Night 2
Wheels whispered against the pavement of Evergreen Terrace. A board slapped down cleanly, caught steady under practiced sneakers. Laughter followed, bright and uncomplicated, the kind that made porch lights flick on just to listen. Windows were open tonight.
“He’s a good kid,” someone said from behind a screen door, fond and certain. “Keeps things lively.”
A porch swing creaked in agreement.
The streetlight hummed its familiar tune, a low electric lullaby that had watched over scraped knees and summer races for years. It had seen chalk drawings bloom and wash away. It had seen him grow.
He whizzed down the slope, not reckless, just fast enough to feel the wind press against his shirt. A slingshot rested forgotten in his pocket, harmless as a souvenir. His name had been called for dinner an hour ago; he’d promised “five more minutes!” in that way that always meant ten.
Across the street, a shadow lingered longer than it should have.
Not a neighbor.
Not family.
Just a shape where no shape belonged.
The wheels found their rhythm.
The night seemed to lean closer, listening.
The board hit the pavement after a small hop. He grinned at no one and everyone, basking in the comfortable certainty that the world, for all its oddities, would still be there at the bottom of the hill.
The streetlight flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The shadow detached itself from the hedge, soundless.
Its rider nowhere to be seen, the board shot forward, clattering against a mailbox before tipping onto its side. One wheel spun, ticking faintly in protest.
The streetlight steadied, casting its pale glow over empty pavement.
From the porch, someone called his name again, lightly at first, then louder, as though volume alone could rewind the last few seconds.
The hedge stood still.
The shadow was gone.
By morning, Evergreen Terrace would speak in hushed voices. They would say he was careful. They would say he was loved. Privately, some would wonder why now was his time.
For now, the only answer was the quiet.
The wheel slowed.
Stopped.
And the hum of the streetlight carried on as though nothing had changed at all.
Dead is...
---------------------------------------
Ink pressed into paper, careful and deliberate.
She liked to think she was sturdy. Balanced. Logical. Each line placed with intention, each curve cupped just so. Consonants standing tall and dignified, vowels nestled close like children clinging to a mother’s sleeve. She had been designed that way, assembled piece by piece, symmetrical and scientific.
But some said she was too deliberate.
The brush hesitated.
“Why does she look like that?” someone murmured.
“She’s hiding something,” another replied. “Look at the angles. Too precise. No one writes that cleanly unless they’re compensating.”
The paper shifted beneath her. A chilly draft slipped under the door and ruffled the stack. She felt the whisper of it along her margins.
She had heard the suspicions before.
Too modern.
Too political.
Too carefully constructed.
“She replaced what was there,” a voice said from somewhere near the inkwell. “Things don’t just replace things without consequence.”
A consonant formed, upright and resolute.
The whisper of a brushstroke.
A vowel joined it, obedient and close.
They stood together on the page, a small syllable. Complete. Unassuming.
And yet the glances continued.
“They say she was invented,” someone said softly, as if the word itself were an accusation.
Invented.
As though that made her less real.
The brush pressed harder this time. The fibers of the paper strained. Ink pooled too dark. A tiny fissure spread outward, thin as a hair.
“She doesn’t belong,” another voice insisted. “There are places that were never meant for her.”
The page trembled.
A draft again. Or perhaps, a hand.
The brush stopped mid-motion.
There was a sharp crack, followed by nothingness.
No more strokes.
No more careful angles.
No more vowels gathering themselves neatly beneath watchful consonants.
The paper lay still.
In the quiet that followed, a few faint marks remained - half-formed, smudged at the edges, as though uncertain whether they had ever truly been there at all.
Someone cleared their throat.
“Well,” they said, brushing stray fibers from the desk. “I suppose that settles it.”
But long after the room had emptied, if one leaned close enough to the abandoned page, they might swear they could still see the ghost of her geometry in the grain - lines too intentional to be accidental, curves too balanced to be coincidence, waiting for another hand brave enough to risk suspicion and begin again.
Dead is...
waiting for Toby to arrive and respond to all this
