[Dead End I]

So, the following are bits of "best works" that I attempted but never really got into. If anyone wants me to post one as a separate story [as in, you've got an idea where to go], I'd be glad to, since I have no idea what's going on, here....

I rock unsteadily in the mattress padding, my feet heavy pressure points in the flannel. My arms windmill and I catch myself with a jolt against the wall. Dry flakes of plaster come off on my sweaty palms. I peer at them in bewilderment.

My room is a small one, the furniture huddled up in the corners like a wary herd of wooden animals and leaving hardly the floor space for me to stretch out full-length. The wallpaper is yellowing and peeled, dripping in defeated strips from the fissure up by the ceiling. Running across the walls, notched in the occasional stubbed pin, is a thick yarn. It is this that I tug, making the lights flicker.

I tug a bit harder at the pull, an orange-residued stick, and eye the frosted light fixture. It blinks briefly. I scuttle my hands along the wall and test each notch with a sharp yank. When I reach the edge of the bed, I pause, straightening, and step up to the dresser. My feet tender at the rolling pencils and hardened tissues and I curl my toes around the pressboard edge.

The clay holding the yarn has come loose, looks like, and I press the purple lump back onto the light switch. I monkey my way back to the other end of the light-pull and jerk the line. The switch yelps, a shuddering crack, and falls.

I hum and wriggle about in the dark, "Uh-huh, uh-huuuuh!", but the squeak of bed springs echoes from down the hall and I bite down the sound of my victory. I tense, listening. The refridgerator gurgles and I can hear Flops muttering and snorting to himself in the living room. Good. Very good.

A harsh light still needles its way under the pale curtains, a light of neon and iron that glares over the walls like sweat over leather. I slowly crouch down, acclimating eyes flicking into the shadows. The shadows. They're liars. In the light, they cringe and pale, drawing themselves back as if wounded; but when the lights sleep, the darkness slides its shadow talons out again to hook around and cloak those hidden in its wings.

The shadows warp; they mold over a figure and pervert it. Brittle edges jut from the shelves: demon bookends with cruel-cut smiles stretching over shattered teeth. The desk cowers under a mass of insect bodies with metal shard legs and glinting button eyes. I grit my teeth, settling into a runner's stance on the bed, and twist the blanket in sharp knuckled hands.

The End

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