Springtown

The sun was shining, the bees were buzzing and Mr and Mrs Wonder were butchering their 12 year old son into a bloody mash. Speckles of blood jumped up from each devastating blow, showering the side of the house red and the fronts of their clothes. Mrs Wonder wiped a stray piece of gut from the rose of her cheek, smiled serenely and delivered a final strike without the slightest hint that she was out of breath.

Mr Wonder stood still. Looking down at the mound of broken bone and pulverized flesh.

“I’ve got a meeting at 4pm. So I imagine I’ll be a little late tonight. Feel free to have dinner without me.”

Mrs Wonder brushed a hand down the side of his arm, aimlessly playing with the cuff of his shirt. “Nonsense. I’ll just cook a little later. Put everything on a slow cook and you can just let me know when you’re on your way.”

“Is that really no trouble? The meeting may drag on for a few hours.”

“Honey,” She said. “It’s just dinner.”

“Yes but it’s not entirely f-”

“Hey. It’s settled. There’s really no loss if we eat a little later and who knows? We both may end up a little slimmer.”

Mr Wonder beamed. “What a remarkable notion. Ok, thank you. Love you sweety.”

The happy couple kissed tenderly afoot the mangled corpse of their child, dropped their hammer and spade, and nonchalantly walked back into the house covered head-to-toe.

 

[[More to write + Edit 2]]

 

Rupert stared down at the piece of paper, an address written hastily, and then looked up through the windscreen of his car toward the small, whitewash house, wedged between two large oaks and another house of almost identical proportions and style (except this one was a little cleaner).

Satisfied the number on the door across the street matched the one in his hand, he climbed out awkwardly from his 15 year old brown hatchback, shoved the paper into his jeans and checked the for traffic.

He stood a tall and gangly man. Not a pinch above 160lbs and with a rather slight nose which curved at the tip. His mousy hair, receding from the front, fluttered in a light breeze which came east. Inhaling, Rupert savoured the damp, aromatic scent of autumn. Cool air, dead leaves, it all appealed to him. And Rupert thought, that the house before him, as he crossed the road and mounted the side-walk, though dirty, appealed very much to the theme of fall. It looked on the brink of death like everything around it.

How long had his cousin lived in such a place? Was he not working or just too lazy to maintain upkeep? Rupert puzzled over this, among other things such as what he may look like now, and knocked the front door following a cautious navigation of a dilapidated set of wooden steps.

“Hello?” He called after a few minutes of no answer. No curtains stirred in the windows, nor the sound of movement.

The sound of a bicycle bell rang at a distance from behind him somewhere. Turning, he squinted down the street to spy a child playing in the street, but saw none. The bell rang once more and then never again. The sound of the wind picked up just then and a chill rose up Rupert’s back that suddenly made him very uncomfortable.

“It’s not even Sunday…”

The door to the house had opened in the meantime, and an annoyed looking old lady in a floral night-dress stood frowning up at Rupert.

“Who y’all talking too?”

He jumped, spinning to face the old lady and putting a hand up to his front.

“Oh! Sorry… sorry. I just thought it seemed kinda quiet for a Saturday is all. But that’s not why… erm, do you know if Jensen is home?”

 

 

 

© Jason R. Vowles 2015

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