Here’s a silly little writing project I’ve been putting together, it’s a coming of age story and maybe if I post it here, I’ll be inspired to update it more. Enjoy!
Nights were always quiet in the small town of Bentley, Illinois. But this night was different; in the corner of Luka Downey’s window, a cyan light started out as a low glow. The high school senior groggily shifted awake as the low pulse got brighter and brighter. A shrill humming filled the air as his entire bedroom filled with unnatural light. Luka shot to the window and looked for the source, but the glare blinded him and he had to squint away. The noise filled his room and for a brief, dread-filled moment, he thought he was dying. And just then it stopped. The humming cut off and the darkness of the small town resumed, only the echoes of the light burnt into eyes to prove it happened.
It’s worth mentioning now that everyone in Bentley has human bodies and pigeon heads. That’s how it is, that’s how it’s always been.
Luka shot a glance at the clock before heading back to bed. 3:01. Thinking all of this but a dream, he tried to drift away, but something tugging on the edge of his brain kept him up for at least an hour. Somewhere, at the edge of town, a silent convoy of white vans with shaded windows swarmed in through the corners of Bentley.
The sun rose as it usually did on small town Illinois. Dawn struck the lived-in suburbs of Bentley, illuminating the strange beauty of the American exurb.
An empty homemade bird feeder, save for a book shoved awkwardly inside. A beer can tucked covertly into shrub near a curb. A tacky lawn gnome, it’s pigeon face unreadable due to years of sun bleaching. An American flag unable to fly, snarled in it’s own flagpole.
It’s a captivating aroma, and it seems strongest in the morning, before people start their routines. Before this picture perfect, lived-in scene can continue to be lived in.
Timeless in its averageness. Some say these pristine, tended to lawns are tar traps, somewhere to hide out from the sands of time, catalog pictures to jump into to forget your worries. And some say it’s just a small town in the United States. And they’re both right, in a sense.
Luka was late. Usually he’d always make sure to bike to school at 7:35 so he could arrive at 7:40 so he’d have plenty of time to converse with everyone before school started at 8:00. Luka was incredibly conscious of the time, he had been since middle school.
Luka’s Mom glanced at him all the way from the kitchen. She hollered again, “Package! Something about a 1960s Rotary Model?”
Luka’s sister made some kind of anguished grunt. “Oh my God, get cooler hobbies!” She cried out exasperatedly.
“Vintage telephone collecting is cool, you’re just too young to understand! Thanks Mom, I can take it!”
A half dressed Luka hobbled out of the hallway to grab his delivery. “Thank you!”
His Mom moved the package up out of reach, “Upbup, you having breakfast today?”
“I’m late Mom! I’ll get something at school.”
She continued to hold the parcel high up, giving him a disapproving glare. Luka sighed.
“Mmkay. Home for supper?”
“Maybe not, we’re thinking of going to Marie’s…if that’s okay?”
She lowered the package and Luka graciously snatched it.
Luka returned back to his room. There was laundry scattered around the floor that he could never seem to get rid of. Tacky plastic soccer trophies spray-painted in gold sat in a cluster on his dresser, another antiquity of his room he couldn’t bring himself to tidy up. A pan flag hung unceremoniously over his closet, the fold marks still visible. The real jewel of his room were three massive shelves full of retro, multicoloured telephones. Each one kept in pristine condition, each one deliberately placed with pride. One of his most shameful secrets is he can’t remember which one was his first, but he’s tried to push that out of his mind. Luka set the package on his bed.
Before he rushed out he grabbed his signature jean jacket, which had the elbows completely frayed out and little pins and patches tacked on at odd places. Whatever happened last night messed with him so much that he forgot to check the time as left. Luka hopped on his old bike and set out, the cold air of late November stinging his face.
turnnoffyourmind
snowghoul
jbbartram-illu
germansingergirl
