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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
August 2, 2016
Knock Three Times by dragoeniex is a bit of horror, a bit of tenderness, and a lot of heartbreak.
Featured by TheMaidenInBlack
Suggested by ilyilaice
Literature Text
Most people, upon discovering a haunting or trespasser in their house, would abandon the home or find some way to force the intruder out. Rosalyn welcomes the company.
She and her visitor have settled into a comfortable routine by the start of August. That's how she thinks of it- her visitor: the unidentified something that shuffles around the attic at night, never stealing or breaking, but moving the odd item while she sleeps. She's taken to setting a biscuit with butter and apricot preserves on the coffee table for it as part of her nightly routine.
On the eighth morning, it brings something to her.
Rosalyn peels away her sweaty sheet and stares at a blur on the nightstand. She puts her glasses on. It's a CD, the cover smudged and unreadable. Hesitantly, she takes it.
She makes the long, creaking journey up the stairs and sits below the hatch to the attic. She knows better than pulling the ladder town and trying to haul her heavy self up. That was what she'd done on nights three and four, and her visitor had taken offense. Not only had it been gone by the time she entered; it was silent for hours after she left. Like a spoiled child who stops talking because you've stepped into his imaginary fortress without realizing.
“This belongs to my daughter, Marla,” she says, unsure if it's listening. “Her favorite song used to be 'Knock Three Times.' I'd yell at her for playing it so loud, but then she would belt it out while she did her chores instead.”
Rosalyn's chuckle is as dusty as the hardwood floors. “There was no escaping it then, but I do miss it. I wish she'd hurry and visit so I could complain about whatever she's listening to now.”
The attic stays quiet, so she goes about her day.
She really must write a reply to her daughter. That letter has been on her coffee table for over a week, peeping at her accusingly from its envelope. Dear Mom, it begins. I'm freezing my butt off up here. How are things back home?
She tries. Hot and horrid, she writes, before scratching the line out and deciding to try again later. She doesn't want to make Marla worry. Still, she hums to herself as she does dishes. “Knock three times if you'll meet me in the hallway… Twice on the pipe-” She raps the faucet twice with a knife. Tink. Tink. “Means you ain't gonna show...”
Her fingers are aching by the time she's on the spoons, but she keeps at it. She almost catches up.
When she's in bed, on a whim, she knocks against her headboard. The sound is sharp- pleasant, since it cuts through a chorus of cicadas. But the insects drone on, and Rosalyn's eyelids are heavy, and her arm sinks back to her pillow.
As her mind is clouding, the shuffling begins.
Clank. Clank.
Of course. Her visitor never comes out unless the sun and Rosalyn are both down. Even so, the reply brings a smile.
Next morning, she is greeted with a snow globe her grandfather gave her. She tells her visitor about Christmases spent in a cabin. The morning after, it's a pearl necklace. A gift from her late sister, she explains, who passed ten years ago. Rosalyn and her visitor do this for two weeks. It picks something, and she braves the stairs to share stories.
Three knocks when she goes to bed. Two clanks as she drifts off.
On the twenty-third, Marla's letter goes missing. Rosalyn ignores the wind-up doll on her nightstand in favor of tearing apart the kitchen. Everything is exactly how she left it, except the biscuit has been replaced with crumbles, and her daughter's letter is gone. Her hands tremble.
Steam-powered, Rosalyn stamps up the stairs and smacks the hatch with a broom handle. “You have no right!” she shouts. “I've let you have free run, but you can't steal my things. Give me the letter!”
The silence that follows infuriates her. She doesn't give her visitor a warning, but the noise she makes is enough. It's gone by the time she's up the ladder. She can't find the letter there either.
“Thieving wretch.” She hurls the wind-up doll against a window. “Take it all why don't you!”
That night, she doesn't knock on the headboard. The attic is quiet.
Two days pass before Rosalyn discovers a rodent has made some kind of nest in her pantry's corner, hidden behind the shelves. Shreds of paper line the bottom. They're stained and foul-smelling, and jammy crumbs stick to them, but she recognizes the handwriting.
She knocks that evening, the sun barely set. It's a hollow sound, and it gains no reply. Same for the evening after.
On the twenty-seventh night, Rosalyn sets a tray of biscuits beneath the hatch. She opens a jar each of apricot, strawberry, huckleberry, and cherry preserves and lays a spoon beside. If this attracts more vermin, so be it. She clears her throat.
“I know that Marla is dead,” she says.
Her voice is hoarse. “I've always known. Sometimes, it makes things easier to pretend. I don't want to feel so lonely all the time.”
Cautiously, her gaze lifts from the floor to the hatch. “But I've got you, don't I? I'm sorry for yelling. Please forgive me.” Three knocks on the wall.
Silence.
“Please come back.” Her eyes are starting to burn. “I can't stand how quiet it can get here.” Her throat wants to close, but she's fighting it. “I'm sure you brought those memories to me. And I'm sure the pests haven't eaten all of the biscuits...”
“I don't care who or what you are.” Rosalyn covers her face, hating how ancient she sounds. “I just need you to be real. So please...”
Her hand shakes, but she knocks against the floor. Tears slide down her face while she waits.
She and her visitor have settled into a comfortable routine by the start of August. That's how she thinks of it- her visitor: the unidentified something that shuffles around the attic at night, never stealing or breaking, but moving the odd item while she sleeps. She's taken to setting a biscuit with butter and apricot preserves on the coffee table for it as part of her nightly routine.
On the eighth morning, it brings something to her.
Rosalyn peels away her sweaty sheet and stares at a blur on the nightstand. She puts her glasses on. It's a CD, the cover smudged and unreadable. Hesitantly, she takes it.
She makes the long, creaking journey up the stairs and sits below the hatch to the attic. She knows better than pulling the ladder town and trying to haul her heavy self up. That was what she'd done on nights three and four, and her visitor had taken offense. Not only had it been gone by the time she entered; it was silent for hours after she left. Like a spoiled child who stops talking because you've stepped into his imaginary fortress without realizing.
“This belongs to my daughter, Marla,” she says, unsure if it's listening. “Her favorite song used to be 'Knock Three Times.' I'd yell at her for playing it so loud, but then she would belt it out while she did her chores instead.”
Rosalyn's chuckle is as dusty as the hardwood floors. “There was no escaping it then, but I do miss it. I wish she'd hurry and visit so I could complain about whatever she's listening to now.”
The attic stays quiet, so she goes about her day.
She really must write a reply to her daughter. That letter has been on her coffee table for over a week, peeping at her accusingly from its envelope. Dear Mom, it begins. I'm freezing my butt off up here. How are things back home?
She tries. Hot and horrid, she writes, before scratching the line out and deciding to try again later. She doesn't want to make Marla worry. Still, she hums to herself as she does dishes. “Knock three times if you'll meet me in the hallway… Twice on the pipe-” She raps the faucet twice with a knife. Tink. Tink. “Means you ain't gonna show...”
Her fingers are aching by the time she's on the spoons, but she keeps at it. She almost catches up.
When she's in bed, on a whim, she knocks against her headboard. The sound is sharp- pleasant, since it cuts through a chorus of cicadas. But the insects drone on, and Rosalyn's eyelids are heavy, and her arm sinks back to her pillow.
As her mind is clouding, the shuffling begins.
Clank. Clank.
Of course. Her visitor never comes out unless the sun and Rosalyn are both down. Even so, the reply brings a smile.
Next morning, she is greeted with a snow globe her grandfather gave her. She tells her visitor about Christmases spent in a cabin. The morning after, it's a pearl necklace. A gift from her late sister, she explains, who passed ten years ago. Rosalyn and her visitor do this for two weeks. It picks something, and she braves the stairs to share stories.
Three knocks when she goes to bed. Two clanks as she drifts off.
On the twenty-third, Marla's letter goes missing. Rosalyn ignores the wind-up doll on her nightstand in favor of tearing apart the kitchen. Everything is exactly how she left it, except the biscuit has been replaced with crumbles, and her daughter's letter is gone. Her hands tremble.
Steam-powered, Rosalyn stamps up the stairs and smacks the hatch with a broom handle. “You have no right!” she shouts. “I've let you have free run, but you can't steal my things. Give me the letter!”
The silence that follows infuriates her. She doesn't give her visitor a warning, but the noise she makes is enough. It's gone by the time she's up the ladder. She can't find the letter there either.
“Thieving wretch.” She hurls the wind-up doll against a window. “Take it all why don't you!”
That night, she doesn't knock on the headboard. The attic is quiet.
Two days pass before Rosalyn discovers a rodent has made some kind of nest in her pantry's corner, hidden behind the shelves. Shreds of paper line the bottom. They're stained and foul-smelling, and jammy crumbs stick to them, but she recognizes the handwriting.
She knocks that evening, the sun barely set. It's a hollow sound, and it gains no reply. Same for the evening after.
On the twenty-seventh night, Rosalyn sets a tray of biscuits beneath the hatch. She opens a jar each of apricot, strawberry, huckleberry, and cherry preserves and lays a spoon beside. If this attracts more vermin, so be it. She clears her throat.
“I know that Marla is dead,” she says.
Her voice is hoarse. “I've always known. Sometimes, it makes things easier to pretend. I don't want to feel so lonely all the time.”
Cautiously, her gaze lifts from the floor to the hatch. “But I've got you, don't I? I'm sorry for yelling. Please forgive me.” Three knocks on the wall.
Silence.
“Please come back.” Her eyes are starting to burn. “I can't stand how quiet it can get here.” Her throat wants to close, but she's fighting it. “I'm sure you brought those memories to me. And I'm sure the pests haven't eaten all of the biscuits...”
“I don't care who or what you are.” Rosalyn covers her face, hating how ancient she sounds. “I just need you to be real. So please...”
Her hand shakes, but she knocks against the floor. Tears slide down her face while she waits.
Literature
And then I realised, I was a pawn of greater men
I'm flying on three tabs of Andraxian Blue. I don't remember taking them, but the Blue has an unmistakable way of splitting your head in two with a four iron. The question is why. It's been years since I've hit anything this hard, and I can already feel it coming on too fast.
People surround me like a swarm. Their noise reverberates through my skull, and the stench of their salts fills my lungs and threatens to drag bile out onto the street. They gawk at me. They sense something is different, and they're just waiting for their chance to tear me apart. They keep coming closer, sidling up to me as if nothing is amiss, pretending to look away.
Literature
FFM 2016 6: Birds Bring the Rain
They ran through the rice field, crops crunching golden underneath their bare feet, Lucia bounding ahead like she always did.
“Wait!” Mateo gasped. “Listen! I. Need. To. Show. You. Something!” He tried grasping her saya, but it slipped out of his fist like buttery silk.
The sun on her shoulder, Lucia stood on the crest of the hill and looked down at him. By the time he reached her, her black eyes gleamed with starry glitter.
“What is it you wish to show me? Is it a new game for us?”
The stars twinkled.
“So you see, at the current state of things, weather at the archipelago is not exactly optimal.
Literature
recovery crawl
beating
is kinder
than leaving.
sometimes I wish
your last words were
movements.
a hand against my cheek,
a fist to my chest,
an arm around my neck,
nails on my wrist.
the ache more real
and easy
to find.
every night I ache and
I point all over.
mostly my heart,
mostly my mind,
to the words stuck
that won’t loosen
that wedge themselves
in my teeth and fall out when
I’m drunk,
in his lap. he doesn’t need them, boy
that loves me until his
teeth rot, who says I don’t
deserve you who constricts
my waist with his hands and who
whispers I love you before
we fuck. he’s got courage like
the front lines of war
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FFM entry #13, challenge. This time, we all rolled to see which challenge elements we would get from three different tables. Mine were "Things that go bump in the night," "A question without an answer," and "Your piece must take place over the course of one month, and prominently feature summertime." As cool as that would be for a horror story, I've done a recent horror entry.
So instead I decided to make myself really sad and get a 70's tune stuck in my head. Lyrics tweaked very slightly so they would translate well without using the whole chorus.
Summer means heat, cicadas, and seasonal jams. The ending is the question without an answer. Whether that means she never gets one or we just don't see it is up to you.
If you're interested in fic-ing or reading shorts like these all month, head over to Flash-Fic-Month! All the Day 13 entries can be found over here.
So instead I decided to make myself really sad and get a 70's tune stuck in my head. Lyrics tweaked very slightly so they would translate well without using the whole chorus.
Summer means heat, cicadas, and seasonal jams. The ending is the question without an answer. Whether that means she never gets one or we just don't see it is up to you.
If you're interested in fic-ing or reading shorts like these all month, head over to Flash-Fic-Month! All the Day 13 entries can be found over here.
© 2016 - 2024 dragoeniex
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Sadness...