Snippet from a Prompt---Now "Howler"
Title: Howler (?)
Word Ct: 1122
Genre: Supernatural Thriller
(Don't know if I'm going to do anything with this but it was fun.)
** * ****
When the last crash of shattering cups and plates subsided, Jaime opened his eyes. Slowly he lifted his arms off his head and surveyed the damage. Nearly every piece of ceramic ware he owned, which granted, wasn’t much, lay in broken pieces on the counter and the floor. Most of them had tried to strike him on the head in their gravity-driven plunge to the linoleum.
How they had managed to leap off the cabinet shelf was a mystery Jaime didn’t want to ponder too carefully. Maybe a rat had gotten in his kitchen and shoved them around, so they sat poised to fall as soon as he opened the cabinet. Or perhaps they had all shifted forward during an earthquake he had somehow managed to sleep through.
Shifted.
No, he wasn’t going to think about that word, not any more than he wanted to think about what other forces may have been at work as he had rushed into the kitchen to grab a quick cup of coffee before heading out the door.
Jaime allowed himself to curse under his breath, forcing his voice to a low growl so he wouldn’t scream in frustration. God only knows what an outward expression of violent emotion might cause, if repressed anxiety caused his dishes to commit suicide.
He could feel it, roiling though him, burning just below the surface of his skin. The full moon was only two days away. As long a long shot as it was, he had to get that book and see if there was anything to what Dr. Bouchard had told him. Being a professor of Antiquities Studies at UCLA and the author of five books on occult history should count for something. Jaime hoped it did.
Carefully gathering the shards and tossing them into a paper bag, Jaime abandoned the idea of coffee. It appeared he hadn’t plugged the coffee maker in anyway and, if he was brutally honest with himself, it didn’t sound very appealing. Nothing had for the last week or so.
With a deep, steadying breath Jaime pulled on his leather jacket, stuffed his keys in his pocket, and set off.
The Milkwood-Patterson Library was only a half-mile walk to downtown through the tree-lined streets of the neighborhood. Jaime resisted the urge to jog. It seemed allowing his body to do what it wanted, to run madly, would only feed his mounting agitation.
The library was not going to close at ten in the morning on a Wednesday, he told himself. The neat little yards, and the deep, lazy shade of the elm and chestnut trees lining the sidewalk seemed to agree with that. Take it easy. Everything is going to be fine.
He didn’t believe it, not really.
He was halfway there, passing by a high clump of blue hydrangea circling one of the tidy front yards, when he felt a prickling sensation that began at the small of his back and moved up his spine. Every hair on his body stood up. The impulse to turn around and look was almost overwhelming.
He was being followed. He knew it with the same uncanny knowing he had experienced the last time. The closer to the full moon, the sharper, and the more excruciating, his awareness of everything became.
He knew he shouldn’t; running would only incite his follower. He fought it, limbs trembling with the need to act. His rational mind wrestled with the animal instinct for self-preservation.
Rationality lost.
Jaime took off at a dead run, releasing all his pent-up and stomped-down tension.
He didn’t stop until he had charged up the library’s granite steps and pulled open the door. A rush of air-conditioned wind stuck him in the face. The blast of civilization helped him remember why he was there and that he very much needed to not look like a madman. Or an animal pursued by a much larger predator than himself. Either one of those was probably not far from the truth.
Jaime approached the front desk where a thin, spidery woman dressed in black sat, mechanically stamping the inside covers of a stack of books.
“Excuse me,” Jaime said in a whisper-talk tone.
The woman looked up, peering at him over the rims of the reading glasses perched on her nose.
“I’m looking for Grisham’s Compendium of Cryptozoological Phenomena, Volume 3. I was told there was a copy here.”
The librarian raised her stamp and started to motion to the bank of computers lining the wall where once the card catalogues had stood. She stopped in mid-gesture.
“Grisham’s Cryptozoology?” she asked. “How very strange. You’re the second person today who has asked for that book. It’s a reference book, non-circulating. You can’t check it out .”
“That’s fine,” said Jaime, relieved that the thing even existed, much less could be found in the small town of Milkwood. “I just need to look something up.”
The woman rose and walked to the far end of the counter, to a trolley holding several books stacked in a row. “Well, unfortunately the first party asked that it be put on reserve until he comes in. I have to hold it until then.” Her fingers grazed the top of leather bound tome. The gold lettering on the spine was nearly worn off and the leather looked ancient and cracked.
‘”Is that it, then?” asked Jaime. “Would it be alright if I just quickly looked up something?”
The woman narrowed her eyes at him through the reading glasses. “No, I’m afraid that isn’t possible. I have to hold it here at the desk.”
“I won’t leave. I’ll stand right here.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
Jaime stared at the woman, flummoxed. “But I won’t go anywhere. I’ll stay right here-“
“I’m sorry. No.” The ice creeping into the woman’s voice told Jaime she wasn’t very sorry at all.
Jaime took a step a back from the desk with a resigned shrug. The librarian nodded once at him and turned on her heels to return to her stamping.
Jaime waited until she sat down, saw that she had settled in, and reached over the counter, grabbed the weighty book, and took off for the door at a sprint.
He heard her shrill squawk of protest as he burst out through the library doors into the sunshine, nearly plowing headlong into a tall figure in a black overcoat and low- slung hat.
The man staggered backwards. Jaime mumbled a quick “sorry” and shot down the stairs to the sidewalk, clutching the book to his chest.
It didn’t take a lot of reasoning to work out who the man in the overcoat was, or to realize that in about two minutes he would be hot on Jaime’s trail.
** * * ****** *
Word Ct: 1122
Genre: Supernatural Thriller
(Don't know if I'm going to do anything with this but it was fun.)
** * ****
When the last crash of shattering cups and plates subsided, Jaime opened his eyes. Slowly he lifted his arms off his head and surveyed the damage. Nearly every piece of ceramic ware he owned, which granted, wasn’t much, lay in broken pieces on the counter and the floor. Most of them had tried to strike him on the head in their gravity-driven plunge to the linoleum.
How they had managed to leap off the cabinet shelf was a mystery Jaime didn’t want to ponder too carefully. Maybe a rat had gotten in his kitchen and shoved them around, so they sat poised to fall as soon as he opened the cabinet. Or perhaps they had all shifted forward during an earthquake he had somehow managed to sleep through.
Shifted.
No, he wasn’t going to think about that word, not any more than he wanted to think about what other forces may have been at work as he had rushed into the kitchen to grab a quick cup of coffee before heading out the door.
Jaime allowed himself to curse under his breath, forcing his voice to a low growl so he wouldn’t scream in frustration. God only knows what an outward expression of violent emotion might cause, if repressed anxiety caused his dishes to commit suicide.
He could feel it, roiling though him, burning just below the surface of his skin. The full moon was only two days away. As long a long shot as it was, he had to get that book and see if there was anything to what Dr. Bouchard had told him. Being a professor of Antiquities Studies at UCLA and the author of five books on occult history should count for something. Jaime hoped it did.
Carefully gathering the shards and tossing them into a paper bag, Jaime abandoned the idea of coffee. It appeared he hadn’t plugged the coffee maker in anyway and, if he was brutally honest with himself, it didn’t sound very appealing. Nothing had for the last week or so.
With a deep, steadying breath Jaime pulled on his leather jacket, stuffed his keys in his pocket, and set off.
The Milkwood-Patterson Library was only a half-mile walk to downtown through the tree-lined streets of the neighborhood. Jaime resisted the urge to jog. It seemed allowing his body to do what it wanted, to run madly, would only feed his mounting agitation.
The library was not going to close at ten in the morning on a Wednesday, he told himself. The neat little yards, and the deep, lazy shade of the elm and chestnut trees lining the sidewalk seemed to agree with that. Take it easy. Everything is going to be fine.
He didn’t believe it, not really.
He was halfway there, passing by a high clump of blue hydrangea circling one of the tidy front yards, when he felt a prickling sensation that began at the small of his back and moved up his spine. Every hair on his body stood up. The impulse to turn around and look was almost overwhelming.
He was being followed. He knew it with the same uncanny knowing he had experienced the last time. The closer to the full moon, the sharper, and the more excruciating, his awareness of everything became.
He knew he shouldn’t; running would only incite his follower. He fought it, limbs trembling with the need to act. His rational mind wrestled with the animal instinct for self-preservation.
Rationality lost.
Jaime took off at a dead run, releasing all his pent-up and stomped-down tension.
He didn’t stop until he had charged up the library’s granite steps and pulled open the door. A rush of air-conditioned wind stuck him in the face. The blast of civilization helped him remember why he was there and that he very much needed to not look like a madman. Or an animal pursued by a much larger predator than himself. Either one of those was probably not far from the truth.
Jaime approached the front desk where a thin, spidery woman dressed in black sat, mechanically stamping the inside covers of a stack of books.
“Excuse me,” Jaime said in a whisper-talk tone.
The woman looked up, peering at him over the rims of the reading glasses perched on her nose.
“I’m looking for Grisham’s Compendium of Cryptozoological Phenomena, Volume 3. I was told there was a copy here.”
The librarian raised her stamp and started to motion to the bank of computers lining the wall where once the card catalogues had stood. She stopped in mid-gesture.
“Grisham’s Cryptozoology?” she asked. “How very strange. You’re the second person today who has asked for that book. It’s a reference book, non-circulating. You can’t check it out .”
“That’s fine,” said Jaime, relieved that the thing even existed, much less could be found in the small town of Milkwood. “I just need to look something up.”
The woman rose and walked to the far end of the counter, to a trolley holding several books stacked in a row. “Well, unfortunately the first party asked that it be put on reserve until he comes in. I have to hold it until then.” Her fingers grazed the top of leather bound tome. The gold lettering on the spine was nearly worn off and the leather looked ancient and cracked.
‘”Is that it, then?” asked Jaime. “Would it be alright if I just quickly looked up something?”
The woman narrowed her eyes at him through the reading glasses. “No, I’m afraid that isn’t possible. I have to hold it here at the desk.”
“I won’t leave. I’ll stand right here.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
Jaime stared at the woman, flummoxed. “But I won’t go anywhere. I’ll stay right here-“
“I’m sorry. No.” The ice creeping into the woman’s voice told Jaime she wasn’t very sorry at all.
Jaime took a step a back from the desk with a resigned shrug. The librarian nodded once at him and turned on her heels to return to her stamping.
Jaime waited until she sat down, saw that she had settled in, and reached over the counter, grabbed the weighty book, and took off for the door at a sprint.
He heard her shrill squawk of protest as he burst out through the library doors into the sunshine, nearly plowing headlong into a tall figure in a black overcoat and low- slung hat.
The man staggered backwards. Jaime mumbled a quick “sorry” and shot down the stairs to the sidewalk, clutching the book to his chest.
It didn’t take a lot of reasoning to work out who the man in the overcoat was, or to realize that in about two minutes he would be hot on Jaime’s trail.
** * * ****** *