Don't Look Down

Use this forum to post short stories that you have written. This is for getting comments and constructive feedback. This is for original, creative works. You must post the actual text, no links.
Post Reply
User avatar
Marina-S-M1
Posts: 23
Joined: 02 Feb 2020, 23:40
Currently Reading: The Song of Achilles
Bookshelf Size: 44
Reviewer Page: onlinebookclub.org/reviews/by-marina-s-m1.html
Latest Review: Who Says, Women Can't Lead? by James Rondinone

Don't Look Down

Post by Marina-S-M1 »

The man was crammed in the small dugout space underneath his kitchen’s floorboards, a string of sweat wandering down his back and his hair a matted mess on his forehead. It was a texture that reminded him of the ugly red and orange wool rug on the floor right above him. The crawlspace smelled of mud and dust, and the air was heavy with the stench of sweaty suffocation; the green and red knit strings of his ugly Christmas sweater were sandwiched between each particle of dust and the sticky surface of his skin. He regretted wearing the thick material as soon as he climbed into the floor space, but there wasn’t much room to take it off now. If he moved now, he’d be dead. The floorboards creaked above him, and his breath faltered. It must have been one of the guests above him, swaying slightly offbeat to the gentle hum of Jingle Bells playing from the living room speakers. His mind suddenly drifted to the cookies he had left in the oven. There was no way that anyone would be able to hear the alarm ring over the chatter about nothing and the persistent jolliness of the music, and even if they could, they must have been too busy spiking their eggnog to look up from their pristine Christmas themed cups. He could imagine the crimson lip stain forming on the woman’s white cup, exactly matching the delicately crafted cursive on the front that read, “Naughty or Nice? You’ll have to find out.” He’d never liked the mug, but he knew Christmas themed objects were the woman’s favorite, so he suppressed the urge to break it. The thought of the cookies burning made his stomach churn with anxious energy, so he tried to count the lint on his sweater instead. A gurgling sound broke him out of the soothing count, so the man craned his neck as much as he could to locate the source of the sound. For a second he attached the sound to his stomach, but a crane to the upper left reminded him of the blubbery mass right above his head. It gurgled and slurped and slobbered, sounds that caused the anxious movements in his stomach to perform a ballet with the waves of nausea that were beginning to form. He wished nothing more than to silence the ball of blubber and wasted remains of a life. If only he had enough space to reach up and silence it forever, he would never complain again. Well, that, and if he could get up and take the cookies out of the oven before the whole house burned down.
He focused his attention on recreating the woman’s crimson lip stain, the mug, and then chiseled all his mind to recreate the woman the stain belonged to. He imagined her small frame, like one of a bird that had recently fallen out a nest and needed to be nursed back to health; he thought about the circular shape of her childlike face, the large blue eyes that were reminiscent of a deer’s; the skinny, straight line of her nose, the plump curves of her pale pink lips that he’d traced so many times before; he focused on the soft hills of her cheekbones that juxtaposed the sharp mountaintop of her chin, the way her blonde hair, which reminded him of sunlight on a warm day, fell in waves to occasionally block both from view. He recreated the heart shaped prominence of her chest, the soft curvature of her waist and hips, her hands, the nails always painted red and green by November. He imagined her now, red lipped and vibrant with joy, favorite mug in one hand and the other occupied with some gesture of conversation. The man felt the way he assumed God must have felt when creating man. Maybe he was God.
The woman held onto her mug with a fierce grip, blue eyes trained on the off-white milky substance in it. She had made sure to stay clear of all alcoholic substances, a choice that had unintentionally ostracized her from the rest of the females in the house. They all preferred to be intoxicated on this day, even though it was against the rules and would make the housemaster unbelievably angry, which they would have to deal with for days to come. Her feet padded across the kitchen space, the fuzzy socks on her feet making a delicate squish against the hard wood. Earlier that night, another girl had accidentally spilled her drink on the woman’s favorite Christmas themed socks, which read, “O Holy Night,” in beautiful blue script. She wanted to change them now that they were soaked, but she hadn’t been able to locate another pair that matched the theme. She figured she’d have to ask the housemaster for another pair later. It made her feel shameful, having to ask for another gift, but she felt worse knowing that she ruined the socks in a preventable accident. Her eyes drifted through the kitchen window to the swirling red and blue lights outside, suddenly entranced by the bold departure from the usual green, gold, white, and orange lights that adorned the houses around her. She wondered who’d chosen red and blue for their Christmas lights, and as her brow curved into a deep frown, she felt a wave of sadness wash over her. She had never met any of the neighbors. They seemed to always come and go, much like seasons. The house never stayed put for long, and she knew she’d never trade the joy of discovering new places for the distant and forced friendship of neighbors. She had enough friends with her, and if she was ever lonely, the house was big enough for more. The house was more like sisterhood than anything else, she knew that better than anyone. She turned back to the party in the living room, her red lips stretching in her familiar smile. She swayed her body to the next song, a hum of approval leaving her mouth. This had always been one of her favorites.
“This was always one of your favorites.”
“Yes,”
She said, only seconds after she’d received the signal to speak. She always buzzed with energy for conversation on these nights.
“I think it’s because it reminds me of snuggling up next to the fireplace with people you love, laughing, drinking hot cocoa. You know.”
A nod and a smile confirmed her assumption.
“Well that’s just silly.”
Her smile faltered.
“But it’s quite remarkable. The imagination you have is like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
A blush made its way to her cheeks and her smile was restored. She bowed her head in modest thanks and tried to control the sudden burst of energy she felt when her modesty was met with approval. She almost relished in the feeling, but a lingering stare caused a shiver to rush down her spine. She ached to take a sip from her mug and soothe the storm brewing in her stomach, but she ignored the impulse. She would need approval for that too. Her blue eyes stared intently at the orange and red rug underneath her feet, grimacing at the small puddle forming underneath her socks. She didn’t yet have the approval to speak.
“I do hope that your evening isn’t ruined. I know this holiday is your favorite.”
“No, not at all. I think it’s quite lovely what we’re doing tonight.”
The corners of her mouth were starting to ache from smiling so hard, but the ache didn’t matter much to her. What did matter was the eggnog stirring gently in her cup instead of in her mouth.
“So, it came?”
“Lilah said the others were worried about it, but I think it’s fine. It’s only five guests, and the house is always wanting more, I figured it was enough.”
She waited for the onceover. Another intense stare at her doll like eyes, a small grunt of approval of her small, dainty frame. Her eyes didn’t dare settle on the lump forming in her stomach. It was the second of the year, which was a bit upsetting for both of them.
“You’re doing it again.”
The woman tucked a blonde wave behind her ear, her hand hesitating on the angel earring dangling from her left ear. Her hand shook, an unsteady breath leaving her mouth.
“No, of course not.”
A hand lifted her chin and forced her to look into piercing brown eyes. The hand fell from her chin to her stomach, giving her a reassuring pat.
“It’s almost my birthday soon.”
“Of course. Eighteen, that’s a big one, Clara.”
Clara smiled, but it wasn’t genuine.
“I’ll have to leave soon, won’t I?”
A hesitation.
“Did you hear that?”
Clara shook her head and tilted her chin up, trying to strain her ears to locate the sound over the music. Then she heard it.
“I thought you said there was only five guests.”
“There was. I counted. Each of us brought one in.”
“Very well. You know what must be done.”
Clara stepped off the rug, allowing the floorboards to be lifted and pushed to the side. Then, nothing. She made her way to the door, still gripping her mug, adjusting her hair to fall just so. She went to the door, then pasted on a smile that could have blinded the passing cars. The cold air greeted her with a bitter kiss, but the wind gave her an air of confidence she hadn’t had before the door opened. A girl stood on the doorstep, misty eyed and clutching a white flyer close to her chest. Her puffy pink coat was zipped up to the top, making her look like she was dressed in a pillow. The girl’s hair was a silky blonde, just like Clara’s, something she knew the housemaster would appreciate. Clara studied the girl’s circular blue eyes, the gentle swoops of her cheeks, her childlike frame, and the heart shaped swell of her chest. Snowflakes clung to the girl’s eyelashes, and with the purse of the girl’s pink lips Clara’s eyes found their only dissimilarity: the divot of a dimple on the girl’s left cheek.
“Are you alright?”
Clara masked her face with concern, resting her hand on her jutting belly. They trusted her more that way.
“Yeah. Um, well no, actually.”
“Can I help you with anything? Do you want to come in? It’s so cold out there.”
The girl’s eyes went straight to Clara’s belly, the expression in her eyes shifting from fear to comfortably conscious. Clara tried not to tense up when the blonde scanned the house. If the housemaster wasn’t gone by now with it, this wouldn’t work right.
“I’m looking for my little sister. She’s missing. My parents have been out of town for a while, and I was supposed to keep watch of her.”
Clara nodded sympathetically as she had done multiple times before. She shifted her body to the right to shield more of the house from the blonde’s view, finally taking a sip from her mug. The girl’s eyes narrowed to read the red cursive on the front, Clara’s fingers concealing some of the letters in a way that made the message appear as, “Nau—Nice? Find ou.” The small blonde decided that Clara was the least of her worries and, against her best judgement and the advising of her parents, stepped inside. The music seemed to come to a complete stop, but maybe the blonde had been imagining music in the first place. She was more out of it than usual, she had to admit. Clara kept her distance from her.
“Why don’t you come into the kitchen dear? I’m sure there’s something in there to warm you up.”
Clara winced as the girl’s shoes groaned against the floorboards. Could she see how loose they were? Clara glanced out of the window at the flashing blue and red lights, suddenly realizing what they were. She tried to keep her eyes trained on the ones of the younger girl, focusing hard on her soft features. The girl couldn’t be more than fourteen.
“Are you making cookies?”
“What?”
Clara was brought back to reality by the twinkling of the girl’s voice.
“Oh. I guess I was. Do you want some eggnog, dear?”
The girl shrugged.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Clara reached into the cabinet and took out the last Christmas themed mug. It was pristine, just like the others. She absentmindedly poured the drink as the girl leaned over to peer at the baked goods.
“Jesus! They’re about to burn!”
“Oh, never mind that, dear. This little one’s got my head in every place but the kitchen.”
The girl raised an eyebrow at Clara, who bit her lip in nervousness. She handed the mug to the girl, who took a cautious sip. Her eyes immediately drooped in relaxation.
“It’s good, isn’t it? Special recipe.”
The blonde nodded.
“Yeah. Is it okay if I sit?”
“Oh, of course, dear! Don’t gotta ask me twice.”
Clara smiled. The girl smiled back gratefully and took a seat on the countertop.
“Christmas is my least favorite holiday.”
Clara felt the eggnog creeping back up her throat but nodded anyway.
“I see. I quite like it.”
The girl was facing Clara in a way that kept most of the rug out of view, which meant she was in place. Clara picked her mug up off the counter and took a sip. In a flash, Clara’s mug had hit the ground and shattered in a thousand pieces. A wave of nausea overcame Clara, and she held her hands in front of her in shock, face contorting in anguish and turning the same red that had once been sprawled across her mug. She fell to the floor and scattered to pick up the pieces, and the blonde girl rushed to her aid with a rag she’d pulled off the sink handle.
“I’m such a klutz. I’m so sorry.”
At that moment the floorboard creaked open, but not loud enough for the blonde teen to hear it. The man crawled out, mass of blubber in his hands, a cooing noise escaping the creature he held before him. The girl turned around at the familiar noise.
“Oh my gosh, you found her! Thank you so…”
Her voice trailed off. She cleared her throat and begged the black spots in her eyesight to fade away.
“I’m sorry, I can’t…”
She tried to inhale deeply but ended up choking instead. She coughed and coughed, something that provoked the baby. The teen reached for her sister, trying to console her even though she was fading out of consciousness faster than she could recognize. Her hands hit the floor, scraping against the glass bits that were scattered across the kitchen floor. Clara laid back and cooed at her stomach, shushing and consoling in the same way that the teen had tried just seconds before.
“I think you’re getting the hang of it.”
Permission to speak again.
“You think so?”
“Of course, Clara. You’re the most prepared out of all the girls. That’s why I chose you.”
Clara hummed in agreement. Their eyes fell to the girl, who had crawled all the way to the doorway of the kitchen, gasping and sputtering at the other women in the room. They all continued dancing, and the teen became frustrated with how little attention they were paying to her.
“It’s always nice when they try to run. It really shows perseverance, strength, and determination, which you know you need for this position. It’s the only way you can fulfill your purpose.”
Clara nodded. She knew that better than all the others since she’d been there the longest. The man disgustingly put the baby in Clara’s arms.
“This one’s garbage. She’ll have to make up for that later. You know what to do with what’s leftover.”
The man knocked the baby in the general direction of Clara, and she watched as it hit the floor. It shrieked, but she didn’t soothe it. The teen’s head whipped in the direction of the baby, and she questioned whether she should continue to run or not. Clara picked up one of the shards and pressed it to the baby’s throat until a crimson the color of her lip stain rushed over her hands and knees. The music had resumed, and she signaled to one of the other women to get rid of the flesh mound in front of her. She slid backward and rested her backside against the cabinets underneath the sink, watching as the girl struggled against the hold of the man. She scratched and slapped at his face, but he was not phased. He was used to this, and so was Clara. The girl’s energy source was finally exhausted, and she slumped into the arms of the housemaster.
As the lights dimmed and the music blared on, Clara found herself feeling thankful. Her eyes surveyed the other women around her; they were all blonde with small frames, full blue eyes, and pale pink lips, mugs held ever so delicately in their right hands, left hands placed on the lumps growing in their stomachs. They all had a mission: to purify. And with the help of the housemaster, that’s just what they would do.
They’d move to the next house in the morning.
Post Reply

Return to “Creative Original Works: Short Stories”