Monday, November 01, 2010

short story

short story Monday is started.

story 1.

the stairs.

To start, I must tell you my mother times the coffee machine for insane times in the morning, so this mistake was well placed. It was 2 am when I woke up to the sound of a coffee maker dripping, dripping, dripping. It drove me up the wall. I got up, and walked down the unreliable rickety staircase, creaking, I knew that I was being the opposite of stealthy. My sister, Maggie, dressed in her princess pajamas, opened her door, and said, "John, what are you doing?" I said I was just going downstairs to turn off the coffee maker, it had woken me up.
"Can I come?"
I said sure, but only if she promised to go right to sleep after. With her promise tightly secured by a lock and key, I picked up my 8 year old sister, and we went down the stairs. What was waiting for us, we never could have foreseen.

The bodies of my parents were quite possibly the worst sight I ever had seen. My mother, in her red dress that always gained her the wrong kind attention, and my father in his bathrobe, arms flayed like a crucified bank accountant had a shocked look on his face. "Mags, go up stairs. Now."
"But John, I. I. Mom?"
"mags. Now."
The little girl just sank on the floor, and cried.

I heard a clanking sound coming from the kitchen, and I heard a rough voice saying, "Shit! Kids!" and two men dressed in black turtlenecks with a green snake embroidered on the back, ran out of the screen door.
I grabbed the nearest thing I could, an old blue umbrella, told Mags to call the police, and charged head first into danger.

No one could run faster then I, with my 15 year old agility , a burning feeling of pain and excitement resided in my stomach, and an adrenaline rush like nothing I had ever experienced, caught up with the burglars. I beat the closest one, a man in his forties, over the head with the umbrella, he swore, and turned around, producing a butterfly knife. He charged me. I hit his hand with my umbrella tip, causing him to drop the knife. The other, turned around, pulled a gun. And fired.

My last thoughts were the blue and red lights on street. And of mags. Now all alone. I felt sorry for her. Wished I could have stayed alive, or had her die with me. Not for her to be left alone. An eight year old with an idiot brother.
And then. Nothing.