Writely McWriterson's Stories

Don't!

2007-03-15T15:38:51Z

“Don’t touch it!”, she hissed at him.

“But why not?” he replied, pulling his hand back despite himself.

“Well…I don’t know, it just seems like something you aught not be putting your hands on!”

“Hmm, I dunno…looks pretty harmless to me.” he replied and gingerly reached out for it again.

“Ohh, I can’t look” she whispered, turning her head to the side and covering her eyes with her hands, peering out through the slit between her fingers.

“Don’t be such a baby…”

Gingerly, he placed the tip of his index finger on it. It felt smooth, but had no discernable temperature…and almost metallic. He extended his hand and placed it over the object.

“Stop!” she shouted, “Oh come on, lets just go get Dad and see what he thinks, Robert! PLEASE ?!”

She called him Robert the same way their mother did when she was upset with him…he hated being called Robert.

“See? Its fine, you worry too…” he began.

Susan’s scream faded from Robert’s ears just as quickly as Robert faded from his sister’s sight.

No pants, no problem?

2007-03-07T21:17:17Z

Don’t get me wrong – generally, I’m 100% for the wearing of pants, but that day I just had to take a stand. Honestly – who was this 7-11 clerk to yell at me when all I was trying to do was get a bottle of water and a bag of cheetos? The sign on the door says “No shoes, no shirt, no service” – it says nothing about services being denied over a lack of trousers.

And really, did he have to be so hostile about it? Its unlikely that anyone else in the place would have even noticed my bare legs and tighty whiteys if he hadn’t shouted out his opposition to my missing khakis.

And what exactly about no-pants would prevent our transaction? Nothing! All this fuss, and no one even seemed the least bit concerned about the reason WHY I was in this convenience store at three in the afternoon on a Sunday sans-slacks.

Too long...

2007-03-07T20:46:56Z

It had been a long time since he had done it.

He sat at the table, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling and counting on his fingers the number of years that had passed. He noted with some dismay the odd brown stain the had appeared just above his head and its proximity to the upstairs toilet.

“Too long…”, he sighed, rubbing his right eye with the ball of his hand.

He stretched his arms above his head, interlaced his fingers and pushed upwards until his fingers popped satisfactorily. Rolling his shoulders, he craned his neck to the left, and then to the right, cleared his throat, and having run out of all other reasonable procrastinations, picked up the pencil and set it to the paper in front of him.

Snowball in Hell (part 4)

2007-03-07T20:33:18Z

The death of the owner of the house had long passed from my mind in the weeks that followed the melting snow. In the newly warm weather we’d head down to the park for some pick-up games of basketball, then walk over to the lake and relax by the picnic tables with a cup of italian ice from the shop near the parking lot.

It was during one of these excursions that I caught a glimpse of someone peering at us from the other side of the lake. It was only a split second, and they were gone as soon as I blinked…but I could swear they were wearing pajamas.