strawberry, butter pecan and flavour of the day with whipped cream
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Poor Old Dill
Rating: R (some gore)
Challenge: FOTD: offal, Strawberry #20: leaves, Butter Pecan #21: stinky
Toppings/Extras: whipped cream (Isaac's about sixteen years old)
Wordcount: 923
Summary: Isaac Prowse and Charlie Buckett discover what happened to their friend.
Notes: Well, this prompt was never going to be a cheerful one! Offal: Dead or decomposing organic matter.
“They said around ‘ere,” Charlie complained as he and his best friend Isaac Prowse tramped through the patchy forest that separated London from Richmond. It was well into the night and the place was slick with mud, lamplight showing gleaming roots snaking in and out of the moist earth and the heels of their tatty boots skidding on the slimy leaves that slithered over the ground.
“By the kissin’ stones,” Isaac corrected his firecracker friend, swiping some of his chestnut-coloured hair from his face and glancing around. It had been raining a few minutes ago and drops still pattered from the leaves, occasionally tapping him on the head-in the dim light of the lamp the blackish bark of the trees glistened.
Grumbling under his breath, Charlie tramped ahead, taking the lamp with him. Being careful with his footing on the sliding muck underheel, Isaac followed.
“Dill!” Charlie called. The air was still heavy from the rain and his voice was sucked away through the trees instantly. Isaac flinched nervously-he hated being out of the city. There were too many trees. He couldn’t see anything. He slid momentarily and he felt as though his heart had hit the top of his skull. “Dill, yer blunderin’ maggot, come out ‘ere!”
“Keep yer voice down,” Isaac hissed.
“Oh, don’t be such a soddin’ girl, Zac!”
The kissing stones were two large boulders that each sat on either side of a smallish clearing in the forest. They both had a peculiar shape, the tops larger than the bottom and slanting towards each other-hence the name, although the two stones did not touch. As Charlie kicked his way into the clearing, an explosion of yellow pollen spewed into the air about his legs and clung to his already soaking-wet breeches.
Isaac looked around the place as Charlie held the lamp higher aloft. Nothing.
They hadn’t seen Dill for a few days now and weren’t sure where he’d gotten to. Their freckled companion-in-crime had simply vanished. Apparently he was waiting for them in the forest that cleaved the path to Richmond-but how trustworthy was the word of a vagrant anyway?
“I’m goin’ to bloody kill ‘im,” Charlie growled. Isaac had no idea whether he was referring to Dill or Cobby, the wheezy tramp that had told them of Dill’s apparent whereabouts.
“He always had a twisted sense o’ humour,” Isaac muttered, stepping further into the clearing. Through the gap in the trees the sky was starless and blurry with cloud. Skidding on more damp leaves, Isaac cursed and righted himself, gripping one of the kissing stones. There was a sudden rush of pattering and the heavens opened again. Slicking his already wet dark blonde hair back across his head, Charlie glared up at the sky.
“Let’s get out of ‘ere,” he said, sounding disgusted. “This place smells somethin’ awful. You ‘old Cobby down an’ I’ll hit ‘im.”
Isaac was about to respond when the waterlogged ground beneath him gave way altogether, rain and mud sliding apart and sending him slopping to the floor, first his knees and all up his front, under his nails. He heard Charlie’s small snort of derisive laughter but any reaction he may have had to it suddenly flew far, far away-becoming diminished as the head of a pin.
The smell was worse here. Awful. And he recognised it.
He recognised the face in the leaves, too.
“Shit! Oh, shit! Oh, God!” More exclamations of horror finally burst out of his mouth as he scrambled backwards, no longer caring about the muck spreading itself over his clothes. The rain was falling in thick, clear drops now-he felt each one land and touch like icy marble to his skin. It washed the dough-like skin of Dill’s face, the straggly wastes of his hair, the picked-out hollows of his eyes.
Pale and wide-eyed, Isaac felt intense shivering start deep in his core, convulsions in his stomach that felt like he was being punched or plucked. Or both. His eyes were glued to the lifeless spread of gently decaying flesh in front of him, wide and terrified. It was a twist of limbs, most of it the same colour as the sodden earth around it, the falling autumn leaves forming a slithering cocoon over Dill’s misshapen corpse.
Charlie squelched over to join him and looked down over his head at their friend for a time. Isaac wasn’t sure how long. He closed his eyes eventually but the smell only seemed to get stronger.
Eventually Charlie grabbed him by the shoulder and helped him up.
“I think I’m goin’ ter be sick,” Isaac said, face still startlingly white and sweat joining the rain streaming down his face. He wasn’t, and he didn’t say anything more as they trudged back through the rain. About halfway back to London, Charlie spat on the ground. The rain was fading to a fine, clingy mist.
“Talk about a twisted sense o’ humour,” he said. “Poor ol’ Dill.”
Isaac didn’t understand how he could sound so calm. Was he shaking inside like he was? Hurting inside? He knew that Charlie was absolutely unbreakable-the world had been cruel to him and he believed in punching things back twice as hard as they had struck him. He was his best friend, but Isaac didn’t really know what went on inside his head. Shaking his own head, the teenager gave a surly sniff and stared down at his feet to stop him from falling over again.
Poor old Dill indeed.
Title: Poor Old Dill
Rating: R (some gore)
Challenge: FOTD: offal, Strawberry #20: leaves, Butter Pecan #21: stinky
Toppings/Extras: whipped cream (Isaac's about sixteen years old)
Wordcount: 923
Summary: Isaac Prowse and Charlie Buckett discover what happened to their friend.
Notes: Well, this prompt was never going to be a cheerful one! Offal: Dead or decomposing organic matter.
“They said around ‘ere,” Charlie complained as he and his best friend Isaac Prowse tramped through the patchy forest that separated London from Richmond. It was well into the night and the place was slick with mud, lamplight showing gleaming roots snaking in and out of the moist earth and the heels of their tatty boots skidding on the slimy leaves that slithered over the ground.
“By the kissin’ stones,” Isaac corrected his firecracker friend, swiping some of his chestnut-coloured hair from his face and glancing around. It had been raining a few minutes ago and drops still pattered from the leaves, occasionally tapping him on the head-in the dim light of the lamp the blackish bark of the trees glistened.
Grumbling under his breath, Charlie tramped ahead, taking the lamp with him. Being careful with his footing on the sliding muck underheel, Isaac followed.
“Dill!” Charlie called. The air was still heavy from the rain and his voice was sucked away through the trees instantly. Isaac flinched nervously-he hated being out of the city. There were too many trees. He couldn’t see anything. He slid momentarily and he felt as though his heart had hit the top of his skull. “Dill, yer blunderin’ maggot, come out ‘ere!”
“Keep yer voice down,” Isaac hissed.
“Oh, don’t be such a soddin’ girl, Zac!”
The kissing stones were two large boulders that each sat on either side of a smallish clearing in the forest. They both had a peculiar shape, the tops larger than the bottom and slanting towards each other-hence the name, although the two stones did not touch. As Charlie kicked his way into the clearing, an explosion of yellow pollen spewed into the air about his legs and clung to his already soaking-wet breeches.
Isaac looked around the place as Charlie held the lamp higher aloft. Nothing.
They hadn’t seen Dill for a few days now and weren’t sure where he’d gotten to. Their freckled companion-in-crime had simply vanished. Apparently he was waiting for them in the forest that cleaved the path to Richmond-but how trustworthy was the word of a vagrant anyway?
“I’m goin’ to bloody kill ‘im,” Charlie growled. Isaac had no idea whether he was referring to Dill or Cobby, the wheezy tramp that had told them of Dill’s apparent whereabouts.
“He always had a twisted sense o’ humour,” Isaac muttered, stepping further into the clearing. Through the gap in the trees the sky was starless and blurry with cloud. Skidding on more damp leaves, Isaac cursed and righted himself, gripping one of the kissing stones. There was a sudden rush of pattering and the heavens opened again. Slicking his already wet dark blonde hair back across his head, Charlie glared up at the sky.
“Let’s get out of ‘ere,” he said, sounding disgusted. “This place smells somethin’ awful. You ‘old Cobby down an’ I’ll hit ‘im.”
Isaac was about to respond when the waterlogged ground beneath him gave way altogether, rain and mud sliding apart and sending him slopping to the floor, first his knees and all up his front, under his nails. He heard Charlie’s small snort of derisive laughter but any reaction he may have had to it suddenly flew far, far away-becoming diminished as the head of a pin.
The smell was worse here. Awful. And he recognised it.
He recognised the face in the leaves, too.
“Shit! Oh, shit! Oh, God!” More exclamations of horror finally burst out of his mouth as he scrambled backwards, no longer caring about the muck spreading itself over his clothes. The rain was falling in thick, clear drops now-he felt each one land and touch like icy marble to his skin. It washed the dough-like skin of Dill’s face, the straggly wastes of his hair, the picked-out hollows of his eyes.
Pale and wide-eyed, Isaac felt intense shivering start deep in his core, convulsions in his stomach that felt like he was being punched or plucked. Or both. His eyes were glued to the lifeless spread of gently decaying flesh in front of him, wide and terrified. It was a twist of limbs, most of it the same colour as the sodden earth around it, the falling autumn leaves forming a slithering cocoon over Dill’s misshapen corpse.
Charlie squelched over to join him and looked down over his head at their friend for a time. Isaac wasn’t sure how long. He closed his eyes eventually but the smell only seemed to get stronger.
Eventually Charlie grabbed him by the shoulder and helped him up.
“I think I’m goin’ ter be sick,” Isaac said, face still startlingly white and sweat joining the rain streaming down his face. He wasn’t, and he didn’t say anything more as they trudged back through the rain. About halfway back to London, Charlie spat on the ground. The rain was fading to a fine, clingy mist.
“Talk about a twisted sense o’ humour,” he said. “Poor ol’ Dill.”
Isaac didn’t understand how he could sound so calm. Was he shaking inside like he was? Hurting inside? He knew that Charlie was absolutely unbreakable-the world had been cruel to him and he believed in punching things back twice as hard as they had struck him. He was his best friend, but Isaac didn’t really know what went on inside his head. Shaking his own head, the teenager gave a surly sniff and stared down at his feet to stop him from falling over again.
Poor old Dill indeed.