Annnnnnd it’s been another six months since I posted.  I really, really, really am not a good blogger.  But here’s the deal.  I’m going to try my really awesome pinky swear cross my heart and hope to die best to post at least once a week from now on.  But I still refuse to participate in that whole Twitter business.

So anyway, what I want to do today has nothing to do with my writing career, but it is fun and I want to see it in a full body form.  Some friends of mine over at myfitnesspal.com have started this round robin story and I’m just dying to see it in text form rather than little bits at a time.  So I’m just going to post up here for all the participants to see.  Feel free to ignore this post if you’re not from myfitnesspal lol.  Then again, feel free to add another line, if you’d like.

So, courtesy of Big Aug, here is the comedy/mystery/horror story ‘Silence Never Sleeps.’  By, the way, I also named the hero James.  Just because he needed a name mkay. lol.

 

 

 

Stunned by the mechanic’s ridiculous statement, “I couldn’t repair your brakes, so I made your horn louder.”  James thought he mistakenly heard him at first, when the mechanic handed him his keys and a bill for $1500.00

As a matter of fact, the entire repair shop had a lackadaisical air about it; everywhere he looked, he saw employees goofing off, playing computer games, texting, talking on the phone.

Maybe it’s a good thing the brakes weren’t repaired, he thought as he got into his car. Smiling to himself, he started the engine, and slowly backed out of the garage. He turned to car to face the shop, made sure the mechanic saw him, and, just to be sure, blew the horn.

The horn was still blaring it’s low, foghorn note as they pulled the demolished car from the office of the shop…

When the car was pulled out , suddenly a mysterious crate tumbled from the attic.

The end broke open and a long, low moan came from inside.

From the crate floated an amazing stench. The mechanic peered into the opening and quickly looked away in disgust at what he saw. A single hand reached for him as he back away. The hand walked as if followed by a body but nothing was there only the remains of what looked like a grisly murder. Above the knuckles of the hand. the words “Silence never Sleeps” was carved…

James jumped awake into a sitting position.  Sticky with sweet, breath slowly returning to normal. Looking out to the sunny day, he could see his car parked in the usually spot, an old cat enjoying the sun on the trunk.

The dream had never reviled the words, “Silence Never Sleeps” .  It always stopped what the thud of the crate and an eerie moan.

What was this new message? Where was his family?

“Silence never sleeps” and he never would either if this terror continued to repeat itself in his dreams. Or was it a memory…. Where is my family?

Family was the one thing that he wanted all of his life. He came from an abusive home. His father was an alcoholic whose favorite past time was teaching the kids how to knuckle fight and his mother disappeared in the evenings for a reason that he never knew until he became a cop for the NYPD and happened upon her file as his perused the daily list of active hookers a year after he joined the force.

He then found a loving wife who gave him everything that he wanted. But where were they. His morning routine was: wake up-get dressed-wake his wife up and get the kids up then go to work, but no one was home. He searched the house. At first walking to every room, then running back and forth from floor to floor until he came to the bathroom. The shower was running and his wife’s favorite cd from Queen’s Reich was playing. He liked to reach in and hug her and feel her soft skin but this time he stopped in his tracks when he saw writing on the mirror…

In scraggly handwriting, reminiscent of a second grader’s efforts, were the words, “the Langston crew”. At first thinking this was written in his wife’s lipstick, he leaned in closer to the mirror and sniffed. “Some sort of paint”, he mused. Suddenly, he realized why that smell was familiar. He turned and bounded down the hall and took the stairs two by two, through the kitchen to the basement. He slid back the deadbolt, and opened the door to the dark, musty odor of basement.

Switching on the light, he made his way down the stairs and over to the metal cabinets in the corner. Looking for can of paint he used on his daughter’s swing last year, he found it had been opened and the lid was gone. “What the heck is going on here?” Turning, he noticed the small casement window had a broken pane. Walking over to investigate further, he noticed traces of what looked like dried blood on the window sill.

Looking out window is didn’t see anything unusual. What he didn’t see was what usually sat in front of this window. His garbage cans. They were lying scattered across his driveway. The bags inside lay unopened. The handles of the cans had blood on them and there were further drops forming an ant’s path around each one. It was like the intruder didn’t know what to do once he escaped the house. James looked around the window opening more and found a piece of cloth that appeared to be flannel.

The pattern was the same as his favorite shirt that he hadn’t seen in ages since his wife mysteriously lost it in the laundry. Where had it been and why was this cloth here now? He then looked down and realized that he was wearing this same shirt. He took it off to look at the back of it. There was a hole that exactly fit the piece of cloth that he had found. He touched the hole not yet believing what he was seeing and noticed a cut that formed the letter S on the back of his hand. He examined himself further in a mirror and realized that he was wearing a black t-shirt. The design on the front was a large smiling skull with bright red eyes and below it said “Kill or be Killed”. On the back were the words Langston Crew in the same hand writing that he saw in the bathroom…

He felt suddenly light headed and queasy, but just as suddenly the feeling vanished when he heard multiple sirens converging on his location.

 

Running up the steps, he had a strong feeling of deja vu. The smells– the sudden taste of blood in his mouth–the sound of approaching police cars–everything down to the light beaming through the windows down on him at their exact angle were all familiar. He looked out the window through the front door. Two people were sitting with their legs crossed leaning against the white railing of the front porch. This would not have bothered him except for the trail of red that lead from the back of the adult’s neck to the porch. This was emphasized by the trail of the same red that seeped into a crack in the porch behind her and the lackadaisical way the child’s head leaned to the side.

He stood in the front room and screamed. There was a revolver on the stand by the door which he reached for then noticed the porch steps were empty. He curled into a ball by the door and tried to control his shaking hands and his nerves.

“What the hell is happening to me?, he cried through agonizing tears…

 

duh, duh, duh…

When I see more from my myfitnesspal peeps, I will add it here.  See, isn’t it better to read it like this?  So much more cohesive.

Amber