Barrett was ripped from his nightmare; his eyes involuntarily shot open to the faint, haunting sound of the doorbell, then slammed shut again as they realized the pain, like that of a foreign finger gouging slowly and threatening to burst the frail ball. He blinked and caressed his lids, apologizing for the rude awakening; his focus shifted, previous concern forgotten like his dream. The room was dim, though his eyes still stung as his pupils struggled to dilate through the eyelash-filtered slits. He felt like he was climbing out of a bog. Another faint doorbell chime reminded him and he forced himself to look at the clock to see how late he was. The digital read-out was black without the faintest red glimmer. The phone’s LCD was dark, too. “Shit. Oh, no.” He squinted and searched for another reference to time, straining his nearsighted eyes to see across the room, and saw nothing. The stereo and cable box didn’t show their familiar fuzzy red orbs. He launched the comforter off and rolled out of bed, yanking a shirt from under the bed and fishing for his eyeglass case before his bare feet hit the floor. He stood up still trying to find his glasses. He turned to his nightstand and huddled over it, then leaned down and stuck a hand by the headboard and the wall, then combed under the bed, still not finding them. The doorbell insisted again. “Dammit!” He stumbled into the hall, ducked his head into the bathroom, thinking that, by some fluke, he might have left his glasses (and case?) there. Nothing. He coughed and cleared his throat softly, trying not to wake his son, but still feeling the singe of his sore throat. His head throbbed. He gave a little tiptoed leap as he recognized the glint of the sharp toy in the path of his next ste... ... middle of paper ... ... floor. It wasn’t possible to be seeing a street at this level, let alone one he’d never seen before in what used to be closet. He jumped back against the inside wall and kicked the door shut, the air escaped his lungs. He ran into his bedroom, then to where Dale’s room should have been again. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head then darted back down the hallway and paced in front of the door that had a moment before held a street that shouldn’t be there. “Dale! Where are you?” he yelled. He ran back into the kitchen, then to the front door, unlocked it and yanked it open. The same street view peered back at him. “Dale! Dale!!” Barrett backed away and shook his head. Back down the hallway he went and did scream this time when he saw that the doorways leading towards his bedroom, the bathroom, and Dale’s room were showing the same street. He wanted to wake up. Now.
The night was tempestuous and my emotions were subtle, like the flame upon a torch. They blew out at the same time that my sense of tranquility dispersed, as if the winds had simply come and gone. The shrill scream of a young girl ricocheted off the walls and for a few brief seconds, it was the only sound that I could hear. It was then that the waves of turmoil commenced to crash upon me. It seemed as though every last one of my senses were succumbed to disperse from my reach completely. As everything blurred, I could just barely make out the slam of a door from somewhere alongside me and soon, the only thing that was left in its place was an ominous silence.
The window slowly creaked open, a soft wind blew into the small room. The sound of light breathing came from under the sheets were a young boy slept, oblivious to the happenings that night. Soft footsteps hit the floor, the smell of old toys and new bed sheets wafted out of the room, hitting two men crouched down by the bed. A hand reached up, gingerly touching the boy.
After finally finishing the paperwork, Brian walked to his apartment building on 4th street. Exhausted, Brian walked through the sliding glass doors of his apartment building and scurried towards the elevator,
up the steps and entered the house. A combination of horror and amazement swept over
He scurried into the refrigerator and got out the eggs, milk and whoooole lot of BUTTER!
His mouth spread open slowly and his chest rose as he breathed in a deep, lazy yawn. He stretched his thin arms high above him, and smiled as he felt his muscles tense. He fisted his hands and rubbed them over his eyes to help unglue his lids stuck shut. His eyes received handfuls of dirt and the boy blinked wildly to cleanse them out.
Killinger’s eyes darted across the room, still recuperating from the grogginess of his swelling pain, burning with a red tint of anguish. The black and white crackle of the T.V buzzed in the corner of the room. A crooked mirror etched over the nearby wall. Clothing was spewn across the room, almost as if someone had been desperately packing for a quick getaway. It was all too quiet, but the faint murmur of cascading water could be heard behind the bathroom door.
She scrambled to her feet and threw back the woven door of her baked mud hut, squinting in the dark attempting to see what was happening. Her parents scooped up her two little brothers
When he arrived at the home the servant who took his hoarse and directed him to the room that Mr. Usher was in greeted him. Inside the house was also very ornate, but it to had also been left alone for to long. The entire house had a gloomy atmosphere that would put a chill down most people’s spines. When he entered the room his friend was staying in he was warmly welcomed. He could not believe the changes that his dear childhood friend had endured.
“I got too much to-to dream about.” I shuddered and suddenly felt desperately weak and cold. Grasping at the bedframe, I dragged myself upright and hauled myself into my bed, curling protectively onto my stomach. Tracy began to tiptoe towards the door, her footsteps falling so gently on the tile that they barely made a sound.
the apartment, each and all of them knew he mostly mean that the floor would get
Stopping in his tracks to turn around, Parker called back. “I asked you, just where is it exactly we are headed for?”
I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’
crying. He looked through the hole on the floor of his apartment, and saw the guards