Day 10

            People on their daily routes in the morning, driving by on their way to run errands, if they weren't in a car we could become familiar.  I want cars without windows.  As far as other worlds go, the inside of a car is a lonely one.  You get your music, you get your one way conversations from the radio, to stew about things you're unhappy about (unless you're phoning it in that day).  I'm worried that since Zen Buddhism is appealing to me right now, I'm a person who might need a support like that.  In this static scatterbrained world we need whatever variety we can find, regardless of if it's improvement or not.
           Turning in a bunch of applications after this, I'll call that having my priorities straight.  Yep, that's what it is.  Why are all of my visitors from Russian blogging websites?  I'd prefer no visitors over that.  I am not vain enough to believe I am acquiring fans in Russia (even though there are plenty of people who are fans of shitty things). 


            There were a set of candles on the mantle melting unceremoniously.  The shutters flew back and forth in the wind, and in the distance hooves could be heard clacking on the stone trail.  The dog outside tethered to the porch was fast asleep, its ears tossing like antennaes searching for a signal.

            A raven flew from tree to tree, searching for its nest.  Further down into the woods, a man in a red hat moved foliage out of the way with the butt of his rifle.  One shot echoed through his ears, as he hurried through the unlit path with only the light of the moon to guide him.  He repeatedly became tangled, unceasingly pressing on and prevailing in each encounter with the overgrown arms of the forest. 

            Bursting onto the trail, the man was running on adrenaline alone.  Something was moving in the forest, a reverberating whoosh sounded through the trees and onto the path.  Squinting hard, the man turned and took aim with his rifle, and as he did so the silence of the night settled in around him.  Turning to continue down the trail, he slowed his pace and slung the gun over his right shoulder.  The man cursed under his breath as he retrieved a thick piece of bread from inside his coat pocket, tearing a chunk off with his molars and making an industrious effort at chewing it.

            He saw a girl wearing a dress run into those woods, he was sure of it.  He saw her shadow skipping into the deepest part of the forest, the animals scattering as she approached.  He yelled, charged into the forest, but his frame was wide and tall and prevented him from moving quickly.  In the darkness, he pulled his long tan jacket over himself like a cape, and the brush scraped his legs as he ran.

            He heard a scream, and saw a large quadripedal figure descend from a tree and scurry off, spiderwalking as fast as centipede legs.

            He chewed the bread and thought about bugs.  Some of the spiders in the woods were large enough to have webs that could hold frogs.  He preferred to come out in the dark to gather firewood and hunt boars, but the night fell swiftly; a curtain of darkness fell in a manner of minutes this far from the city.  He thought about going back for the girl, but she didn’t want to be found.  He could hardly catch up to her running blindly through the woods, either way.

            Further up the path, he saw a fork in the road along with a lamp post.  He hadn’t been down this way before, or atleast it didn’t look the same way at night.  In the darkness he got turned around, but now he must have been an hour walk from his own home.

            The post read “Jonathon Miller and Family”, with the stone path extending into the darkness where only the outlines of a cabin similar to his own were discernable.  Grass grew a foot taller than the path in the yard surrounding it, rustling and flowing like a million little fingers.

            Waist deep in the grass the man waded through toward the cabin.  The moon brightened as he continued toward it, it’s placement directly behind the cabin produced a silhouetted black box that looked alien and out of place.  Pulling himself up, he had to retrieve each of his legs like he was picking banana peppers.

            A lawn chair and a wicker cabinet sat on the porch, with an empty bird cage and austrolabe sitting ontop of the cabinet.  Knocking on the door of the cabinet, it clicked open, as if a mechanism had been triggered.  The rickety wooden frame of the house creaked in unison, and faroff in the adjacent valley a howl echoed, getting louder as it came closer. 

Stepping inside, he knocked on the inside of the door and observed the interior of the room.  A fire was lit in the fireplace, and the flickering flames were eating the last log down to the rine.  Prodding it with a poker to get it started again, he rubbed his beard with his hands and observed the painting above the mantel.  A dog retrieving a fallen goose in his mouth, with a playful grin on its face, and a man in full flannel reaching down to connect a leash on its collar.  Above the mantle there was a picture of a man, presumably the owner of the household, flanked by a wife holding a baby.  They were standing removed from the action behind them, a celebration scene which they were uninterested in.

Behind him, he saw an armchair situated in the middle of the large rug, and sat down to rest his legs for a moment.  Leaning the gun next to the chair, he took his arms out of his coat sleeves and warmed his hands quickly. He resisted the urge to raid the kitchen or explore the upstairs, although he got the feeling no one was coming back soon. 

Walking back out into the night, he pulled the door close and listened.  He kneeled down in front of the door, putting his ear by it.  The mechanism was coming from below, somewhere underneath the house. 

Turning toward the path, he saw a male figure someway down coming toward him with a lantern in one hand.  He was sure the man couldn’t see him from this distance, and decided to wait in the tall grass and get a better look.

As the figure came closer, it was clear he was injured.  He sauntered gingerly holding his right side, occasionally stumbling for a few yards before regaining his balance.  Before reaching the house he collapsed, and the man sprung out of the tall grass and stood over him.

“Bandages!  In the house!” The wounded man cried out.  “Under the sink!”

Tearing through the door, he dug through the cabinet under the sink and found the bandages the man was talking about.  On the way back out, he grabbed the rifle.

Not quite as shitty as the last couple!  But the less shitty it is, the more daunting it is to write more.