It Wants In - Short Story

Hello and thank you for stopping by. 

This week's short story is in response to Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenge from a few weeks ago when he had his subscribers submit three word story titles. It was then up to us to choose one of ten selected titles and write a story. You can find his blog here: terribleminds.com

This one is mine. I struggled this week - it put up a fight, but after all the kicking and screaming, I'm glad to have at least met the challenge. It started out in second person POV and I couldn't seem to get out of it, so that was new. The title seemed to go to the dark side, I hope you enjoy my take on it. 

It Wants In
(Title by Mollons)

by Michell Baillargeon

The best part about being alone isn’t just the peace and quiet, it’s being able to do what you want, when you want and not having to answer to anyone. Of course, when you mess up or make a bad decision, you only have yourself to blame. That’s the price you pay, I guess; the compromise for so much freedom. Seems fair. 

People frequently get the wrong idea about living in the “boonies” all alone. You enjoy your own company and are protective of your alone time. You find yourself having to constantly defend your lifestyle. You’re not a hermit, after all. There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely, and you’re not lonely; sometimes it’s just nice not having to deal with people. 

Besides, as you tell your family, you’re not completely alone. You have Benny. A sweet-natured, yellow lab rescued from a shelter in the city. After just a few months, you are the the closest of friends and he’s always at your side.

You’ve invested a lot in being alone, it comforts you. You’ve never been afraid to be alone, it never occurred to you. 

———

You spend the afternoon working in your yard, Benny tags along only leaving your side to chase bunnies. The chase usually begins with a small yip and screeches to a halt as soon as the bunny reaches the edge of the yard. When Benny returns to your side, you wonder if it’s not so much about catching the bunny as much as it is about the chase. Both you and the bunny realize that the edge of the woods acts an invisible fence for Benny; it gives both of you peace of mind. 

Goosebumps appear on your arm and the chill interrupts your focus on chores. You straighten up and stretch against the kinks in your back, a result of being hunched over for most of the afternoon. The sun has moved across the sky when you weren’t looking and you realize there’s not much daylight left. You look back over flower bed you’ve been working on and are happy with the results; weeds have been removed and replaced with several flats of annuals. There are now wonderful burst of color where there were none this morning: yellow, orange, purple and red. 

Wait. Red? You hadn’t purchased any red flowers. The goosebumps reappear on your arms, but this time it’s not from the cool air. You ignore them and look around for Benny, calling him as you approach the end of the flower bed where the red thing is. Curiosity has the better of you, is it a bag or a cloth? It doesn’t look like either. Your steps slow to baby steps and then you pause, still a few feet from the red thing. 

“Benny, come here boy!” Where has he gotten to? You look around the yard and scan the wood’s edge. He’s not there. You call his name again as you take another step closer to the red thing. You feel your heartbeat quicken as fear captures all rational thought. You don't want to look. You don't want to see. It can’t be him.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, pushing back the fear. You have to look, you force yourself. Opening your eyes, you close the final steps to the red thing. At first, all you can see is red. Shiny wet pools of red. Its abstract quality confuses you for a moment, then you realize that it’s blood; but, just blood, no Benny. You have a momentary reprieve until the bloody scene comes into focus. A trail of blood leads to the back of the flower bed. A cold, boney hand clenches at your heart, once again you call to Benny. Nothing. 

Stealing yourself against what you will find, you round the corner of the flower bed. As you approach the back side of the bed, you try to fight off the many images in your mind of what might be back there. You’re trying to convince yourself that it could be anything, anything but what you dread. You’re procrastinating and the sun it setting, if you want to see what it is, you have to do it now while there's still any sunlight left. You try to lighten the mood by telling yourself, “it’s fine, you don’t really want to see what’s back there, anyway.” Reality sinks in, there’s no one else to do it. You take the last step and make the discovery you’ve been dreading. 

Dropping to your knees, you reach out to Benny. He looks up at you with sightless eyes as blood drips from the ragged wound in his neck. The fur around the wound is matted with still more blood. You know he’s gone, but you reach out to him anyway, hoping he feels comforted where ever he is.

———

You’ve been sitting at your kitchen table staring at a cold cup of tea for an hour. Unanswerable questions cycle through your mind. You glance over to the box with Benny in it. You’ve wrapped him gently in an old blanket and, even though it’s been dark for several hours, you’ve positioned the box in front of his favorite widow. The one he loved to look out of and watch for bunnies. You’re going to have to move him soon, you know that; but you want him near for a little bit longer.

A small noise coming from the porch breaks through the fog of your grief. You acknowledge it, and just as quickly disregard it. This is the boonies, there are all kinds of creatures out there every night. You rise and pour the cold tea down the sink drain, deciding something stronger is called for, when you hear the noise again. This time you cock your head towards the sound and really listen. The sound is faint but persistent. The inside door is shut, muffling the sound, but you’re sure - something is scratching at your screen door and it sounds like it wants in. Maybe it’s a squirrel or a…   heck, you don't know. 

The level of persistence has piqued your curiosity, you have to look after all. Standing on tip-toe in order to see out the window, you strain to see what’s making that racket. Between the darkness and the bad angle, all you see is the night; and now the scratching has gotten louder. Not because you’re closer to it, but because what ever it is has doubled its efforts. 

Concern is beginning to outweigh your curiosity, but you have things that need to be done. Your thoughts momentarily turn back to Benny and a lump forms in the pit of your stomach. Yes, there are things to be done and it’s up to you, you alone. There’s that word again. It’s not so comforting now, is it?

The screen door is banging against the doorjamb now; you can tell that the hook is still set in the eye, but not for long. You step back for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of blood pounding through your ears and the goosebumps on your arms. You admonish yourself for being such a sissy, but then you recall poor Benny lying behind the flower bed. Maybe you do have reason to be cautious. 

You remind yourself there are things to be done and this has to be handled first. There’s no one to get rid of your spiders for you and there’s no one to open this door. You've had a moment to calm down when you realize the banging has stopped. You look around for some form of protection and grab a nearby broom, it’ll have to do. 

A deep breath and you switch on the porch light, you listen for any sounds from the porch. Nothing. It’s now or never. You hold the broom in front of you and at once it seems ridiculous and small; but it’s all you have. With your other hand you slowly open the door; just a crack; the broom your first line of defense. You pause for a moment, then open the door wider when nothing happens. 

A hole has been torn in the bottom of the screen and you move quickly cover it with the broom. What the heck? You scan the porch searching for the source of all the commotion and your eyes land on a bunny. A single bunny, nose twitching, inches from the hole in the screen. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. Relief sweeps over you. 

You bend over to get a closer look, all is not right with this bunny (as if all had been right up to this point). It raises its head to return your stare, unafraid. It looks at the hole in the screen, you follow it’s gaze. It wants in. In a heartbeat, he’s up on its haunches and through the hole. In your surprise, the broom is of no consequence and you stumble back, landing on the floor. As the bunny lunges at your jugular, you notice the dried blood on his chin. 

Not Tonight, Honey - Short Story

Thank you for stopping by my blog. I am having tons of fun with the weekly flash fiction challenges from Chuck Wendig who publishes his blog at www.terribleminds.com. Last week there was no story prompt, but he had us submit a three word story title. Then he randomly chose ten and asked us to pick one to write a short story about. I thought about it and decided I would go with "Long Way Home" but somehow I ended up with "Not Tonight, Honey." Stories sometimes have a mind of their own. I hope you like it. (Constructive feedback is welcomed, if you're so inclined.)

Not Tonight, Honey

by Michelle Baillargeon

“Nana, let me stay. I want to stay.” Eva’s granddaughter pleaded with her once more as she pulled the car into the driveway. 

“No, honey, it’s going to be fine. I’m going to be fine. There’s no need.” Eva gave her well meaning granddaughter her best reassuring smile, climbed out of the car and turned to face the her. “Thank you for the ride. Go along home now, Sarah, I love you.” 

“There’s some kind of crazy person robbing and beating up up old ladies living alone; I’m afraid that you could be in danger.” 

Sarah reached out her hand to her grandmother and when it was received, gave it a gentle squeeze. Eva squeezed back then let go. “Honey, I’m going to be perfectly fine. I will check the locks on all my doors and windows and I’ll keep my phone near by, just in case. Besides, I have a feeling he’s going to break into the wrong house one of these nights. Go along, now. I’ve got to check on Bessie.” Eva blew Sarah a kiss and stood back for a moment. 

Sara realized Nana was using her “don’t argue with me voice” and that any further discussion would be a waste of time. She caught Nana’s kiss and sent one back completing the goodbye ritual. She shook her head at Nana’s stubbornness and lack of fear. Sara still worried for her grandmother, but there was no changing her mind once it was made up. As she drove away, she imagined one scary image after another of her grandmother getting conked on the head or worse. Those images were pushed aside as a different thought occurred to her. Who’s Bessie?

“That was close.” Eva hurried to her house, wanting to get inside before Sarah changed her mind.

___

True to her word, once inside Eva set about making the rounds. She started in the kitchen and worked her way around the cottage in a clockwise manner. She checked both the front and back doors, as well as the one to the cellar, and made sure the deadbolt was in place each time. She went to each window in the kitchen, living room, guest room and bathroom. All of the locks were already fastened. 

Lastly, she checked the three windows in her bedroom, which was in the back of the house. Two windows had rose bushes below them and she thought anyone in their right mind would avoid them as an entry point, but she locked them anyway. The person breaking in to houses and smashing old ladies like her on the head obviously wasn’t in their right mind. The third window faced the dark, fenced in back yard and was free of rose bushes. Eva reached up to the lock and disengaged it; she gave the whole thing a small push and opened the window a crack. Just a crack. She patted the window sill and smiled. 

Eva turned to get the time from the alarm clock on her bedside table. Eight p.m. It was still early. The local newspaper reports said that the break-ins and attacks had happened close to midnight. 

Three attacks in three weeks; and three friends in the hospital. She knew the victims well, they couldn’t have put up much of a fight agains the burglar. The level of violence that the victims suffered was completely unnecessary. The burglar must have known they were home, yet he broke in anyway. All she could think was he got a kick out of it. Sick son of a biscuit. 

The people in town were scared and everyone wondered who would be next. This guy wasn’t stopping, there would be a next victim. Some of her friends had moved back in with their children temporarily, giving up some of their independence but gaining some sense of safety. It was a necessary compromise. Eva felt a twinge in the knuckles of one hand and realized she’d been making a tight fist. She opened it and lightly shook off the pins and needles; it wouldn’t do to have an arthritic flare up tonight. 

Eva forced her thoughts back on track, there were a few things to do before she could settle in for the night. She took a second to glance back at the window and frowned. What was she thinking? She stepped back over to the window and lowered the shade so that it was even with the bottom of the the window. She made sure the other two window shades were pulled down completely. Satisfied, she headed to the kitchen. 

A cup of soup and few crackers would do to keep her stomach from rumbling, so she busied herself for a few minutes preparing her snack. Eva was a bit of a night owl, but she didn’t want to chance falling asleep too early; a pot of coffee would do the trick. Nervous energy did not diminish her appetite, and her snack was gone before she realized it. She put the dishes in the sink, turned off all the lights, grabbed a cup of coffee and returned to the bedroom. 

Finally able to settle down, she took a few minutes to prepare for bed, hurrying through her bedtime rituals. She crossed the room to sit in her favorite, overstuffed reading chair. It was positioned directly opposite of the window that looked out into the back yard; it had a lot of light during the day (perfect for reading) and a great view of her flower beds (perfect for bird and butterfly watching). Tonight, it would serve another purpose. 

Eva took a sip of coffee and checked the time again. It was still early, but she was patient. There was an unfinished book on the nearby table, but she didn’t know that she could concentrate on it tonight. She reached over and opened the table’s drawer, “Bessie,” she said out loud, “come to Mama.” 

She pulled out an old gift from her late husband Bill; an anniversary present to be exact, their tenth. One of her favorites. Smiling, she held her treasured Smith and Wesson 38 Special Revolver and remembered the times, long past, target shooting with her husband. Bill had given her lessons until Eva could hold her own, eventually she’d been able to out shoot him. 

Eva kept the gun loaded with personal protection rounds, what her son-in-law called “people killers”, but checked again just to be sure. There were additional bullets in the drawer; but, if she happened to need all six already chambered, it would be too late anyway. 

Reminiscing about the old days with Bill had helped the hours pass and and her nerves to calm. Soon it was time. She put out the light and sat in her chair like she’d done each night for the previous week. He had to think she was asleep. 

She’d begun each night thinking that would be the night, but each night she had held out until one a.m. and then given up. Her heart leaped as she heard a small noise at the window, she could feel her pulse quicken. Tonight would be the night! She sat quietly in her chair, taking a deep breath, holding Bessie at the ready. 

Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light and she watched as the window was gently pushed upwards and the shade pushed aside. She saw a black clad arm, then two, appear; the rest of the body soon followed as the burglar worked his way into the room. Eva watched him pause to get his bearings. Now! 

She pulled back Bessie’s hammer and the sound filled her quiet bedroom. Now that she had his attention, she turned the lamp back on. “Not tonight, Honey.”

Better Late Than Never - Short Story

Hello again. This will be the third short story I've written in response to a challenge from Chuck Wendig's Blog at terribleminds.com. I missed a week due to one of my cats being quite sick (undiagnosed diabetes - now being treated). Since Buddy is doing better, I promised myself not to miss another week. The subject of the writing challenge this time was "an act of rebellion." Each week seems to be a bit more challenging that the last, but I am enjoying it thoroughly. 

I have to admit, I avoid confrontations when I can, so writing about a rebellion did not come easy. However, I have gotten much better at standing up for myself, my loved ones and my beliefs; when I looked at it that way I had a bit more luck. I hope you enjoy my story. 

Better Late Than Never

By Michelle Baillargeon

Molly opened the lid of the trash barrel and looked in. It wasn’t quite half full yet, she could probably get another week out of it. She looked up and down the street at her neighbors’ yards and groaned softly. Everyone else had already brought their barrels out for the garbage truck. Hers would be last, all of the others were lined up like good little soldiers. What would her neighbors think if she didn’t put out her trash, too? There was a small pang in her chest, a touch of anxiety that appeared when she was conflicted about what she wanted to do versus what she was supposed to do. 

Molly was raised to be a good girl by loving parents and was proud of it. She grew up minding her parents, believing their truths as her own, doing what she was “supposed” to do. The “supposed to’s” were clear and was what was widely accepted as good girl behavior. She was taught right and wrong, that most issues were black and white and believed these things wholly. This made life easy, her parents had given her a road map to life and she never took any detours. Molly was content in the knowledge that all was right and good with her world. 

Molly focused on the the pang for a moment and knew the only way to diffuse it was to obey its bidding. The opinions of her neighbors was on the line after all. She dragged the barrel down her long gravel driveway and left it at the edge to be emptied. The walk was peppered with whispered grumbling and ended with a small kick to the wheel of the offending barrel. 

Growing up, she learned to act like a lady, respect her elders, use her manners, and the old standbys like no lying or cheating. Molly learned to meet expectations or risk disappointing others (and thereby, risk their love for her). Her parents expected good grades, they expected chores to be done (without complaining, “everyone has to earn their keep”), and finally they expected her to marry a nice young man some day. The path had been laid out before her, it was clear and simple. 

Instead of returning to the house, Molly headed to the porch and sat on the steps. She thought about herself and her life. She was a good person, she “did unto others” and the whole nine yards, she avoided conflicts and tried to be the best wife she could be. She had loved her husband completely, had treated him better than good, kept his house, stood by him. How had it come to this then? 

Now that the shock and numbness was wearing off a bit, she could feel the tears coming on along with the self pity. Soon, she would begin to think about how to fix it, how not to rock the boat of her marriage, her life. Same old good girl cycle. 

Molly thought back over all the lessons she had learned and all of the expectations people had of her. She had met them all head on and passed with flying colors. She was tired, though. Who was all this effort for? Certainly, not just herself; what was she getting out of it? She had her own expectations; and lately her husband had not been living up them. This was the last straw. No more of the old Molly. No more trying to please others. No more good girl.

This was it, then, it was decided. Molly stood up and shook both hands out at her side as if she could physically shake off the remains of her old personality. She took a deep breath and blew it out; with it went any reservations she may have been holding on to. A steady hand wiped away a solitary tear as a smile began to form, she shook her head yes as if agreeing with herself. Her heart leaped at this new sensation and her pulse quickened with excitement. This is how it feels to follow your own path, be your own person, live for yourself. It was exhilarating. She imagined a wolf climbing out of a sheep skin. The image felt right. This was a newer, stronger Molly. Anyone watching her at the moment would swear they saw a twinkle in her eye. 

New Molly turned and entered the house making a bee line for the laundry basket in her bedroom. She pulled out her husband’s white dress shirt and held it out in front of her. She paused and looked at the lipstick stain once more; it wasn’t on the collar like you read about in a trashy romance novel, it was lower. Much lower. Molly didn’t wear lipstick and she wasn’t a fool. Not any more. 

Molly had paused, not in hesitation but in preparation; she worked up a bit of saliva in her mouth and when she had the right amount gathered up, she spat at the shirt aiming for the stain. Direct hit! Satisfied, she wadded up the shirt and headed back outside. 

She walked back down to the trash barrel at the end of the drive and tossed the crumpled up shirt inside. She started to walk back to the house then hesitated. Screw ‘em, let them think what they will. She grabbed the barrel and pulled it back to its spot at the top of the driveway. She had plenty of room for another week’s worth of trash. 

Making a mental note to call a locksmith, New Molly dusted off her hands then rested them on her hips, super hero style. She couldn’t stop smiling, She felt empowered; she was a bad ass, she felt good. So much had happened this morning and it was life changing. From now on, she came first. Could you be considered a rebel if no one else witnessed it? She didn’t know and didn't care. She was a rebel now.