Saturday, July 24, 2010

Deathgrip

"Morning, Alphonse." Curgeon rolled out of bed, shuffled his feet on the floor. His slippers scuttled across the floor and onto his feet. "Thanks."

After the shower, he went downstairs. "Alphonse. Breakfast, Alphonse." The milk shuddered into his bowl in a pale, serpentine line, flying eel-like through the air. The cereal box hovered, spilling parti-colored grains.

"You're still here. How long will you procrastinate, Alphonse?" Curgeon asked.

The Ouija board on the table remained still, the pointer stubbornly stuck at "No." It hadn't moved for months now.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Eventually, Curgeon gave up and ate his cereal.

2 comments:

Kalak_of_Tyr said...

This one is really good!

Scattercat said...

This is one I'd have liked another couple hundred words to work on, at least.