(no subject)
A Dreary Morning
It was a dreary, grey morning and John couldn't stand to be awake. He clutched his cup of coffee with both hands trying to steal away its warmth. It was always coldest in the mornings. That's when you could really feel the grip of winter getting stronger - autumn would not last much longer. John's head still hurt from waking up. It'd been like a siren of pain at first, when his alarm ripped him from his sleep and he stumbled out of bed. His temples and his forehead seemed to be trying to burrow themselves into his brain. The shower had helped a bit, but it gave his mind too much time to wonder. Tired and confused it danced dream-remnants before his eyes, playing little senseless skits in his head.
His body felt like a rumpled plastic bag, a mess of jumbled up nerve-endings misfiring in random patterns. The weariness dragged him across the floor as he brought his coffee over to the kitchen table and sat down. Trying to avoid thought and consciousness, he stared out the window at the looming grey clouds that covered the world. They were swollen, fierce giants, raising themselves high in the skies, angry and ready to flood the world with their tears. A pale luminescence radiated through them from a place beyond - a captive sun buried in chains. The wind was picking up, cold and sharp, striking up the brown leaves and swaying the dying grass of the neighborhood lawns. It had rained the night before and the ground and the gravel of the streets were already wet.
The last thing John wanted was to sludge his way outside and off to work. His body and mind ached, and his warm bed called out to him from a floating garden of pleasant, painless dreams. On the other hand, the grey weather outside was promising to get ever colder and more miserable. Yet, something he saw out there suddenly drew alarm on his face, and getting up from the table he rushed to the front door.
He pulled the door open in one forceful motion and was met with a cold wind that sunk right through his marrow and the roots of his teeth. Yet, despite the urge to chatter, his frustration managed to boil through clearly in his voice.
"Get out of my front-yard you damn wretches! I won't have you stinking up my lawn!" The yell made all the zombies turn to look at him from underneath the rims of their top-hats and bowler derbies. One of them stood up from his work, and readjusting his monocle and coat, turned to address the distressed man on the porch.
"Kind sir, if you would lower the tone of your voice and regain a calm demeanor, you would note that we are not trespassing but merely providing you with a most honorable and advantageous favor," he said with a soothing, gentle tone that followed his reassuring hand gestures.
"Yeah, bloke, we're 'elping ya out!" protested a zombie in the back of the group who was only wearing a common cloth cap and whose suspenders were in plain sight.
"No! No, no, no! I won't have any of it! You grab those goddamn worms and get the hell off my property!" John yelled on, not caring for the zombies' platitudes in the slightest. He pointed fervently at the big, monstrous, slobbering grubs that the zombies held in their hands. He found the damned things revolting - they were as big as cats and were constantly oozing white discharge from their mouths, or clicking their sharp feeler-legs at the end of their long, fat, curving bodies. The damn things looked so full and plump that he imagined they could pop like festering balloons.
"Sir, you must be joking. These are not worms. They are the larvae of our most beloved and exalted queen - the lovely and undead Motteleuse, our hive mother - and we are her loyal servants, beckoned back upon this world and mortal coil to do her gracious bidding," the first zombie tried to explain.
"I know damn well what they are and I want them off my fucking lawn!" John screamed, feeling light-headed as his face flushed in anger.
"But this ought to be an honor to you, kind sir! It is a sign of great prestige and a favour towards you and your home that she, our gracious queen, has chosen your lawn as the site of incubation for her most gracious larvae. For her little princesses! Just imagine sir! Right here, beneath the soil of your estate, underneath your very home, they'll mature and develop until they have grown into majestic queens all of their own, ready to spread their shimmering wings and fly off far into the land, to start up their own joyous colonies full of busy undead servants, all working for the common welfare of her gracious society!" The zombie's face seemed almost to light up as he spoke.
"I will not have you leaving those damn parasites on my property; I don't care whether the Regent shat them out himself! If you don't leave now and take those god-forsaken things with you I'll call the police!" John yelled.
"But good sir, you haven't even heard the best part of Motteleuse's gracious offer! If you sign up now -"
"I don't give two shits about your fucking scams! Leave or I call the cops!" John's headache was back to its worst and he felt as if the pressure in his temples would either collapse his cranium onto itself or force it to pop open in a whistle of boiling steam like a kettle pot.
"Well, kind sir, we will not force the issue. But please reflect upon it, we will be glad to sanctify your garden in Motteleuse's regal name and turn it into a joyous incubation ground if you ever change your mind," the zombie said, politely backing off at the sound of John's last thundering yell, and motioning to his undead crew. They all picked up their grubs and shovels and broodingly moved on down the street, kicking cans and cursing the man.
John slammed the door shut as the zombies left. His head was on the verge of bursting again, his throat was sore from yelling, and he felt overwhelmed with flushed heat from his chest up. He stomped back to the kitchen in utter frustration. He was going to be late for work and was in dying need of that cup of coffee.
But Martha was sitting calmly in his spot when he returned. She was sipping his coffee and reading the paper in her robe. He had hoped he would've been able to leave without seeing her.
She looked up at him through her long, un-brushed hair.
"Who was it honey?" she asked, no hint of a smile or a good-morning.
John sighed softly and slumped down in the chair beside her, head in his hands.
"Solicitors. Just fucking solicitors."
It was a dreary, grey morning and John couldn't stand to be awake. He clutched his cup of coffee with both hands trying to steal away its warmth. It was always coldest in the mornings. That's when you could really feel the grip of winter getting stronger - autumn would not last much longer. John's head still hurt from waking up. It'd been like a siren of pain at first, when his alarm ripped him from his sleep and he stumbled out of bed. His temples and his forehead seemed to be trying to burrow themselves into his brain. The shower had helped a bit, but it gave his mind too much time to wonder. Tired and confused it danced dream-remnants before his eyes, playing little senseless skits in his head.
His body felt like a rumpled plastic bag, a mess of jumbled up nerve-endings misfiring in random patterns. The weariness dragged him across the floor as he brought his coffee over to the kitchen table and sat down. Trying to avoid thought and consciousness, he stared out the window at the looming grey clouds that covered the world. They were swollen, fierce giants, raising themselves high in the skies, angry and ready to flood the world with their tears. A pale luminescence radiated through them from a place beyond - a captive sun buried in chains. The wind was picking up, cold and sharp, striking up the brown leaves and swaying the dying grass of the neighborhood lawns. It had rained the night before and the ground and the gravel of the streets were already wet.
The last thing John wanted was to sludge his way outside and off to work. His body and mind ached, and his warm bed called out to him from a floating garden of pleasant, painless dreams. On the other hand, the grey weather outside was promising to get ever colder and more miserable. Yet, something he saw out there suddenly drew alarm on his face, and getting up from the table he rushed to the front door.
He pulled the door open in one forceful motion and was met with a cold wind that sunk right through his marrow and the roots of his teeth. Yet, despite the urge to chatter, his frustration managed to boil through clearly in his voice.
"Get out of my front-yard you damn wretches! I won't have you stinking up my lawn!" The yell made all the zombies turn to look at him from underneath the rims of their top-hats and bowler derbies. One of them stood up from his work, and readjusting his monocle and coat, turned to address the distressed man on the porch.
"Kind sir, if you would lower the tone of your voice and regain a calm demeanor, you would note that we are not trespassing but merely providing you with a most honorable and advantageous favor," he said with a soothing, gentle tone that followed his reassuring hand gestures.
"Yeah, bloke, we're 'elping ya out!" protested a zombie in the back of the group who was only wearing a common cloth cap and whose suspenders were in plain sight.
"No! No, no, no! I won't have any of it! You grab those goddamn worms and get the hell off my property!" John yelled on, not caring for the zombies' platitudes in the slightest. He pointed fervently at the big, monstrous, slobbering grubs that the zombies held in their hands. He found the damned things revolting - they were as big as cats and were constantly oozing white discharge from their mouths, or clicking their sharp feeler-legs at the end of their long, fat, curving bodies. The damn things looked so full and plump that he imagined they could pop like festering balloons.
"Sir, you must be joking. These are not worms. They are the larvae of our most beloved and exalted queen - the lovely and undead Motteleuse, our hive mother - and we are her loyal servants, beckoned back upon this world and mortal coil to do her gracious bidding," the first zombie tried to explain.
"I know damn well what they are and I want them off my fucking lawn!" John screamed, feeling light-headed as his face flushed in anger.
"But this ought to be an honor to you, kind sir! It is a sign of great prestige and a favour towards you and your home that she, our gracious queen, has chosen your lawn as the site of incubation for her most gracious larvae. For her little princesses! Just imagine sir! Right here, beneath the soil of your estate, underneath your very home, they'll mature and develop until they have grown into majestic queens all of their own, ready to spread their shimmering wings and fly off far into the land, to start up their own joyous colonies full of busy undead servants, all working for the common welfare of her gracious society!" The zombie's face seemed almost to light up as he spoke.
"I will not have you leaving those damn parasites on my property; I don't care whether the Regent shat them out himself! If you don't leave now and take those god-forsaken things with you I'll call the police!" John yelled.
"But good sir, you haven't even heard the best part of Motteleuse's gracious offer! If you sign up now -"
"I don't give two shits about your fucking scams! Leave or I call the cops!" John's headache was back to its worst and he felt as if the pressure in his temples would either collapse his cranium onto itself or force it to pop open in a whistle of boiling steam like a kettle pot.
"Well, kind sir, we will not force the issue. But please reflect upon it, we will be glad to sanctify your garden in Motteleuse's regal name and turn it into a joyous incubation ground if you ever change your mind," the zombie said, politely backing off at the sound of John's last thundering yell, and motioning to his undead crew. They all picked up their grubs and shovels and broodingly moved on down the street, kicking cans and cursing the man.
John slammed the door shut as the zombies left. His head was on the verge of bursting again, his throat was sore from yelling, and he felt overwhelmed with flushed heat from his chest up. He stomped back to the kitchen in utter frustration. He was going to be late for work and was in dying need of that cup of coffee.
But Martha was sitting calmly in his spot when he returned. She was sipping his coffee and reading the paper in her robe. He had hoped he would've been able to leave without seeing her.
She looked up at him through her long, un-brushed hair.
"Who was it honey?" she asked, no hint of a smile or a good-morning.
John sighed softly and slumped down in the chair beside her, head in his hands.
"Solicitors. Just fucking solicitors."