I wonder what else my parents lied to me about. Looking back, i think it's silly that this was the first thought to go through my mind as the monster in my closet was slowly making its way toward my bed. Well, I think it was a monster. It could have been George Burns. One of the two. It was still six feet away from me, apparently in no hurry.
I could have used my old childhood method of dealing with monsters-- hide under my blankets. That wasn't an option. My flashlight and Teddy Bear were both packed away somewhere. I decided to do the next best thing. I picked up my bedside lamp, yanked the plug out of the outlet, and threw it at the thing's face. It connected... Hard. I was a quarterback in high school. Monster George never even flinched. Hell, it never even attempted to block it.
By this point, the initial shock had worn off, and I was headed toward the door. The knob turned, but the door wouldn't budge. The monster continued its patient advance. It was four feet away now. I kicked my flimsy wooden door. Nothing happened, and I'm no lightweight. I tried another kick and got the same result. Three feet away. I couldn't get to the window. The monster was too close. Two feet.
It stopped. It smelled like cigars and mothballs. Maybe it is George Burns after all. "What do you want?" I asked. No reply. It just stood there watching me for maybe a minute or so. Then, it reached a withered hand into its rather fashionable jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to me. It turned and stalked back into the closet.
I stood in stunned silence for a while after the thing had left, envelope in hand. I debated whether or not to open it. What the Hell? I opened it, there was a small piece of parchment inside, folded once. I opened that. Huh. I had been invited to a party.
I really like this Don and timely with 'Where the Wild Things are'. It'd be great to see a YA spin off. I love the George Burns reference and that you carry it through. I like the quirky set up. My suggestions would be minor. 'was slowly making' to 'made' --the sentence with it was ungainly to me. In third paragraph 'was headed' - suspect that you could find a better verb to show what character is feeling.
I liked the switch to the small, clipped sentences of 'three feet' 'two feet' and similar use of of same pattern in fourth paragraph for adding tension. Fantastic line here --> "Then, it reached a withered hand into its rather fashionable jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to me." <Love that you let me wonder why this closet monster has a 'fashionable jacket'...draws me in, making me read actively.
The prior sentence of 'He stood ... for a minute or two', consider cutting. Let the small, clipped sentences stand out in contrast to that fantastic line marked above.
Last paragraph----perfect, as is the rest. Nice, nice job Don.
Okay how does this hold your attention?
Set up -
Eve has followed her spirit guide to the top of St Peter's Basilica in Rome.Eve had crept out onto the open walkway that wrapped around the top of St Peter’s dome, the cold wind whipping at her clothes. The claustrophobic corkscrew climb had been bad enough, but Rome’s skyline separated by a thin hand railing had her frozen. She hated heights. A raven flew by, passing uncomfortably close to Eve’s shoulder, and then, inches from her death grip on the balustrade, it perched—huge and ugly, something round in its beak.
Mortified by the drop of hundreds of feet, Eve tightened her hold and swiped her free hand at the bird. “Shoo. Go away!” It opened its mouth, dropping its treasure, but wasn’t intimidated. “I said—go away!” She swept her free hand again at raven and it flew up into the air. It flapped its wings, talons extended, threatening, diving towards her. She released the railing and stumbled back against the dome, dodging the raven’s attack. She landed hard on all fours, the raven’s treasure spinning on the narrow walkway. It slowed and then lay, the bloody eyeball staring up at her.
Eve scrambled away, clawing at the dome’s wall. Her hands smeared on something wet and warm that covered her palms—a trickle of fresh blood flowed down the dome curve. The wind whipped as Eve traced the crimson trail upward, her eyes locking on the man’s body stretched across the top of the dome, speared by St Peter’s cross.
edited as I left the last paragraph off when I cut and pasted.
