She stood there in the widow staring down at him. He tried not to look up there, but he couldn’t. He walked by as fast as he could as he always did. Her narrow eyes glared at him. He could feel her stare in his chin as he passed, holding back not to run. By the end of the road he sent her a hateful glare
This story is connected to yesterday’s post Empty Funeral. They can be read individually and in any order.
He opened the hatch and threw the garbage bag into the container. He looked up on the old house on the end of the road. It was dark. No light in the window on the second floor. Not anymore. The crows were sitting in the tree as always. He felt they were staring at him.
They saw me go up there.
Walking up towards his house, he looked over his shoulder. He had left the front gate open. He was sure he had closed it.
He turned and walked back down. He couldn’t leave it open, there were so much strange things going on these days. Horrible people. People like him… (more)
No one showed up at the funeral. The church was empty, only the priest and the coffin. The grave digger was standing by the door. The silence was striking, every move the priest made echoed through the big hall.
They pulled the coffin out on a trolley. The graveyard was empty as well. Every once in a while a car drove by on the road on the other side of the field. Crows were gathering in the skies as they walked down towards the far side, down by the fence… (more)
They are coming at him, thousands of them. Nigel shoots them down in high numbers, but they keep attacking. He’s outnumbered. Outgunned.
He turned half around in his chair, stretched out to grab the coke can on the table. Something moved in the corner of his eyes. He looked over at the ant colony glass beholder. There were ants climbing up on it, on the outside of the walls.
At first he thought some of his own ants had escaped, but soon he saw they weren’t the same species. He wondered were they had come from… (more)
There was a great carpet dwelling above the world. Inside it. Around it. It was conscious, yet not intelligent. Awake, but it did not think. One, a spectre of selves, everywhere and nowhere. No one knew how it worked, not even itself. It was pure observation. It knew, but did not calculate. It felt, but did not care. It was existence. Reality. Nothing more. Nothing less.
The old man sat by the window, looking out on the valley he’d lived in all his life. He knew everything about that valley. Every little rock, every old tree stump. He loved the valley. It was the best place on Earth for him…
Rewritten and republished. Originally posted on fictionspawn.com September 21. 2016.
Gundersen was standing on his little bedroom balcony. He could see the whole factory from here. It was going well, they had lot of profit. He was getting rich.
The workers kept complaining, though. Assholes. He had built a great factory they could work in, and all they ever did was whimper. Our children are hungry, they said. We can’t afford medicines. With the accidents lately things had gotten worse.
He couldn’t get the image out of his head. She had been only eight years old, the little girl. Her body crushed in the paper compressor. Her swollen face…