975 words including working title.
something I have been playing around with for a little bit.
the second half of a chapter actually... but it is the part that needs a little something... that i am inflicting upon you here.
The Box
"You are afeared of him, then?" wee Davey demanded belligerently, still holding onto his beloved treasure with all the determination and resourcefulness only a three year old can muster in full battle against his adult wardens.
MacCaugh harrumphed, “Any sensible sorts would be afeared of a great and powerful wizard that had taken them in dislike." With a wrench that took the box entirely out of Davey’s grasp, he stomped off into the dark recesses of the cellar muttering "but ye would nae find any such creature around here, noooh! Here it be all 'Hey, MacCaugh, let's track us down us a wee night terror for a bit of exercise after supper! Then how’s about we can all knock up the doors of the wild hunt and have a bit of a run to round out the evening'! Barmy! The lot of them"... up the old groaning stairway he pounded, taking the light of the box with him. Leaving the children fidgeting in the gloom of the suddenly darkened cellar.
Hamish looked sideways at wee Davey who was still looking mutinously at the spot where his treasure once stood. Anna was deep in thought, chewing her coat button again. The violent working of her jaw as she ruminated suggested another 'very deep thought' approaching. Davey's cheeks were a bright red as his temper worked itself up. Hamish only hoped she would get her thought before Davey worked himself up into a roaring display of temper befitting his ginger hair. Or yowling display, to be accurate, seeing as Davey was still much more kit and cub then full lion, as yet.
"Hamish-"both Davey and Anna said in concert, though at wide variance in degree of amplification, but close enough to mimic the sound of the choral voice from the box, and make Hamish jump.
"One of you speaks at a time!" Hamish admonished them, as he shivered in remembered dread of the paralyzing enchantment of the box's voice. Anna nodded, once again serene as the travail of her idea’s birthing left her countenance.
“Hamish, the box called him, though it didn’t mean to.” Anna interjected, before Davey could get into full howl. . “It was calling something else. In.”
Anna went to say more but Davey had found his peeping roar, “Want MY box! HAMISH!!”
And with that last polyphonic syllable Mrs. MacCaugh wrenched open the cellar door, flooding the cellar with sunlight from the kitchen and the sounds of the radio and outside. They could hear MacCaugh ordering something indistinguishable in the background to Mrs. MacCaugh before slamming out the back door, with a nod. Turning to them with a frown, she scolded “Now you lot come up out of there! You’ll have your tea now or do without, mind!” She chivvied them from the cellar, grumbling “Imagine leaving good food to grow cold on the table!” and bolted the door firmly shut behind them.
Now in the light of the kitchen, Anna and Davey appeared coated with dust, which Davey was less than discretely itching at. Hamish gulped, looking at his hands coated in a thick layer of shimmering iridescence that glowed in the sunlight. It seemed to crawl and twist upon his skin, with a prickling sensation.
“Go and wash that dust off, and to the table right away!” she ordered with enough of the field marshal in her tone that they obeyed immediately.
Scurrying them along, Mrs. MacCaugh kept up a constant stream of words. Like a storm had broken through her previous taciturnity, crumbling that wall of silence. This sudden flood of words carried the children along in its wake with her, away from the cellar.
Mrs. MacCaugh tut-tutted their dusty condition. “Just imagine. City kids like you, all daft for playing in a dusty old cellar. Never understand why the professor went to buy that television set up for you. Well, it will be hot baths for the lot of you directly after you eat. I don’t want to be wiping that dusty mess off the furniture for the next fortnight.”
Hamish scrubbed with a will, erasing any dust upon his person, and helped Anna wipe down the squirming and protesting Davey, who hated all washing up on principle.
Hamish felt queerly stretched out of sorts from the incident in the cellar. He was very glad Mrs. MacCaugh had bolted the door against any possibility of return. Davey pushed by him into the sunny kitchen, the thunder of Davey's charge to the table eclipsing Hamish’s Stygian maundering.
Scrambling into his chair, Davey was fully distracted from his lost treasure by the prospect of Mrs. MacCaugh’s cooking. Davey banged his fork, chanting, “Tea! Tea! Tea!” at his empty plate. Hamish started. There was no tea made, much less waiting on the table to grow cold. He watched Mrs. MacCaugh hastily removing mashed potatoes left over from last night from the skillet, slapping it on the plates and sliding a hurriedly fried egg on top, still runny and burnt around the edges.
Anna and Davey wrestled over the catchup bottle, Anna trying to prevent Davey from covering his plate with catchup he would muck about in then refuse to eat, insisting upon a new meal. Feeling a modicum of normalcy takeover as he took refuge from the catchup battle in his egg and mashed, Hamish dared to look up at the painting that had started all this. His fork clanged on the floor as his hands went nerveless. With the pretense of reaching for his fork, Hamish peered up at the painting from underneath the nebulous protection of the lace cloth.
The box in the clearing was gone. The forest behind the clearing glowed as if it were on fire, except for one patch of darkness. Where two glowing yellow eyes swiveled in appraisal of the children. Then winked out.
===============
something I have been playing around with for a little bit.
the second half of a chapter actually... but it is the part that needs a little something... that i am inflicting upon you here.
The Box
"You are afeared of him, then?" wee Davey demanded belligerently, still holding onto his beloved treasure with all the determination and resourcefulness only a three year old can muster in full battle against his adult wardens.
MacCaugh harrumphed, “Any sensible sorts would be afeared of a great and powerful wizard that had taken them in dislike." With a wrench that took the box entirely out of Davey’s grasp, he stomped off into the dark recesses of the cellar muttering "but ye would nae find any such creature around here, noooh! Here it be all 'Hey, MacCaugh, let's track us down us a wee night terror for a bit of exercise after supper! Then how’s about we can all knock up the doors of the wild hunt and have a bit of a run to round out the evening'! Barmy! The lot of them"... up the old groaning stairway he pounded, taking the light of the box with him. Leaving the children fidgeting in the gloom of the suddenly darkened cellar.
Hamish looked sideways at wee Davey who was still looking mutinously at the spot where his treasure once stood. Anna was deep in thought, chewing her coat button again. The violent working of her jaw as she ruminated suggested another 'very deep thought' approaching. Davey's cheeks were a bright red as his temper worked itself up. Hamish only hoped she would get her thought before Davey worked himself up into a roaring display of temper befitting his ginger hair. Or yowling display, to be accurate, seeing as Davey was still much more kit and cub then full lion, as yet.
"Hamish-"both Davey and Anna said in concert, though at wide variance in degree of amplification, but close enough to mimic the sound of the choral voice from the box, and make Hamish jump.
"One of you speaks at a time!" Hamish admonished them, as he shivered in remembered dread of the paralyzing enchantment of the box's voice. Anna nodded, once again serene as the travail of her idea’s birthing left her countenance.
“Hamish, the box called him, though it didn’t mean to.” Anna interjected, before Davey could get into full howl. . “It was calling something else. In.”
Anna went to say more but Davey had found his peeping roar, “Want MY box! HAMISH!!”
And with that last polyphonic syllable Mrs. MacCaugh wrenched open the cellar door, flooding the cellar with sunlight from the kitchen and the sounds of the radio and outside. They could hear MacCaugh ordering something indistinguishable in the background to Mrs. MacCaugh before slamming out the back door, with a nod. Turning to them with a frown, she scolded “Now you lot come up out of there! You’ll have your tea now or do without, mind!” She chivvied them from the cellar, grumbling “Imagine leaving good food to grow cold on the table!” and bolted the door firmly shut behind them.
Now in the light of the kitchen, Anna and Davey appeared coated with dust, which Davey was less than discretely itching at. Hamish gulped, looking at his hands coated in a thick layer of shimmering iridescence that glowed in the sunlight. It seemed to crawl and twist upon his skin, with a prickling sensation.
“Go and wash that dust off, and to the table right away!” she ordered with enough of the field marshal in her tone that they obeyed immediately.
Scurrying them along, Mrs. MacCaugh kept up a constant stream of words. Like a storm had broken through her previous taciturnity, crumbling that wall of silence. This sudden flood of words carried the children along in its wake with her, away from the cellar.
Mrs. MacCaugh tut-tutted their dusty condition. “Just imagine. City kids like you, all daft for playing in a dusty old cellar. Never understand why the professor went to buy that television set up for you. Well, it will be hot baths for the lot of you directly after you eat. I don’t want to be wiping that dusty mess off the furniture for the next fortnight.”
Hamish scrubbed with a will, erasing any dust upon his person, and helped Anna wipe down the squirming and protesting Davey, who hated all washing up on principle.
Hamish felt queerly stretched out of sorts from the incident in the cellar. He was very glad Mrs. MacCaugh had bolted the door against any possibility of return. Davey pushed by him into the sunny kitchen, the thunder of Davey's charge to the table eclipsing Hamish’s Stygian maundering.
Scrambling into his chair, Davey was fully distracted from his lost treasure by the prospect of Mrs. MacCaugh’s cooking. Davey banged his fork, chanting, “Tea! Tea! Tea!” at his empty plate. Hamish started. There was no tea made, much less waiting on the table to grow cold. He watched Mrs. MacCaugh hastily removing mashed potatoes left over from last night from the skillet, slapping it on the plates and sliding a hurriedly fried egg on top, still runny and burnt around the edges.
Anna and Davey wrestled over the catchup bottle, Anna trying to prevent Davey from covering his plate with catchup he would muck about in then refuse to eat, insisting upon a new meal. Feeling a modicum of normalcy takeover as he took refuge from the catchup battle in his egg and mashed, Hamish dared to look up at the painting that had started all this. His fork clanged on the floor as his hands went nerveless. With the pretense of reaching for his fork, Hamish peered up at the painting from underneath the nebulous protection of the lace cloth.
The box in the clearing was gone. The forest behind the clearing glowed as if it were on fire, except for one patch of darkness. Where two glowing yellow eyes swiveled in appraisal of the children. Then winked out.
===============
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