Original Fic
Hihi, an original fic post for ammoneva. We're challenging each other to write more.
No one else needs to read, but they're welcome to as they will.
OMG The Four Riders
Part One: Conquest
Act One
They say that moving to a small town from the city is hard. In all the movies, the kids complain and cry and carry on about how awful their parents are for doing it. Well, I refuse. My father needs this job and the town needs a competent civil engineer and all I really need are some good books and a fast internet connection to keep up with my friends.
“Hey, Tara, look at this.” Milo leaned over to show me his magazine, open to some gory screen shot from the latest mainstream horror. Yawn. “Is that a spleen or a liver?”
Having a twin brother helps, too. With him around, I'll never be alone.
“Liver,” I told him. “Definitely. It's blue.” I snickered and pointed at the actress' face. “Look at her. She doesn't look scared, just uncomfortable.”
Milo snorted. “I wasn't looking at her face.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Pervert!” I exclaimed, laughing and smacking him.
“What's going on back there?” My dad glanced back, trying to look fierce and failing miserably. Donovan Juarez's brown skin, “latte-coloured” my father says, is creased by laughter lines that never fade. Even when he's stern, you can see the smile just waiting to break through.
“Nothing,” I called to the front, forcing Milo to close the magazine. “Just some, ah, theatrical commentary!”
“I blame you for that,” my father said without taking his eyes off of the highway. Michael Juarez, my biological father and the reason we moved away from the city, tried to sound disapproving. “You're the theatre major, Don. She gets it from you.”
“Better than getting it from you,” my dad replied, grinning. His dark eyes found mine. “You don't want to be an engineer, do you, sweetheart?”
I shook my head rapidly and mimed that I was choking on the idea.
“See? She's a smart girl.” Donovan chuckled. “It's a good thing she takes after her mother.”
Michael pretended that he was offended and they started play-squabbling, which is when I lost interest in the conversation and went back to my book 'Things in the Dark,' a collection of horror short stories.
Milo and I were interested in the paranormal, the unusual, the horrifying. We saw all the scary movies, at least the ones we could get into at 16 years old, played with horror props at the school theatre department, and had a vast collection of fake blood and gothic accessories. I wasn't really a goth, per se, but I did enjoy film and fright. Sometimes I wore white makeup and black lace and burned red candles, but only for fun or when I was trying to impress someone. Usually I wore jeans and a t-shirt and tied my black hair up in a pony-tail. Milo often did the same, including the long hair. I think we once started a race to see who could grow their hair out the longest. Since then, I've forgotten how long we were supposed to go and I think he did the same, so now we just match. Accidentally, of course. It's not like we're the type of twins that tried to act and dress the same.
“Obsidian Bay,” my father said as we drove past the green highway sign. “Fifty-two kilometres. We're almost there.”
“Why fifty-two?” Donovan wondered. “Why not a round number?”
“The magic of civil engineering,” Michael quipped.
I rolled my eyes and shared a look of long-suffering with my brother. Everyone else was so jealous that our fathers were so happy together, never yelling, barely arguing... But, seriously, their cuteness was just too much sometimes. Why couldn't one of them throw a punch or have an affair or something normal?
Obsidian Bay's mascot was a black fish and their claim to fame was, apparently, “The Only Flatland Fishery.” Lovely. I can't wait to live in a town that smells like fish.
It was a small town; there was only one school for grades one through twelve, one street with stores and restaurants, and a few gas stations near the highway. Michael took us on a quick tour, pointing out the town highlights. We stopped at a little cafe for some take-out before heading to the new house.
I loved the new place the moment Michael had showed it to me on the real estate website. It was perfect for us, giant and creepy. Unfortunately, it was nowhere to be found on the 'Haunted Houses Across Canada' website, but I was hopeful that I would find a ghost or two under its dark eaves. It honestly looked like something from The Amityville Horror, complete with barred windows and vines on its white sides.
“Wicked,” Milo murmured.
I nodded my agreement and grinned at him. We were going to have so much fun here.
“Grab a few bags on the way in,” Michael said when we pulled up. Most of our things were already inside, moved by the company, but the van was still full of our more personal things. My make-up alone filled an iron-banded case. “And we'll get the rest after we've eaten. I'm starved!”
“Here, here,” Donovan agreed. “Let's eat!”
**
I woke up because I felt like I was being watched. When I opened my eyes, I saw him standing over me in the unfamiliar orange light from the streetlamp outside, broken by tree branches. My brother, in his boxers, his hair in disarray, his expression, or what little I could see of it, upset.
“Milo?” I mumbled into my pillow.
“I had that dream again,” he told me woodenly. He hugged his skinny arms to his skinny chest.
“You're sixteen,” I said, rolling over and pulling my blankets tighter. “You can deal with your own bad dreams.” He started having them about two weeks before we left Toronto and I was sick of hearing about them.
“It wasn't a bad dream, though!” I felt his weight on my bed and he pulled at my blankets. “It was a power dream. You know, the kind that mean something. Something important.”
“You've been reading too many of my books,” I grumbled. Served me right for letting a drama queen like him read books about wicca, paganism and the dark arts.
“Come on, I just want to tell you what it was about. Then I'll leave you alone.” He started to bounce and a few times his bony knees dug into the meat of my leg.
“Get off of me!” I shoved him away, kicking and punching. “You're so annoying!”
He landed on my floor with a loud thud. The old house echoed with it. We froze, listening intently, and then came the creaking of the hallway floorboards. I quickly rearranged myself under the blankets and allowed Milo to slither up beside me to hide.
“Tara?” The dishevelled and stubbly head of Michael Juarez appeared in my doorway. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I replied in a loud whisper. “Just a bad dream.” I elbowed Milo as I said it and he hissed quietly at me.
“Well, don't be awake too long, you start your new school in--” He squinted at my digital clock, “--Five hours.”
“Ugh, yeah, I know.”
He smiled at me. “You'll do great, sweetheart. Don't worry.”
There was no use in arguing, so I nodded and said, “Good night.”
“Good night, love.”
When he was gone, Milo pushed his way out from under my comforter. “Ugh, you reek like perfume and patchouli.”
“Better than boy,” I snarked back, sticking out my tongue at him.
“Okay, so I had this dream--”
“This again?”
“Yeah, it's short. Don't worry. I was on a hill. Well, actually, I think you were on a hill, but I don't think it was you. You know how dreams are.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you, or not-you, or me, we were on a horse. This ashy green horse. And we were in a black robe. And we had this hand made out of bones--”
“Most hands are made out of bones,” I informed him primly.
“No! It was only bones. A skeleton hand. And this hand waved away from us, toward the landscape around the hill, as though showing it off.” Milo straightened and flung out his arm dramatically. “And a voice said, 'Behold, you have brought death.' And all over the landscape were dead bodies.” Now he leaned backward and held up crooked arms as though he was a corpse sticking up out of the ground. “And then I woke up.”
I stared at him for a moment. “That's stupid,” I finally said. “It wouldn't even make a good movie.”
“But it felt like it meant something.” He pouted. “It wasn't scary... It felt more like a promise. Don't you have any dream books or something?” He wandered over to the stacks of cardboard boxes that held my library and started poking around.
“Hey, I need to sleep, you know.” I finally emerged from my warm cocoon. The old wooden floor was chilly against my bare feet and I winced as I walked toward him. I took him by the arms and pushed him toward my bedroom door. “We both do. Go back to your own room.”
“But, but... The dream!”
“It doesn't matter.” One-handed, I opened my door and propelled him out into the dark hallway. He turned and pouted. I whispered, “Write it in a journal if you need to, but don't wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me.”
“I think it's important.”
“Only because you just dreamt it.” I shoved him the rest of the way out. “Good night, Milo,” I said firmly and shut the door.
With a sense of relief, I returned to my nest. Milo was so... fragile. Donovan said that all artists are unstable, but Milo was something else altogether. I hoped that he wouldn't get eaten alive at the new school. There was no telling what a bunch of small-town bumpkins would do to a skinny theatre kid with two dads and a psuedo-goth sister.
No one else needs to read, but they're welcome to as they will.
OMG The Four Riders
Part One: Conquest
Act One
They say that moving to a small town from the city is hard. In all the movies, the kids complain and cry and carry on about how awful their parents are for doing it. Well, I refuse. My father needs this job and the town needs a competent civil engineer and all I really need are some good books and a fast internet connection to keep up with my friends.
“Hey, Tara, look at this.” Milo leaned over to show me his magazine, open to some gory screen shot from the latest mainstream horror. Yawn. “Is that a spleen or a liver?”
Having a twin brother helps, too. With him around, I'll never be alone.
“Liver,” I told him. “Definitely. It's blue.” I snickered and pointed at the actress' face. “Look at her. She doesn't look scared, just uncomfortable.”
Milo snorted. “I wasn't looking at her face.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Pervert!” I exclaimed, laughing and smacking him.
“What's going on back there?” My dad glanced back, trying to look fierce and failing miserably. Donovan Juarez's brown skin, “latte-coloured” my father says, is creased by laughter lines that never fade. Even when he's stern, you can see the smile just waiting to break through.
“Nothing,” I called to the front, forcing Milo to close the magazine. “Just some, ah, theatrical commentary!”
“I blame you for that,” my father said without taking his eyes off of the highway. Michael Juarez, my biological father and the reason we moved away from the city, tried to sound disapproving. “You're the theatre major, Don. She gets it from you.”
“Better than getting it from you,” my dad replied, grinning. His dark eyes found mine. “You don't want to be an engineer, do you, sweetheart?”
I shook my head rapidly and mimed that I was choking on the idea.
“See? She's a smart girl.” Donovan chuckled. “It's a good thing she takes after her mother.”
Michael pretended that he was offended and they started play-squabbling, which is when I lost interest in the conversation and went back to my book 'Things in the Dark,' a collection of horror short stories.
Milo and I were interested in the paranormal, the unusual, the horrifying. We saw all the scary movies, at least the ones we could get into at 16 years old, played with horror props at the school theatre department, and had a vast collection of fake blood and gothic accessories. I wasn't really a goth, per se, but I did enjoy film and fright. Sometimes I wore white makeup and black lace and burned red candles, but only for fun or when I was trying to impress someone. Usually I wore jeans and a t-shirt and tied my black hair up in a pony-tail. Milo often did the same, including the long hair. I think we once started a race to see who could grow their hair out the longest. Since then, I've forgotten how long we were supposed to go and I think he did the same, so now we just match. Accidentally, of course. It's not like we're the type of twins that tried to act and dress the same.
“Obsidian Bay,” my father said as we drove past the green highway sign. “Fifty-two kilometres. We're almost there.”
“Why fifty-two?” Donovan wondered. “Why not a round number?”
“The magic of civil engineering,” Michael quipped.
I rolled my eyes and shared a look of long-suffering with my brother. Everyone else was so jealous that our fathers were so happy together, never yelling, barely arguing... But, seriously, their cuteness was just too much sometimes. Why couldn't one of them throw a punch or have an affair or something normal?
Obsidian Bay's mascot was a black fish and their claim to fame was, apparently, “The Only Flatland Fishery.” Lovely. I can't wait to live in a town that smells like fish.
It was a small town; there was only one school for grades one through twelve, one street with stores and restaurants, and a few gas stations near the highway. Michael took us on a quick tour, pointing out the town highlights. We stopped at a little cafe for some take-out before heading to the new house.
I loved the new place the moment Michael had showed it to me on the real estate website. It was perfect for us, giant and creepy. Unfortunately, it was nowhere to be found on the 'Haunted Houses Across Canada' website, but I was hopeful that I would find a ghost or two under its dark eaves. It honestly looked like something from The Amityville Horror, complete with barred windows and vines on its white sides.
“Wicked,” Milo murmured.
I nodded my agreement and grinned at him. We were going to have so much fun here.
“Grab a few bags on the way in,” Michael said when we pulled up. Most of our things were already inside, moved by the company, but the van was still full of our more personal things. My make-up alone filled an iron-banded case. “And we'll get the rest after we've eaten. I'm starved!”
“Here, here,” Donovan agreed. “Let's eat!”
**
I woke up because I felt like I was being watched. When I opened my eyes, I saw him standing over me in the unfamiliar orange light from the streetlamp outside, broken by tree branches. My brother, in his boxers, his hair in disarray, his expression, or what little I could see of it, upset.
“Milo?” I mumbled into my pillow.
“I had that dream again,” he told me woodenly. He hugged his skinny arms to his skinny chest.
“You're sixteen,” I said, rolling over and pulling my blankets tighter. “You can deal with your own bad dreams.” He started having them about two weeks before we left Toronto and I was sick of hearing about them.
“It wasn't a bad dream, though!” I felt his weight on my bed and he pulled at my blankets. “It was a power dream. You know, the kind that mean something. Something important.”
“You've been reading too many of my books,” I grumbled. Served me right for letting a drama queen like him read books about wicca, paganism and the dark arts.
“Come on, I just want to tell you what it was about. Then I'll leave you alone.” He started to bounce and a few times his bony knees dug into the meat of my leg.
“Get off of me!” I shoved him away, kicking and punching. “You're so annoying!”
He landed on my floor with a loud thud. The old house echoed with it. We froze, listening intently, and then came the creaking of the hallway floorboards. I quickly rearranged myself under the blankets and allowed Milo to slither up beside me to hide.
“Tara?” The dishevelled and stubbly head of Michael Juarez appeared in my doorway. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I replied in a loud whisper. “Just a bad dream.” I elbowed Milo as I said it and he hissed quietly at me.
“Well, don't be awake too long, you start your new school in--” He squinted at my digital clock, “--Five hours.”
“Ugh, yeah, I know.”
He smiled at me. “You'll do great, sweetheart. Don't worry.”
There was no use in arguing, so I nodded and said, “Good night.”
“Good night, love.”
When he was gone, Milo pushed his way out from under my comforter. “Ugh, you reek like perfume and patchouli.”
“Better than boy,” I snarked back, sticking out my tongue at him.
“Okay, so I had this dream--”
“This again?”
“Yeah, it's short. Don't worry. I was on a hill. Well, actually, I think you were on a hill, but I don't think it was you. You know how dreams are.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you, or not-you, or me, we were on a horse. This ashy green horse. And we were in a black robe. And we had this hand made out of bones--”
“Most hands are made out of bones,” I informed him primly.
“No! It was only bones. A skeleton hand. And this hand waved away from us, toward the landscape around the hill, as though showing it off.” Milo straightened and flung out his arm dramatically. “And a voice said, 'Behold, you have brought death.' And all over the landscape were dead bodies.” Now he leaned backward and held up crooked arms as though he was a corpse sticking up out of the ground. “And then I woke up.”
I stared at him for a moment. “That's stupid,” I finally said. “It wouldn't even make a good movie.”
“But it felt like it meant something.” He pouted. “It wasn't scary... It felt more like a promise. Don't you have any dream books or something?” He wandered over to the stacks of cardboard boxes that held my library and started poking around.
“Hey, I need to sleep, you know.” I finally emerged from my warm cocoon. The old wooden floor was chilly against my bare feet and I winced as I walked toward him. I took him by the arms and pushed him toward my bedroom door. “We both do. Go back to your own room.”
“But, but... The dream!”
“It doesn't matter.” One-handed, I opened my door and propelled him out into the dark hallway. He turned and pouted. I whispered, “Write it in a journal if you need to, but don't wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me.”
“I think it's important.”
“Only because you just dreamt it.” I shoved him the rest of the way out. “Good night, Milo,” I said firmly and shut the door.
With a sense of relief, I returned to my nest. Milo was so... fragile. Donovan said that all artists are unstable, but Milo was something else altogether. I hoped that he wouldn't get eaten alive at the new school. There was no telling what a bunch of small-town bumpkins would do to a skinny theatre kid with two dads and a psuedo-goth sister.