Add to the story...

[meg_evonne]

No one owns a character, no one owns the plot, but everyone owns the humor. Blow out your cobwebs with adding to the story. (Yes, I'm stuck in revision city and can't get out so something short and fun will help a lot.)  Sully liked one of the posting writing exercises Sue posted and mentioned this looked like fun. We've done it before so why not again.  No fair editing the crap out of your gibblegoop. This is straight off the finger stuff.


The air was freeze burning my checks off. No not those cheeks--the other ones. Well, actually the other too... This was bad and why was I out in the middle of nowhere pursuing a lead that wasn't going anywhere in this blasted weather? Cause I'm an idiot and a romantic, what can I say?

[lexx]

Tracking would be a lot easier without the sharp windblown flakes stinging my eyes and covering the tracks I needed. Unfortunately it also meant that if I was going to do my job successfully it had to be right now. I shivered miserably as I looked for the shape of toes and rounded narrow heels in the snow, characteristic of bare foot prints. Did I really need such trivial things as a roof over my head and maybe a meal or two?? I grumbled as I rearranged my scarf, pulled my coat a bit tighter, and brushed snow of my gloves for the umpteenth time. "This is definitely the last time I'm hunting snow angels anywhere outside of the tropics", I promised myself.

[the neurovore of Zur-En-Aargh]

I closed the old diary and wondered about what I'd just been reading.  "Gosh, my grandmother had some odd hobbies," I thought.

[lexx]

I felt the corners of my mouth quirk up as I could almost smell the peasoup and smoked sausage she used to make for me. I rummaged through my bag, dropped in the diary and pulled out my thermos. My version of the peasoup is not the same as hers, for one I make mine thin so I can sip it, but the smell is exactly the same. I felt warmed by more than just the quick sip of soup. I was about to stuff the thermos back into my bag when I heard a scuffle.

[The Deposed King]

My head snapped over to the window and my mouth dropped open.  There was a snowman looking at me through the glass.  Thermos fell to hit the floor, from suddenly nerveless fingers, spilling peasoup all over the floor.  Jumpstart my heart!  It took me several rapid breaths to realize the figure of the snowman wasn't actually moving.  "Ha-ha-ha," I said weakly, thumping on my chest once to help snap me out of it, "I need to stop reading horror stories right before bed time."




The Deposed King

[superpsycho]

I grabbed some paper towels and got down on the floor to clean up the mess I'd made. Just as I was finishing up, again came the shuffling. I froze and listened intently, trying hard to locate where it was coming from. It had to be in the back I decided, maybe . . .  the kitchen. Slowing and quietly I moved in that direction, hoping to identify it. Then it stopped, so I waited; my breathing shallow, almost holding my breath as I focused on detecting any hint of sound. Then it came, as before, a shuffle, perhaps even scratching, so I continued to move in the direction it seemed to come from.

When I reached the kitchen doorway, I leaned out, just enough to peek in before entering; afraid I might disturb whatever it was into silence. I could see nothing, not on the floor, not on the counters, nor could I see anything through the windows. I let out a long breath, whether in relief or because I'd been holding it, I didn't know. I did know I wasn't imagining it, I couldn't be. Yes, I know my mind had tricked me with that snowman. And, I had to admit my grandmother's diary had some scary stuff in it, especially the part about my grandfather's fetish for clown suits. That alone was enough to send chills up my spine just thinking about it.

Then it was there again, this time loud enough that I knew it had to be real. The door, it was definitely coming from the kitchen door. I felt silly, it was probably just some local wildlife. Perhaps a neighbors dog or cat, though supposedly the nearest cabin was a half mile down the mountain. Then I remembered, no one was supposed to be up here according to the rental office. But who made the snowman? I hadn't thought about that. Someone had to be up here.

Again came the noise, definitely scratching and definitely from the door. I quickly I moved to the door and flung it open.

[The Deposed King]

I shrieked with terror and slammed the door shut.  The vision outside slotting into my worst, dairy inspired, nightmare.  The snowmen were everywhere!  Running for the stairs I tripped over the garbage can sending trash and rotten bannana peels flying.

Jumping back to my feet I took a single step and slipped.  Feet flying into the air I slammed head first in to the the small kitchen counter-top before landing on my face with a thump.  Reaching out blindly I grabbed the, what would usually be, knee level kitchen cabinet door handles and pulled, lifting myself up off the floor.  The cabinet door swung open and I screamed.

"Not another snowman!" I cried at the sight of the little porcelain monster.  The snowmen were everywhere.  They were stalking me!  Then I spotted the little hand portable blow torch.  One of those hand portable, kitchen models you sometimes found underneath the range.  Eyes lighting maniacally, I grabbed the porcelain little snow man, threw him straight in the over turned trash can and then lit the torch.

I knew one snow man sitting on the back porch that was about to feel the burn!

"Mess with me will you!" I exclaimed starting for the door.




The Deposed King

[superpsycho]

'Noooo!' My mind screamed, as I started to reach for the handle. 'This can't be!' I was scared, yes --dreadfully so--, but was I crazy? Perhaps it was true; the stress had been building for months. I again listened, closing my eyes, letting my senses reach out to the sounds of the night. A subtle breeze through the pines, branches against the window in the living room, and the clock on the wall, its second hand softly ticking away. If I was mad, would my hearing be so acute?

I inhaled a deep breath to sample the fragrances around me; the hint of pine still present even in the cold of winter, the coffee grinds and banana peels from the trash I'd knocked over, the roses in the vase on the counter and even the smell of pea-soup lingering on the paper towels from where I'd dropped them. Could I be insane if the lightest scent does not escape me?

I opened my eyes to what lie around me; the ceiling light cast a yellow tint upon the room; the roses a deep red, capping the porcelain vase of black and gold, and the walnut cabinets a rich contrast of deep browns. If I were truly mad, would my sight be so sharp and colors so vivid? If not one of my senses had been dulled, am I not fully aware and in command of my faculties? Or . . .  is sanity more than awareness.

I thought myself clever coming here, a chance to focus on my work. But, it is possible I was too clever for my own good; at least it does seem that way now. The strangeness of it all was suffocating, the isolation, the abnormal quiet, and perhaps the thought of creatures unknown to me watching from all the hidden places 'out there'. There was just so much, 'out there', miles of 'OUT THERE', it was maddening and to my mind un-natural.

I needed the sound of the city, the glow of lights to push back the dark. Here the dark was total, a void where everything lurked, ready to pounce, when you least expected it. 'How could anyone live like this?!' No wonder my mind plays tricks upon me, how could it not?

Somehow, I must get through this. Maybe, if I can clear and settle my mind, the snowmen will go away. Just focus on zombies, this book is about zombies, not crazed snowmen gone wild. I grabbed my laptop and went back into the living room to get comfortable. I opened it up and as I began to type, the noise came again. 

[meg_evonne]

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. I give up on the writing and set aside the laptop. Maybe mice.

I again go to the window. The ceiling light's glow shines out the window and onto the snowman.  It has sticks for arms, the  traditional orange carrot nose, and a damn Colorado Rockie's baseball cap on its head. Wound around its neck is a scarf of violet and deep deep blue that flaps in the wind. Every five or six inches along its length is a bright red rose, matching those on the round table in the room's middle--below the ceilng light.

Odd that. Roses left for me out here in an isolated cabin. There's a note hidden in the leaves. I open it. It's from my agent and reads, "No leaving until the manuscript is done." That being a warning that I am thirty days late on the promised manuscript. The note continues, "I've reserved this place before for authors on deadlines. Stephen King loved it." Damn it. A prodding reminder that my critics claimed I was a low rent-district Stephen King wanna be. My agent told me to step it up with this next novel.

When the lodge attendant dropped me off with my suitcase and laptop case, promising absolute solitude to finish my manuscript, he'd called it Rose Cottage. The round bellied man had handed me the key to the front door which was buried under a rose covered trellis. "It drips roses in summer like blood," he had said.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Maybe a raccoon on the roof trying to get in.

In winter the dormant overhanging rose simply drips thorns. As I had passed the threshold, one of the long trailing branches had caught on my coat. The thorns refusing to let go. It took forever to get untangled. Every time I removed one, two more would latch on. One followed me inside and I'd had to use my laptop case to shove it back out, quickly slamming the door closed before it reattached itself and climbed back in.

The attendant didn't offer to help me get settled and he had ignored the odd plant devouring human scenario. Instead, he'd left in no time flat, saying, "Want your quiet. Won't bother you. Have a nice stay." The tires on his ATV spit gravel as he gunned it back toward the main lodge which is out of sight a good quarter mile away.

At least the gas furnace warms the place up. I'd lit a small fire and smoke swirls up the chimney, but it doesn't carry the scent of burning wood. Roses. It carries the scent of roses.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Maybe, with the wind, one of those damn snowmen's arms is scratching a glass pane. As if to confirm the sound is actually from outside, there's a blast of whistling wind and the rose trellis bumps against the front door. The long hungry rose arms thump repeatedly against the door's large window. Now it's Scratch. Thump. Scratch. Thump.

Had my agent known it was called Rose Cottage? My manuscript is called A Rose for the Dead. My editor laughed when I told her. Pleased with the title, she wasn't pleased with how long it was taking. That was when she'd suggested this writing get-away.

Scratch. Thump. Scratch. Thump.

Back to my manuscript. As I sit down and work, words stream across the page. The Scratch Thump strangely goes away, although the wind does not. Neither does the heavy scent of roses. With legendary DK or Neuro word count dedication, the words stream like blood.

[superpsycho]

Yes, the words came like blood. Hmmm, blood, roses, hmmm, 'blood roses'. I like the sound of that. Thorns bring blood. How about a rose bush, whose thorns create zombies? The roses growing out of a chemical waste dump. That I think has possibilities. Even better, a vampire rose bush that sucks the blood out of its victims and turns them into zombies. And the critics say I have no originality.

[meg_evonne]

(OK, so zombies it is...)

It's near midnight, when the wind outside stops. Exhausted, I leave my laptop to check out the snowmen. Same number it looks like. I'd swear they're in different places. In fact, that scarf around the one right by the window--was it dark colors? It looks white with roses now.

Off in the distance there is someone walking around with a torch.

[superpsycho]

What is someone doing out in this cold after midnight? And I was told no one was up here. Darn snowmen have really got me spooked. Wish I had a camera, then I'd know for sure if they were moving and changing scarves and hats or if it was just my imagination. Didn't I hear something about some escaped convict a few days ago? And there isn't even any cellphone service up here. What am I going to do? How did I let them talk me into coming up here? And why must this book be about zombies, why not pixies or cute little faeries or something like that. Trouble is they already gave me a $20k advance for the zombies and I can't afford to give it back.

I see the light moving from tree to tree, getting closer. What am I going to do? Then I remember the fireplace, the poker, it's better than nothing.

I quickly run to the fireplace and get the poker. But when I return and look out the window, I can't find the light from the torch. Where did they go? Then I hear it! That darn noise again; scratch, scratch, shuffle, shuffle. Crazy noises, shifting snowman, and some strange person running around in the middle of the night; what's next, ghosts? Then thanks to my grandmother's diary, this frightening image of a ghost in a clown's outfit pops into my head and sends shivers up my spine. I think I'd rather face an escaped convict. 

[meg_evonne]

I throw more wood on the fire and pace in front of it. This really is getting on my nerves.

That's when I hear the knock on the cabin's front door.

[superpsycho]

With the sound, my hand instinctively tightens on the pokers handle. I take a deep breath and realize I'm probably being stupid but with the evenings events I'm just too on edge to think clearly or take chances. Hesitantly, I go to the door and peek through the peephole.