I became aware of this I stepped away from him.

What do you want? 

At this he walked past me into the room. 

Hey, I said, but he did not answer, and walked into the center of the floor. 

I watched him.  He looked about like a man who has been travelling, when suddenly, in the midst of a reverie which has distracted his focus, he finds himself lost, being able to find neither the road on which he has been journeying nor hint of where it is he might be. He turned in a circle, rotating a complete three hundred sixty degrees, seeming never to adjust his heels or the base of his feet while he turned, then stopped again facing the direction he had been when I’d answered the door. At this thought the dawn of loss came over me: I could not remember having opened the door, or having greeted the stranger before me. 

Listen, I said. I was trying to appear brave, but I could feel my voice turn thin in my lungs. You need to leave. I will call… 

Who would I call? I could not remember. I knew there was someone who could be contacted in cases of intrusion. They could be summoned in most matters of dispute. I was certain of this, but unable to locate the exactitude of it in my memory. I tried the technique of calling to reflection hosts of anecdotes which, through connections to the elusive source, can help a mind alight upon that which it is attempting to uncover. I came repeatedly to an interminable no-zone. Whatever experience, knowledge, and memory of information I possessed I was now barred access to attaining. I could remember only the room, the stranger, and the door. 

You must leave, I commanded. My voice was even worse than it had been. You must leave and this is my home and you are not allowed to be here. Whatever you want you cannot have, or if it is my help you need you will have to come back for it later, but not now. Now you must go. 

I turned around so that I would be able to violently open the door and thrust out my arm in a point of contentious fury, in the hope that my anger would be convincing and persuade the stranger to leave. But where I turned to grasp a handle my hand flailed then groped through pale emptiness of air. I looked. There was no door.  I turned and faced the back of the stranger. He had remained unmoving during all this time.

                Please, I said.  

                I did not know what I attempted to say. I did not even know what it is I had been saying. Where had I been all this time? Where was I going? At the fore of my sight a grey, emptied canvas loomed inert; and a small, similarly shaped construction came to focus. Near the leftmost side of its bulk and centered between its head and foot a globular orb colored gold protruded off the skin. I held it, and attempted to know it. Then it fell away. Something looked out from it to me.

Hell, it said. Who are you?


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## garza (Jul 8, 2014)

*Stranger at the Door*   650 words

He had the _Dogs of War_ DVD at home. He'd watched it maybe a hundred times at night when his mother and brother were asleep. He cheered when the good guys in the jeep turned the corner onto Barrack Road by the old clock. They had escaped. They were safe now.

'Safe now,' he'd whisper to the dark. 'Get 'round the corner by that ol' clock an' you safe for sure.'

That afternoon Jerome told him to run an errand and gave him the address of a house.  

'Wait till full dark and knock on the door,' Jerome had told him. 'Tell the lady I sent you. Then bring me what she give you.'

Full dark, he walked up Freetown Road to Kelly Street and found the house. There were no lights. He knocked and waited, knocked again, called out 'good night,' knocked again, and waited. There were footsteps inside and a dim yellow bulb turned on over his head.

'Who's there?' a woman asked.

'Jerome sent me. He say for you to give me what you have for him.'

'You go back and tell Jerome to come hisself. I don't open my door to no strange pickney this time of night. Now go on.'

'Jerome say he hurt me if I don't bring it. 

'I'll hurt you if you don't get off my porch right now, you hear me boy?'

'Yes mami. Please. Jerome got mean drunk today. He say to tell you he done pay you, and he wants what you have for he. I think he kill me if I don't bring what he wants.

'Why don't he come hisself?'

'He 'fraid for Police. He say they watch, and if he come 'round this part they catch him sure. He say Police don't know me.'

'And I don't know you.'

'You know Misis Wilson, stay on Hunter Lane?'

'Yeah. I know her.'

'She me Ma. She say for me to do what Jerome tell me. She's his sweetheart.'

'What your Papa think of that?'

'Police lock him away at Hattieville. He don't know Jerome.'

'Lucky for Jerome. Alright. You can come in.'    

The yellow light went out, the door opened a little, and he stepped into a mostly dark room. A street light half a block away on Freetown Road kept the room from total darkness. 

'You wait here,' the woman said. 

He was back on the street five minutes later with a plastic bag in his pocket. He half ran along Kelly Street to the corner and stopped with the Belize Bible Society on the right and the coffin workshop on the left. He checked out the scene. There was no one about. He started along Freetown Road, walking fast. As he passed the panades shop a man came out of the shadows.

'Boy, where you go this time of night? What you up to?'

He kept walking. Footsteps echoed in the empty street behind him.

'Boy you hear me? I bet I know what you got in your pockets.'

He began to run. The man from the shadows began to run and to curse him for not stopping. 

He ran faster now. He ran for the corner. The corner was close. He had to reach the corner. He had to get past the old clock like the good guys in the jeep. He would be safe. Get past the old clock and be safe. He reached the corner and turned. There was the old clock. Something hit his back. He stumbled, fell. 

Up again. Stumbled. Reached the clock. Touched it. Something hit his back again. Stumbled on for three more steps. Passed the clock. Fell. Lights on Barrack Road going out. The end of the movie. That's okay. He was safe. He'd turned the corner and passed the clock. 

'Safe now, safe now,' he whispered to the dark.


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## Kyle R (Jul 9, 2014)

*Underneath It All*
_by Kyle Richardson_


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## Pishwi (Jul 9, 2014)

*Stranger at the Door*

“there! it happened again!” I typed.

   “ill believe it when i see it” came Vyper’s delayed message.

   Four clicks later the recording made its way across the world to Jamaica or New Zealand or wherever XxVyperxX12 sat behind a desk in a small, dim-lit bedroom, much like my own (I guessed). I had been recording my monitor for the past three hours, but Vyper only received the last twenty seconds: a display of our recent conversation and a slim backdrop of badly hidden pornography, but most importantly, the shift in the number at the bottom right. It was my bank allowance, which, not for the first time this week, had dropped suddenly by 1200 credits.

   “now i believe u,” Vyper typed finally.

   I started a message of gratitude, but deleted it as Vyper sent another:

   “ur sure its not ur bro?”

   I suppose I hadn't told the whole truth when I had said it was _my _bank allowance; I shared it with my brother, RaGn05, or if you preferred to call him by his Christian name, Francis.
   “im pretty sure” I replied. “he dont need the cash. plus if he did, he would tell me. but we havent spoken since monday”

   The ellipsis appeared at the bottom of the screen to indicate Vyper was replying. But at that moment, three loud, solid sounds came from beneath the floor. From _outside.
_
   “brb”

   I heaved myself out of the “Gaming Throne” and ventured out of the bedroom and down the narrow stairs, squeezing through the bannisters and peeling, plaster walls. The three heavy knocking noises sounded again, louder as I neared the front door. I hesitated and gathered my breath back, but the knocks commenced again, and I threw open the door.

   A blur of white light poured in eagerly, but straining my eyes I could make out a tall silhouette before me, one arm poised mid-knock.

   “You’re hitting my door,” I said, covering my forehead from the worst of the sunlight. His features came into focus: woolly hat; leather coat; odd, peach-coloured skin. And he was as skinny as those men in the movies, almost.

   “I’ve come to tell you something”, the man said gravely.

_Does he not know about e-mail?
_
   “You don’t recognise me, do you?” he continued. I shook my head. There was a pause as he searched for words and as I searched for his eyes in the blinding light. “I was a friend of your brother, Francis…”

   “’Was’?”

   For a moment he said nothing, and I fought hard to look impatient in my semi-blinded state.

   At last he said “I’m sorry, John…”

   “_Blacklord_”, I corrected him. (_blacklord@easymail.com, _technically).

   “Yes, Blacklord. Sorry. I’ll get to the point.” He heaved a sigh, evidently failing to note my irritation. “Francis is dead”.

   “Oh”.

   He looked shocked for some reason. “Is that it? You’re not even sad?”

   “It has its disadvantages,” I admitted.

_Cons: Contacts list depleted by 1. Now lacking a healer on_ Magecraft_._
_   Pros: Bank account to myself, should I fix the situation.
_
   “Thanks for the information” I said. “Next time e-mail me. Save me the trek downstairs”.

   “I don’t have an e-mail account”.

   The man’s words were now verging on the disturbing, and I went to close the door.

   But then a thought occurred. “How come I heard it from you first then, and not from the net?”

   The man smiled and folded his arms in a confident manner. “Well! You’re a little brighter than I remember. If a bit fatter.”

   “I’m sorry?”

   “I’m your brother,” said the stranger. “And I’m not dead.”

   “RaGn05?”

   “RaGn05 went when I sold the e-mail account”. There was no regret in his thin smile. “I’m just Francis”.

_Then who was RaGn05 now? Who had I been telling all my secrets? Who was taking all my money?
_
   For the first time in my life, I ran back up the stairs.


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## Guy Faukes (Jul 9, 2014)

Specters by Guido Deigo Jose Fransico de Paula Juan Nepomunceno Maria de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santisima Trinidad Ruiz y Faukes​


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## thepancreas11 (Jul 9, 2014)

A Very Special Bear (647 Words)


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## Euripides (Jul 11, 2014)

*Changing of the Guard* - 644 words

Tonight the evening is a wind-driven cacophony. I am lying in bed trying to fall asleep but the wind whistles between my and my neighbor’s house like a freight train. The vinyl fence dividing our yards adds an uneasy warbling as it heaves and flexes. The wind chimes outside my bedroom window fly about making a metallic staccato noise. But even over the wind and the fence and the chimes, I can hear it, the sound of a car door slamming shut.

Looking up at the ceiling I do a quick count; tonight will be the ninth time in two months he’s come for a visit. Usually I wait for him to knock at least three times. It’s my own little game, I like making him wait.  Heaving myself out of bed, I decide that tonight I won’t let him knock.

I open the door to a raised fist. My visitor looks a little lost at the lack of a door; he lowers his arm and smiles.

I look him up and down, confused. The face is not the same; it’s younger, less haggard, the eyes still unburdened by time. The long ratty brown duster is the same as always, as is the avocado green Chrysler Cordoba parked at the curb. Even the cheap cologne is the same, although less overwhelming.

“Where’s the usual guy?” I ask the man standing on my stoop.

“The usual? Oooh! You mean Harry!” This guy waves his arm vaguely toward the car. “His contract was up, so he was let go. I’m his replacement. You can call me Tyrell.”

He stands there smiling at me expectantly, rolling forward onto the balls of his feet. I stare back at him. I know what he wants, but I’m not taking the lead. I study his face. He’s handsome in an inattentive way, and a pleasant looking fellow. Looks like someone I would have had beers with back in college, or someone my daughter would date. The silence between us starts to stretch uncomfortably. 

“Well…Tyrell was it? It’s time for me to get back to bed. Nice to meet you, thank you for stopping by to introduce yourself. See you in a couple of days I guess.” I start to close the door.

Tyrell places his right hand on the door to stop me from closing it, and looks down at his shoes before looking back up at me with a serious expression, “Mr. Hinkley, if you knew Harry then you know why I’m here.” He holds out his left hand like he expects me to take it.

I frown. Harry had seemed like the lonely sort and could be convinced to let me have a few days respite after a beer or two and some stories. This Tyrell has the vigor of someone new to the job.

“Come in for a drink?” I open the door to invite him in. It’s worth a try.

He looks confused at the reception, and steps into my house closing the door. I walk toward the kitchen and grab two beers out of the fridge. 

He follows along behind me, “Mr. Hinkley….” 

“What’s your hurry?” I offer him one of the beers as I sit in my recliner and pop open my beer.

He holds onto the beer without opening it while watching me drink. “Mr Hinkley, I’m not Harry and won’t accept your evasions. We need to go. I have a quota!”

My luck has run dry. This Tyrell, with his newness and seriousness and quotas, isn’t going to give me a pass like Harry. I look at him as I take a long pull from my beer; Tyrell steps forward and offers me his left hand again. 

As I take his hand and stand up, leaving myself behind, I notice on his wrist, the same gold Timex that Harry used to wear.


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## Gofa (Jul 11, 2014)

Not So Conquered Species
He closes the door and starts counting. If it does not open in 5 seconds there was a chance he could come out of this alive. One and two were easy but three and four just dragged. One more breath, its five and with that power starts to flow back within him.
Water runs in down his face, hair hanging in soggy ringlets before eyes as he continues to stare fixedly at the ceiling. With his back firmly against the door he slowly feels his breathing return to normal.
“If I hadn’t stayed in the shower so long this would not have been a problem”. 
The comment although to no one in particular carries the expectancy of reply.
“Oh shit” He continues as silence greets his earlier comment.
“This means your not bloody here doesn’t it. I'm facing this alone”
With that said action flows as he moves into the room passing quickly from furniture piece to furniture piece laying first a hand on one and then another. Slowly a faint hum inserts itself within the room. Gradually this escalates until all but one piece of furniture vibrates in rhythm with this hum. Quickly he moves to this piece and sits squarely upon it and with a sigh turns and to face the door.
Almost upon cue the door creaks opens and there in shimmering light, standing erect is a large rodent. Its eyes white and sightless still sweep the room to fix upon the seated man. Above the rodent’s head a metallic ball hovers periodically rotating to change aspect in unison with the rodent’s movements. 
For some time there is silence as energies exchange between the two, running the spectrums as each seeks purchase upon the other before speech is invoked. 
“This is wasteful and without point or function. Accept your fate and behave as the conquered species you truly are.”
During this speech the hum has intensifies within the room. Power coalesces and without visible warning the rodent disrupts into a cascade of rainbows and lightenings. After some time the creature falls to the floor, sparking erratically and flowing into a small pile of multicoloured dust.
Quickly the man runs across the room reaching out as he does so to catch the sphere as it slowly descends towards the floor. With the sphere tightly within his the grasp he spins around closing the door and starts counting.
Five seconds to minimum recharge ten to be safe.


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## J Anfinson (Jul 11, 2014)

*Black Balloon (641 words- Language/Adult Content Warning)*


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## CraniumInsanium (Jul 12, 2014)

Don't Go Out
By: Michael Pileggi
650 words


Dax looked over at his wife Vale. A scream of pain and rage ripped the silence left over from the most recent explosions into shreds. Metal clanged against each other, and something shook as it hit something harder 
than itself. 


Dax remembered what the Herald had told him the day before. _Stay indoors._ The Graviteers would be performing a series of experiments this weeks restdays. 


These sounds were not new to Dax and Vale. They had begun yesterday evening and continued every few hours. Dax thought of something suddenly. “I don't remember anyone screaming the last few times. Do you, 
dear?” He asked, looking up from a carving he had been working on.


“What did you say?” Vale asked as she finished chopping an onion. As she looked up she brushed aside a stray lock of brown hair that had fallen across her face. 


“I was saying that it sounded like someone was screaming. That's a new sound isn't it?”


“Curse his rules.” Vale said, spitting to the side. “Screams, eh?” she cocked her head and listened. “Hope they're his.” Another explosion rocked the air, this time shaking things off shelves. The floor rocked as well, 
throwing up dust.


     The sounds died away as they had in the past. Dax shook his head, short sandy hair shedding dirt in a slow dance of shadows and dusty reflections cast in the late evening candlelight.  


     Dirt crunched beneath someones footsteps as they approached the Dax's house. Porch boards creaked ominously under the weight of the stranger at the door as he rapped on it sharply.


“Who's there?”Dax called out curiously. A man answered.


“I go by Juarnax.I am a stranger in this land, and seek some shelter and food.” Dax considered this for a moment. The Herald had been known to hold a grudge when ignored.


“Tell you what friend. There's some work being done by the Graviteers up yonder town. Not exactly supposed to go out till they're done. It's for my own safety, you see.” Juarnax didn't reply and Dax continued. I can spare you a care package, if you wait a moment.” Juarnax gave a noncommittal grunt.


     Vale walked over.They had dealt with wanders before. She looked at him, putting a bundle in his hand. Warmth emanated from it, moisturizing Dax's hand as he held it and opened the door. 


     Dax swallowed the lump in his throat as he looked Juarnax over. He wore a leather vest over brown pants. Long brown hair hung over broad shoulders that towered above Dax. His feet bore boots, as his belt and shoulders bore weapons. Juarnax smiled. “Did you say there was a town close by?” He asked, cocking his head to one side. “Could you point me in the right direction?” Juarnax asked, sweeping his arm behind him.


     The ground shone brightly beyond Juarnax's metallic hand. It was as though the ground was so hot it burned the air. Then another of those explosions lit the sky and shook the ground. Dax fell with a cry. Then it ended. 


Dax looked up and saw the beast now standing in the distance. Seeing Dax,it let out a reptilian roar of dominance. The jungle beyond the metallic floor buzzed with noise as other creatures took to the sky.


     For several moments Dax just stood there, uncomprehending. “We knew your city as Dougahel. It was ruins in my time, long abandoned. When I awoke in the ruins this morning I knew I was insane to see them inhabited and whole. When the explosions came, I saw Dougahel as you know it, but larger. Now we appear in a land where man has no place yet. We have been cursed! Let us flee the explosions while we still can!”


“But the Herald told me to stay indoors!” Dax cried, pulling Juarnex inside and slamming the door.


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## Fin (Jul 13, 2014)

*
Times are Hard
Anonymous Entry*​


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## Fin (Jul 13, 2014)

*A Winnowing
Anonymous Entry*​


“C’mon in.” The old man stepped back, gesturing listlessly with the hand that wasn’t gripping the door knob. “Sit down where ya want. From the look of ya I’d say over by the stove’d be best.”

Caliburton stepped through the door. A nauseating soup of odors filled his nose: fried food, wood-smoke, old man. “Uh… thanks.” He shuffled to a brown wing chair near the small black stove but did not sit down. He was more tired than he ever remembered being, but getting comfortable here felt… wrong.

“Go ‘head, son. Chair won’t bite’cha.” Pale blue eyes looked out from under thick gray eyebrows. The old man looked as tired as Caliburton felt.

“Sure… thanks…” Caliburton flopped down into the chair. Its springs were shot and the material under his fingers and his ass was as rough as three-day stubble and pockmarked with worn patches; like furniture mange. “Thanks, mister… uh…”

“Sorter,” the old guy said, “Pete Sorter.”

“Thanks, Mr. Sorter.” Caliburton glanced around the cabin—it had to be a cabin, it was one large, simple room with the stove on one end, a tiny kitchen on the other, and a cot-like bed along the wall near the door where he entered. There were no windows and just two more doors set three feet apart in the back wall. It was an odd, impractical arrangement.

“Just, Sorter is fine.” Sorter nodded as if agreeing with himself.

“All right then.” Caliburton didn’t really care about the old guy’s name. He was more interested in getting home, with a side order of how he got here. “Can you tell me how to get back to town?”

Sorter didn’t answer. He seemed absorbed by the task of lighting two small oil lamps on the back wall. One beside each of the doors. Without windows it was impossible to tell if it was day or night outside and Caliburton couldn’t remember, even though he’d been standing outside the cabin just moments before. The lamps did little to dilute the gloom which filled the cabin like syrup.

After the second lamp was glowing, and Sorter had extinguished the wooden splinter he’d used as a match, he said, “I can’t tell ya how to get back, son. That’s not in my purview, so to speak.” He walked over to where Caliburton sat, pulled up a straight-backed wooden chair, and sat down on it backwards, folding his arms across the back.

“Can you at least tell me how I got here?”

“Same as ever’one else I expect.”

“Everyone else? Do you get strangers at your door often?”

“Pretty regular. Sometimes more than others.”

“Well. What do you do with them? Bury them out back?”

Sorter chuckled. “No need for that, son.”

_Did he mean the sarcasm, or the burying?_“I just send ‘em on.”

“On where?”

“Ta home.”

“I thought you said you can’t help me get back home.”

“I can’t.”

_Damned word-games_. “But you can get me _on_ home?”

“Now you’re catchin on, son.”

“What’s the difference?” Caliburton sat forward in the sprung chair and rested his elbows on his knees.

“Big difference.”

“Okay… can you help _me_ get _on_ home?”

“Sure.”

As quick as an evil thought, Sorter reached out and took Caliburton’s hands in his own. The old man’s skin was soft and hot, the contact intimate. Something thick and vile moved from Caliburton to Sorter like an infection being drawn.

“Shit!” Caliburton pulled his hands away from Sorter who let go without resistance. “Shit! What was that?”

“Had ta find out where home is didn’t I?”

“Enough of this crap! How do I get out of here?”

“Back door,” Sorter said, nodding in that direction. “Just keep walkin.”

Caliburton stood up and walked toward the back door—there was only one now, with lamps on either side.

“What the hell…”

“Good luck, son,” Sorter said as the door swung open.


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## Fin (Jul 13, 2014)

*escorial's entry*


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## godofwine (Jul 14, 2014)

*Neighborhood Reclamation by Godofwine​*648 Words​
http://www.writingforums.com/thread...oor-Workshop?p=1753694&viewfull=1#post1753694​


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## Ari (Jul 14, 2014)

*Knife Cuts* - by Ari 

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...er-at-the-Door-Workshop?p=1753368#post1753368


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## Fin (Jul 14, 2014)

*Obregón 
Anonymous Entry*​


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## ravensty (Jul 14, 2014)

*At Our Table (643 Words)*

A shaky reunion of three detached persons begins – that of, Clara, Momma, and him: the note, bar, and verse of a melody – thought forever separate – yet reunited, tonight, for a feast. 
Still out of sync, though, and discordant, their words spoken to one another: bleats, monosyllables, dropped like hammers to nail a coffin shut. 

Communication, for them, is a dead thing with its four legs pointed up.​ 
Yet, here, at this table they will, at least, eat together – if barely speak together. Momma’s _nouveau mari_ – the Conductor – suited in his corduroy blazer, wearing his gapped-tooth smile, has arranged this gathering, prepared this feast, set this table with red bowls full of yellow and brown viands: Senegalese cuisine: yassa poulet, sweet potato maafe, and thiakry, for dessert: strange food, for a strange gathering: warm food to melt the familial _froideur_. 
It was this Conductor – he, but a stranger come to the door of a _quieted home_ – who had opened the door earlier this evening to two more strangers.  
As for this laconic duo, their minds are elsewhere. Clara appears worried as to whether the large maafe stain on her new blouse will come out in the wash. And her brother, in his part, has focused his attention away from the food and company, too. His mind is on the table, on the cold, hard wood resting beneath his trembling fingers._
Table history_: bought at a yard sale back in ‘83, tied with twine rope to the top of Momma’s Volvo, whereupon, staring up at the thing, he, six years old, was struck by the table’s visual similarity to a headless animal, a dead thing with its four legs pointed up into the sky.​ 
The table’s history isn’t the only thing on his mind, though – for to remember this history is to remember their history, the history of a _quieted home_, a home where the only physical affection came in the form of a beating, where siblings spoke only to murmur threats, where a table meant to bring a family together was avoided by that family, as if it were some dead thing, and where if any love was shown, it was shown through objects. –How many objects, though – jewelry, dresses, game consoles, whatever – lay entombed in cardboard boxes up in the attic, buried in closets, interred in the garage. Are these things loved? –No. Are these things _love_? –No, again. Where, then, is the love in this wooden family?_
Answer_: It is nowhere “in” but around this family that love exists, and as they crowd around this table, so love is honed in and resonates like a melody, so four legs, once pointed up, fall to the earth like pillars . . .​ 
_Their history is history_. Back in the present, the yassa’s gone, the maafe, too. There is still some thiakry yet, but sated _we_ keep to our seats. My sister and I hold our mouths O-pen, every now and again, to let the cool air in where the spicy maafe once was. The Conductor sits comfortable with one arm over Momma’s shoulder. Used to the heat, they laugh at the two of us. Momma remarks that we look like “two choral singers” with our mouths held O-pen. Clara laughs a coughing laugh. “That reminds me,” Clara says, “your granddaughter’s performing in the choir next week. You should come . . .  all of you.” Momma leans forward, her eyes meeting her daughter’s: “Well, that depends Clarabell,” Momma says, “can my granddaughter sing?” “No,” says Clara, glancing over at me, then, back to Momma, a smile stretching across her lips (my lips, Momma’s lips) “can’t nobody in this family hold a melody, you know that.” “I do,” says Momma, laughing, looking over at me, “but ain’t no harm in trying – right?” “Right,” I say, and beneath my fingers, I feel our table breathe.


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## Fin (Jul 15, 2014)

*Hello, My Name is Allen Wallbrook
Anonymous Entry​*
Fat sweat fell on fat eyebrows and forehead scrunched up as the anxiety pressed its thick fingers into his eye sockets, squeezing the lids shut tight. His whole body was heavy and so was the air. The air was immense. The air was more massive than the earth two times over and it pressed on every inch of his being as his knees became close and they so became weak.

Her front porch somehow felt bigger still than the air all around him. He must’ve paced it a thousand times in the space of just a few minutes, but just a few minutes had felt like a year and a half and still he could’ve paced it a million times more, so long as it lent him time before he had to force his knuckles to strike the front door.

“Hello, my name is Allen Wallbrook and I’d very much like it, sir, if you’d allow me to speak with your daughter, Tiffany.”

Twenty-four words. 

It seemed like it should be so easy. He’d probably spoken these _exact_ twenty-four individual words at some point in his preceding eighteen years, just not in that particular order, and not to Mr. Adams, and not in the doorway of the Adams household, and not on this massive porch, and certainly not with the pressure of a zoo-full of elephants weighing on his every, individual breath.

Gosh, the air was heavy.

This was very much not like Allen. If, nine-or-so months ago, he had to predict where he’d be on the 5th of June of his senior year of high school, the smart money would be on “definitely not outside Tiffany Adams’ house.” The front door seemed so far and his legs felt so unwilling. 

Gosh, it felt hot.

So humid and so hot and so uncomfortably thick. The air was so thick. It must’ve been ninety degrees. His mind was numbed by the heat, burning as if stuck on the Sun; his skin nearing a boil. The air was so darn heavy. He could hardly move from the weight and the mass of the air; it pressed on every bit of his arms and his legs and his chest and his face but that was definitely no excuse for not going up and knocking on the door and this was absolutely no way to continue on going through life as if he could simply avoid new experiences and realities just because he thought they might be difficult and the air wasn’t even that bad anyway and the only way he was actually going to experience new things was to go ahead and do those things, so that’s exactly what he intended to do starting with asking Tiffany Adams if she could spare some time to come see a movie with him on Friday night.

Head up, spine straight, legs forward, spring in step he jaunted toward the door. It was lovely weather. He breathed the lovely air into his lively lungs and he swore he could’ve sung a sweet, lovely melody had he not more important matters to which to attend. The air in his chest lifted him to near-levitation. His fist floated through the air, light as a feather, and tapped the door once, twice, thrice and returned to his side.

He was not himself and he loved it. He was a stranger and he was free to do whatever this new self pleased without the obstruction of his previous identity or the weight of the air or all the excuses his mind could imagine. He greeted Mr. Adams with a calm, confident smile and recited his twenty-four-word speech with as much ease as he breathed in the lovely air all around him.

Gosh, the air sure was light


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## midnightpoet (Jul 15, 2014)

Charlie

628 words


Charlie, the blue heeler, woke from a dark slumber by a noise, a shriek.  One eye opened slowly.  Something was wrong.  The front door was open.  How did that happen?  A stranger at the door?  Did he come in?  How did he not hear the noise?  He quickly got to his feet, checked the door.  The morning sun shone hot through the opening.  He sniffed.  Maybe a rodent, but he did not smell one.  He checked the room, nothing.  Where was cat?  Cat’s job to kill rodents. Where was Master? 

Charlie gave out a low growl, then a bark.  The mountain cabin had three rooms.  He found cat in the short hall, lying on her side.  He nudged Cat.  No response.  

“Charlie!”

Charlie looked in the bedroom and saw the stranger, a rattlesnake, coiled to strike.  Master sat on the side of bed, legs dangling down, inches from the deadly fangs.  Charlie growled again.  He had survived  a recent snake bite on one of his rear legs.  It had scabbed over, but it had given him a slight limp.  He slowly approached the snake, head low, watching for the slightest movement.  The snake’s tongue darted in and out as it surveyed this challenger.  

“Charlie, be careful.  I’m going to lift one leg slowly.”  

Master did so as Charlie focused on the eyes of the snake.  The snake hissed, turning back toward the man.  Master stopped.  The snake hesitated, as if he couldn’t decide who to bite next.  Charlie had killed snakes before, and his experience told him to work slowly.  As he circled the creature, he got closer and closer.  The snake flicked its tail, and Charlie understood the warning rattle.  Don’t come nearer, I will kill you.   

“Keep distracting it, Charlie.  My gun’s on the other side of the bed.”  

Master raised his leg.  The snake was focused on Charlie.  The snake struck.  Charlie dived out of the way.  The snake slithered away from Charlie, coiling to strike again.  Master raised his other leg.  The snake struck at Charlie once more, just missing his ear.  Master had the gun now, but Charlie was too focused on the snake.  

“Charlie, no!  Back away, I can’t get a clear shot.!”   

Charlie kept pacing back and forth, keeping his head down and waiting for an opening and all the while getting closer to the snake.  The snake showed its fangs, as if it also was waiting for an opening.  Charlie lunged at the snake, grabbing it by the neck.  He shook it several times, then ripped it to pieces.

“Good boy.”  Master went into the hall, discovered cat.  “Damn it.  Tinker was a good cat.”

Danger not over.  Charlie sensed another.  Instinct told him these creatures come in pairs.  He went from room to room, sniffing.   Front door open.  He poked his head out.  The heat of the morning was stifling.  Insects buzzed near the small creek that flowed near the cabin.  Charlie explored the rocky ground, circling the cabin slowly, sniffing and listening for tell-tale rattles behind the cedar bushes and prickly pear.  Danger close by, he knew it.  Where?

Master came out behind him, pistol in hand.  He heard a rattle coming from some low bushes.  He approached slowly.  He saw Master walk in other direction.  He not hear?  Charlie barked loudly, got Master’s attention.  He heard the rattle again.

“Charlie?  Where is it, boy?  In those bushes?  Stay still, I’ll get it.”

Master saw it, fired several times.

“Charlie, where are you going?  I finished the bastard.”  

Danger still not over.  Charlie covered the area, inch by inch.  Job not finished.  He checked the outhouse.  Nothing.  Down by the creek, he found it.  A nest of eggs.  He destroyed them with gusto.  Job over.  Until next time.


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## Circadian (Jul 15, 2014)

*Stranger at the Door* ​    Electrical wires trailed over a floor littered with papers, discarded pizza boxes and the shells of old DVD players, radios, telephones, and television sets.  There were broken clocks: grandfather clocks, wall clocks, table clocks, pocket watches, all with their gears removed.  Against them rested the stringless remains of two violins, a guitar, and a cello.

The mess led into the dome of a work in progress where Jared was tightening a violin’s G string among the gears inside the wall.  He swept a mop of unkempt hair away from his face and referred back to his research material.  _The Adventures of Captain Nebula_ by G. A. Pickett.  The old paperback was worn down the spine, its pages yellowed and dog-eared.  Jared held it in one hand, scanning a page smudged with greasy fingerprints.

He was making the greatest model in the history of the fandom and he couldn’t help the excitement as he twisted the string even tighter.  With a sudden twang, it snapped.  It caught Jared in the face, causing him to cry out in alarm and slap a hand to his eye.  Dropping the book, he rushed to the bathroom and turned on the faucet, getting his face wet and seeing blood swirl down the drain.  He pressed a towel to the cut, feeling it sting satisfyingly as he pushed harder.

There was a knocking at the door and it took him a moment to navigate the clutter of his workspace and open it, expecting some solicitor or missionary or girl scout selling cookies.

It was an old man on the other side of the door and he was in terrible shape.  Deep lines ran down his face from his eyes and his mouth and his skin was weathered and tanned, as if he’d lived a rough life.  Half of his face was covered in bandages and the other half bore an S-shaped scar.  He wore a trench coat, its seams threadbare.

"Can I help you?" Jared said.

The man’s left eye, the one not covered in bandages, quickly scanned the room, taking everything in.  "This place is a mess," he said finally.  His voice was soft and raspy as if he’d suffered throat damage.

Jared gaped.  "That’s none of your business.  Just who are you?"

Instead of answering, the man passed by him and stepped inside, ignoring Jared’s protests.  He gazed at the unfinished machine, all metal scraps and wires and gears.  There was even the signature Dali-style clock face featuring Captain Nebula and the logo of the novel’s very short-lived television series.

"Very accurate," the man said, taking it all in.  "Too accurate."  He turned around and headed back for the door.  He walked with a limp.

"Hey!  Wait a sec!" Jared said and grabbed the man’s shoulder.  "What gives you the right to barge in here anyway?"

The man stopped and removed Jared’s hand from his shoulder.  His own hand was missing two fingers.  "With luck, you won’t find out, kid."  He nodded at the machine.  "Destroy it."
_
"What?"_

"Destroy it."

The man limped out the door and Jared stood, dumbfounded, watching the man head down the road.  Slowly, he closed the door and latched it.

He returned to the bathroom, thinking over this strange encounter as he removed the towel from the left side of his face.  He gazed at himself in the mirror.  The bleeding had stopped and now he found himself staring at a fresh, S-shaped cut.


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## ShadowEyes (Jul 15, 2014)

*Stranger at the Door*


Thomas Bernard, gravedigger, undertaker, and cemetery groundskeeper, bent to kick open the trapdoor. He supposed it once swung out, but the hinges had rusted. When you dug holes, you got used to kicking. A well-placed kick fixed most problems.
Dirty leathers spoke of the night's graveyard shift. His sunken face hid below a mop of straight, grey hair. He lost two teeth somewhere between black and grey. Nevertheless, he sucked a slow breath through his front's gap. The door, snug in the remains of the royal crypt (collapsed in the week's deluge), smelled like fermented _something_. He waved a torch and light fell back at him. Piles of gold sparkled amidst a broken sepulcher and churned earth. _This_, he thought, _belongs back at the mortuary.
_
***

Dimitri Rena, royal bastard, swept his gnarled hand through the remains of his demise. His high forehead, he observed, only grew higher in death. The tomb was a curse. The tomb was a box. But, like all boxes, creatures have ways of wriggling inside. He figured he knew. At that moment, a small, gangly man thumped into the chamber, spilling light. Dust drifted. The clouds above, beyond, were hazy white. Pre-dawn. Suddenly freedom seemed ... less. He hid. He watched. The man moon-eyed._ Eh? The gold. That won't do. 
_
***

Thomas picked up handfuls of the pieces, licked one. _Real_, he thought. Yet, the situation drove a stick in his gut. He dropped it, checked his peripherals. Wait. Beyond the cobwebs lie a blackness, too black to be shadow, cloth, or mold. It was like a hole in darkness. Nothing. He turned and fixed it with a squint, mouth open. And shrieked a crow's caw as the thing moved. A hand. Reached. Out. Of. It.
He fell back, too terrified to close his eyes. So he saw it. A smoky humanoid figure, stark. It spoke.

***

"You're like the last one," Dimitri said.
"I ... I b-beg. Pardon...?" the man said.
"Graver." Dimitri liked how it rhymed with slaver. "I'll put it straight," and floating across the rubble. "You're just like her. I'm surprised you're not dead, too. You're of the ilk." How raw it felt to speak again. And lies, such beauty. "I'm the king's bastard. Fraticide." Why not truth, too? "Your kin spoke to me before death. I live on, though. You want this, I take it?" He gestured to the floor.
"Murder?" the man said. "My mom was killed ... An accident, they said, they said."
"Say-so. You're a smart one. Read that over there." A bloody parchment.

***

Thomas felt silly inside, his face blanched, body shivered. He had gotten over his mother's death years ago. You get used to that sort of thing. He often had visions of erecting a tower in his honor. She would be an angel for all to see. With this much wealth... _No, focus._ He hurried to pick up the paper.
_A will. "To the benefit of the grave-digger's guild, pursuant upon the debt owed for the building of this monument."_
"She... she _knew_." Thomas looked into the ghost's eyes, saw the creased lines. "What is it that you want?"

***

"My name, my honor, my life," he staccatoed. "I think you'll try for one, given the circumstances." _Trust no one._ "You'll find this ... beneficiary of yours to be _most helpful_ in designing your life. You'll find a copy of this in the archives." Filthy lies. "Clear your family name. Raise mine." _Clean your plate._
The grave-keeper held the paper up on flat palms with reverence. Dimitri didn't have to say the word. The man went. 
...
Dimitri expected snoopers within the hour. He expected a full guard. He expected blood on their swords, not even clean yet. They didn't expect him. He proposed a monument in his honor.


----------

