Dark Chocolate 17: Dirt and Flies
Title: Dirt and Flies
Author: Memirra
Challenge: Dark Chocolate # 17 (mania)
Toppings/Extras: Whipped Cream, Hot Fudge, Rainbow Sprinkles, Pocky Chain
Story: [No name as of yet]
Word Count: 294
Rating: PG
Summary: Snippets of Resmon's childhood/early teen life.
Notes: A few drabbles about moments in the childhood of a rather sociopathic minor doctor character who hasn't shown up yet from a so-far unnamed story... yeah. He's insanely fun to write for.
Resmon had always thought that people were like flies, and just as disposable, too. Flies, however, were easier targets. Many sweltering days in the summers of his boyhood were spent in the shade of the large oak tree in his backyard, under which he plucked the wings of any flies unlucky enough to find their way into his clutches.
Operating on patients, he called it, like every good doctor should know how to do. Then he would impale his “patients” to the ground with pins and watch them writhe.
Just like what a good doctor would do.
**
Vainey Fredrickson.
That was her name. Resmon sat behind her in seventh grade history class, finding the fluid movement of her ebony tresses much more interesting than any lesson the dead had to teach.
She was his first - was there no other wording? - infatuation. Could it even be called that? He never spoke to her, nor did he ever have any desire to. He just adored watching as her hair spilled down her back like a silk fan.
There was nothing to say, even when he wedged a wad of bubblegum offhandedly into her hair.
**
For the most part, words seemed to slide off Resmon like rain on glass. They simply washed over him, leaving no trace of having ever been spoken in the first place. He didn’t care if his glasses were too large or his hair too messy; these things were trivial words spoken by dirt, and dirt was worthless.
But he hated the rare moments when dirt spoke words that meant something.
“I Heard your mother was a psychotic crackpot.” His classmate had smirked and Resmon twitched, then lunged for the boy’s throat.
Rain washes away, but dirt will always leave streaks.
Author: Memirra
Challenge: Dark Chocolate # 17 (mania)
Toppings/Extras: Whipped Cream, Hot Fudge, Rainbow Sprinkles, Pocky Chain
Story: [No name as of yet]
Word Count: 294
Rating: PG
Summary: Snippets of Resmon's childhood/early teen life.
Notes: A few drabbles about moments in the childhood of a rather sociopathic minor doctor character who hasn't shown up yet from a so-far unnamed story... yeah. He's insanely fun to write for.
Resmon had always thought that people were like flies, and just as disposable, too. Flies, however, were easier targets. Many sweltering days in the summers of his boyhood were spent in the shade of the large oak tree in his backyard, under which he plucked the wings of any flies unlucky enough to find their way into his clutches.
Operating on patients, he called it, like every good doctor should know how to do. Then he would impale his “patients” to the ground with pins and watch them writhe.
Just like what a good doctor would do.
**
Vainey Fredrickson.
That was her name. Resmon sat behind her in seventh grade history class, finding the fluid movement of her ebony tresses much more interesting than any lesson the dead had to teach.
She was his first - was there no other wording? - infatuation. Could it even be called that? He never spoke to her, nor did he ever have any desire to. He just adored watching as her hair spilled down her back like a silk fan.
There was nothing to say, even when he wedged a wad of bubblegum offhandedly into her hair.
**
For the most part, words seemed to slide off Resmon like rain on glass. They simply washed over him, leaving no trace of having ever been spoken in the first place. He didn’t care if his glasses were too large or his hair too messy; these things were trivial words spoken by dirt, and dirt was worthless.
But he hated the rare moments when dirt spoke words that meant something.
“I Heard your mother was a psychotic crackpot.” His classmate had smirked and Resmon twitched, then lunged for the boy’s throat.
Rain washes away, but dirt will always leave streaks.