Rev 1: Tried to smooth out pronoun vs name usage
Rev 2: Made some revisions: fixes and for content. Incorporated some good ideas from Chris.
Rev 3: More show less tell, and some new fixes
Tyler was first to struggle to his feet. Ally was still on her hands and knees. Her breathing sounded like a saw drawn across wood. He quickly looked around. “He’s gone. Are you okay?”
She shook her head and stretched out a hand. He pulled her to her feet. She clung to him. “What just happened? Was that even real?”
He motioned toward the disturbed mound. They both looked at the line in the dirt leading to a viscous smear where the chipmunk had spent its last unnatural moments. The quiet stretched like a taut rubber band, held, and then broke.
Her voice had a faraway quality. “Did you smell him?”
“What? He smelled like old psycho. What do you mean did I smell him?”
“Don’t snap at me. When I was seven, I visited my Grandma Opal. She had cancer, and had come home to die in her bed. She was mostly gone. My parents made me hold her hand. I didn’t want to do it. She thought I was my mother, kept calling me Violet.”
“Look we don’t have time for this,” he said, “We’ve got to get out of here.” He put a hand on her arm.
She shook it off. Her voice getting progressively louder, “My grandmother smelled like stale flowers. It was her sweat mixed with the body powder she used to wear. That’s what death smells like to me. He smelled like my grandmother. How is that possible?”
He spun her around to look at him. “I don’t know. How could I? Creepy Scarecrow Guy said he was going to Michaela’s party. We’ve got to get over there.”
“No, we’ve got to call the police. Are you out of your mind? Dial 911.”
“And tell them what.” He imitated putting a phone to his ear. “The nature of our emergency? There was this chipmunk. Oh, well he smells like my friend’s grandmother, or death if you’d like to look at it that way. Yes, I know its Halloween. This is an emergen—“
She drove her fist into his chest. “You’re right. They wouldn’t believe us.”
He winced touching the spot with his hand. “Why does being right mean I get hit?”
“Being a smart ass means you get hit. I’m sorry. I’m on edge. You’re right though.” She scrunched her face like she had a toothache. “We need to get to that party. Do you know where she lives?”
“Of course, I know where she lives. It was on the invitation. He pulled it out of his pocket. She’s only a few miles from here on Branson.”
Ally smirked, and took the invitation from him. She held it up to his face. “It says, ‘Where: My Place.’ Stalk much?”
He dropped his gaze. “Okay, I must recall it for some other reason. Come on, we’ve got to go.”
In Tyler’s neighborhood, people confused derelict neglect with a Halloween decoration strategy. The weeds and the cars up on blocks gave the area a dilapidated, haunted quality. The occasional inflatable jack-o’-lantern or Frankenstein’s monster would add to the illusion that it was all deliberate. He suspected it was to keep the children away so that the neighbors could hold their parties, drink, and snack on the candy they didn’t have to hand out.
Michaela’s house was a few blocks over in a planned development, but it might as well have been in a different world. Despite the bats and skeletons hanging from the eves, the sunny yellow home looked inviting. He stepped around the Styrofoam gravestones strewn across a too-manicured lawn. It looked like a postcard from suburbia. He wondered if her dad came out every week with tweezers to pluck any offending stalk that grew too high. No, he probably had a service. People like that always had services.
He stepped around a boiling cauldron steaming with dry ice onto the wraparound porch. He felt the vibration, and was surprised the windows hadn't blown out given how loud the music was. It was one of those bands with the lifespan of a fruit fly that copied another band. For six months, you’d hear them non-stop on the radio, making you even hate the original. He couldn't stand clones, like the world needed another whiny male singer with a song about love. Thank God, it wasn't as bad as the Coldplay dark ages of middle school.
He arranged his cape. Settling the fangs into his mouth, he ran his tongue across their plastic surface. “How do I look?”
Ally stared at him. “Are you kidding?”
“I need the teeth to blend in. We’ve got to find this guy before he does something. This isn’t how I thought this night would turn out.”
“You probably thought Michaela would be upset, locked in a bathroom, and you’d take her away from all this.” She put her hand to her chest pretending to swoon.
His cheeks colored. “Yes, back to my double wide mansion in Shit Town. Life isn’t a movie. Or if it is, its Nightmare on Elm Street not Sixteen Candles. Come on.” He opened the door, felt the beat of the music against his face, while dim light strobed between the moving bodies.
Three basketball players were blocking the entrance clutching their plastic cups like talismans. They squeezed past them only to get a hard look when Tyler jostled one of their arms causing some of the drink to spill.
He was in a living room, or was it a family room? The sectional sofa had been pulled back against the wall to create a large open space. About twenty people were grouped in a mass of chaotic noise. Their costumes seemed to make them bold. Everyone was having fun being someone else for a change.
Between the press of bodies, He could see Michaela in the revealing dark cat suit leaning against the arm of the sectional sofa. He couldn’t tell who she was talking to, but all that he had to see was the point of a dirt-stained shovel resting on the person’s shoulder.
Tyler began to push his way through the crowd toward her. He walked between a pirate dancing with Death. He stepped past four zombie Teletubbies, only to find his path blocked by a fur matted chest. A large gorilla stood in front of him clutching a Barbie doll in his left hand. It grunted and beat its chest.
“Seth?” Tyler looked up at him. “Where’s your costume?”
“What? How did you know it was me?” The voice sounded phlegmy beneath the mask. “Hey! What did you say?”
“Nice costume.”
“Thanks. Hold this.” He handed him the Barbie doll, then stepped behind him to grab both of his arms. He began marching him away from The Shovel, and through a door leading into the backyard. “Jack said if you showed up. I was to bring you to him.”
Tyler craned his head around to see the cat ears and shovel moving off in the other direction. He didn’t see Ally. “Seth. I don’t have time for this. I’ve got something to do.” He tried to pull away, but Seth could crush walnuts in his hands for fun. He wasn’t letting go.
“Yeah, you got something to do out here.” Seth continued to push him forward as if he were drilling a hole through the wall.
Rev 2: Made some revisions: fixes and for content. Incorporated some good ideas from Chris.
Rev 3: More show less tell, and some new fixes
Chapter 4
Tyler was first to struggle to his feet. Ally was still on her hands and knees. Her breathing sounded like a saw drawn across wood. He quickly looked around. “He’s gone. Are you okay?”
She shook her head and stretched out a hand. He pulled her to her feet. She clung to him. “What just happened? Was that even real?”
He motioned toward the disturbed mound. They both looked at the line in the dirt leading to a viscous smear where the chipmunk had spent its last unnatural moments. The quiet stretched like a taut rubber band, held, and then broke.
Her voice had a faraway quality. “Did you smell him?”
“What? He smelled like old psycho. What do you mean did I smell him?”
“Don’t snap at me. When I was seven, I visited my Grandma Opal. She had cancer, and had come home to die in her bed. She was mostly gone. My parents made me hold her hand. I didn’t want to do it. She thought I was my mother, kept calling me Violet.”
“Look we don’t have time for this,” he said, “We’ve got to get out of here.” He put a hand on her arm.
She shook it off. Her voice getting progressively louder, “My grandmother smelled like stale flowers. It was her sweat mixed with the body powder she used to wear. That’s what death smells like to me. He smelled like my grandmother. How is that possible?”
He spun her around to look at him. “I don’t know. How could I? Creepy Scarecrow Guy said he was going to Michaela’s party. We’ve got to get over there.”
“No, we’ve got to call the police. Are you out of your mind? Dial 911.”
“And tell them what.” He imitated putting a phone to his ear. “The nature of our emergency? There was this chipmunk. Oh, well he smells like my friend’s grandmother, or death if you’d like to look at it that way. Yes, I know its Halloween. This is an emergen—“
She drove her fist into his chest. “You’re right. They wouldn’t believe us.”
He winced touching the spot with his hand. “Why does being right mean I get hit?”
“Being a smart ass means you get hit. I’m sorry. I’m on edge. You’re right though.” She scrunched her face like she had a toothache. “We need to get to that party. Do you know where she lives?”
“Of course, I know where she lives. It was on the invitation. He pulled it out of his pocket. She’s only a few miles from here on Branson.”
Ally smirked, and took the invitation from him. She held it up to his face. “It says, ‘Where: My Place.’ Stalk much?”
He dropped his gaze. “Okay, I must recall it for some other reason. Come on, we’ve got to go.”
#
In Tyler’s neighborhood, people confused derelict neglect with a Halloween decoration strategy. The weeds and the cars up on blocks gave the area a dilapidated, haunted quality. The occasional inflatable jack-o’-lantern or Frankenstein’s monster would add to the illusion that it was all deliberate. He suspected it was to keep the children away so that the neighbors could hold their parties, drink, and snack on the candy they didn’t have to hand out.
Michaela’s house was a few blocks over in a planned development, but it might as well have been in a different world. Despite the bats and skeletons hanging from the eves, the sunny yellow home looked inviting. He stepped around the Styrofoam gravestones strewn across a too-manicured lawn. It looked like a postcard from suburbia. He wondered if her dad came out every week with tweezers to pluck any offending stalk that grew too high. No, he probably had a service. People like that always had services.
He stepped around a boiling cauldron steaming with dry ice onto the wraparound porch. He felt the vibration, and was surprised the windows hadn't blown out given how loud the music was. It was one of those bands with the lifespan of a fruit fly that copied another band. For six months, you’d hear them non-stop on the radio, making you even hate the original. He couldn't stand clones, like the world needed another whiny male singer with a song about love. Thank God, it wasn't as bad as the Coldplay dark ages of middle school.
He arranged his cape. Settling the fangs into his mouth, he ran his tongue across their plastic surface. “How do I look?”
Ally stared at him. “Are you kidding?”
“I need the teeth to blend in. We’ve got to find this guy before he does something. This isn’t how I thought this night would turn out.”
“You probably thought Michaela would be upset, locked in a bathroom, and you’d take her away from all this.” She put her hand to her chest pretending to swoon.
His cheeks colored. “Yes, back to my double wide mansion in Shit Town. Life isn’t a movie. Or if it is, its Nightmare on Elm Street not Sixteen Candles. Come on.” He opened the door, felt the beat of the music against his face, while dim light strobed between the moving bodies.
Three basketball players were blocking the entrance clutching their plastic cups like talismans. They squeezed past them only to get a hard look when Tyler jostled one of their arms causing some of the drink to spill.
He was in a living room, or was it a family room? The sectional sofa had been pulled back against the wall to create a large open space. About twenty people were grouped in a mass of chaotic noise. Their costumes seemed to make them bold. Everyone was having fun being someone else for a change.
Between the press of bodies, He could see Michaela in the revealing dark cat suit leaning against the arm of the sectional sofa. He couldn’t tell who she was talking to, but all that he had to see was the point of a dirt-stained shovel resting on the person’s shoulder.
Tyler began to push his way through the crowd toward her. He walked between a pirate dancing with Death. He stepped past four zombie Teletubbies, only to find his path blocked by a fur matted chest. A large gorilla stood in front of him clutching a Barbie doll in his left hand. It grunted and beat its chest.
“Seth?” Tyler looked up at him. “Where’s your costume?”
“What? How did you know it was me?” The voice sounded phlegmy beneath the mask. “Hey! What did you say?”
“Nice costume.”
“Thanks. Hold this.” He handed him the Barbie doll, then stepped behind him to grab both of his arms. He began marching him away from The Shovel, and through a door leading into the backyard. “Jack said if you showed up. I was to bring you to him.”
Tyler craned his head around to see the cat ears and shovel moving off in the other direction. He didn’t see Ally. “Seth. I don’t have time for this. I’ve got something to do.” He tried to pull away, but Seth could crush walnuts in his hands for fun. He wasn’t letting go.
“Yeah, you got something to do out here.” Seth continued to push him forward as if he were drilling a hole through the wall.
#
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
