27.03.18: My Backyard.
Word Vomit
In the pitch black night underneath a moon shining bright, a local fisherman named John Lock sailed through the stream. Tonight he had picked an interesting form of transportation, from deep in the sea of boxes in his garage.
The rowboat was red, with a hull of rust and an engine of dented steel. It had a floor of mould-encrusted wood and cardboard boxes; a small seat made of cushions and a coil of frayed rope in the left corner.
John was unlike many fisherman in the region of Czechoslovakia. Instead of standing at the peers or at the riverbanks, he spent his days - nights, to be specific - living a dirty secret. He was an assassin; hired by the richest of the rich, to steal, borrow, or barter from the houses of peasants. He didn't find much, admittedly. On bad days it would be canned food or photo frames, and on the occasional good days he would find meat and animals.
Luckily, tonight was one of these nights.
John reached the island of Purendia just after midnight. His first target was a small home overlooking the beach. His feet moved swiftly across the cold, grainy sand as waves lapped past his ankles and moved the rowboat from side to side. In the house he found a tiny kitten. It mewed and pawed at it's cage as John grinned evilly and picked it up. In his sack the kitten went.
John explored further into the kitchen, this time....
(243 words)
27.03.18: The Backyard.
It was in the darkest of the dark shadows towering across the backyard that the fallen tree rested. It's roots resembled long curls sticking out of the ground, covered in old moss and dead grass. There was the remains of a spiderweb hanging from one of the branches. It was silver and shiny when the sun reflected off it. My little sister Kiera had named the whitetail spider that spun it's web in intricate patterns Gregory. She would spend hours just looking at it, letting it crawl across the palm of her hand, squealing as it crawled further and further up.
Beside the tree, bathed in the blinding security light, sat Dad's motorcycle. It's blue and silver exterior was pristine and polished, not a scratch in sight. This was because he took care of it so much. My brother A.J didn't take care of his so much.
The motorcycle still had the remains from today's hard work piled on it. A clipboard and red pen was balanced on the handlebars, an old apple core (Dad's lunch) rested by the wheel and a gearbox full of nuts and bolts on the back leather seat. Dad had worked very long and hard that afternoon. The sun blazed upon him leaving patches of red across his back that he hissed at when Mum tried to help him.
It was in the bushes next to the motorcycle that the weird things began. Another prized possession of Kiera's - the old red toaster. It's metal rings were rusted and twisted like a pretzel. It's knobs were loose and missing, with scratches along the red exterior and rusted bottom.
(273 words)
