2019-07-10 - Longing To Linger 'Til Dawn

"Up high!" Carver called.
They high-fived.
"Down low!" He added, pulling his hand away at the last second.
"Uh-uh! Too slow!" He taunted, finger guns and all.

The tree punched him.

The small blue orb with dragonfly wings buzzed around his head, demanding he pay attention, deftly avoiding Carver's waving hand and attempts to shoo it away as he tried to light up a cigarette.

"Hey! You've gotta liste-" It started, flying in to his ear canal to really drive the point home, and being caught out mid-sentence by a lifetime's worth of regret. "-AUGH GOD IT'S LIKE FLY PAPER."

Carver spent two hours trying to rinse the corpse out of his ear with a bottle of water. He started using q-tips a lot more often after that day.

Knees tucked up to his chin, Carver shifted a little in the spoon-like wooden contraption, raising his voice to be heard over the sounds of battle.

"I'm just saying, I don't understand why I have to be in the catapau-" is as far as he gets before the operator pulls the lever, launching him towards the castle.

Monster Trucks were an event entirely foreign to Carver, but he settled into his seat within the excitable crowd easily enough, and soon found himself enjoying the atmosphere that almost seemed to envelope him. Within twenty minutes, he was cheering as loud as the family next to him when Grave Digger pulled all of it's 900lbs over a ramp in a full wheelie.

He paused for a moment when Grave Digger opened up it's grill to start eating another truck at the end of the course, but had to admit it was an impressive sight.

The Brit winced and braced himself for the impact of 130lbs of midnight-black, partially skeletonized hound barreling into him at full speed. Ribs were on show, and the glow from eyes that burned like the embers of a dying fire only intensified as the beast slammed into his chest at a full leap, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

His waistcoat tore slightly on a particularly sharp piece of gravel.

Rolling as it landed, the beast soon found its feet, sending stones skittering as it homed in on the target, jaws opening wide and showing both teeth and what few tendons still gave it any power to bite down on the necks of interlopers as it went for Carver's face without hesitation.

"No! NOOOO!" Carver screamed, the sounds of sickly flesh and moisture echoing around the mausoleum.

"How is your breath so bad, buddy?" He added through gritted teeth, refusing to allow the slightly torn dog-tongue that might well be trying to lick through to his skull for all the enthusiasm put into the effort anywhere near his mouth.

Carver opened the door, turning the brass handle and stepping forward with a curiosity that could only be brought on by a sign that says 'No Entry'

When he flicked on the light switch, the seven-foot-tall baby clapped its hands and smiled at him.

"...Nope. Not after last time."

He closed the door behind him as he left.

The match refused to light.

He'd been striking it against the side of the match box for seven attempts now. Eight. Nine. Ten.

He threw the match down in a huff, and it immediately defied him by catching in the currents that flowed this close to the ocean floor, and soon disappeared behind a piece of coral.

The next group of bubbles that left the man's mouth clearly formed the words "Fucking 'Light Anywhere' Bullshit" before they drifted to the surface, some eighty feet above him.

He sat at a table in the hall of records, the shiny white objects they were using as poker chips forming a sizeable pot in the middle. He checked his cards once more. 'The Rules To Texas Hold 'Em' and a Kinko's receipt. A good hand.

The mass that occupied the space opposite him just writhed and burbled for a second, trying to get a read on his face. Failing that, it asked a question that had been bothering it for some time now.

"𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔡𝔦𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔤𝔢𝔱 𝔟𝔞𝔟𝔶 𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔥 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪, 𝔞𝔫𝔶𝔴𝔞𝔶?"

"Babies." Carver replied, holding his hand out, palm up, the incredulity visible on his expression. "I mean. Duh. Now, you gonna fold like a chump, or what?"

"What happened to that guy?" Carver asked, popping a piece of gum in his mouth as she guided him down the walkway that separated the rows of beds. There was no smoking in the infirmary, after all. His thumb jabbed to one of the teddy bears they had just passed, one of the other nurses carefully stitching up what looked to be a perfectly circular hole that sat smack bang in the middle of the stuffing-filled torso.

She turned to face him, the armor plating emblazoned with a painted red cross clanking against her plastic form as she did so. And then glanced to the bear. She might have looked at him like he was an idiot, but her expression was painted on.

"Tried to hug a charging unicorn."

Carver stepped out of the apartment and on to the balcony, watching the streets of the town below him roll and jiggle like someone just open-palm slapped a jelly. He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his back pocket, then reached into a front one for the lighter to match it.

Once he was happily puffing away at the lit smoke, a hand went to reach for his jacket pocket. And then stopped.

The jacket was currently hanging inside her apartment. For a second, his body looked ready to turn and re-open the door he just left through, but he manages to stop himself short and settle for a less effective but just-as-needed method of coping with a mistake. "Fuckity fuckity fucking fuck fuckery."

Much better.

And then the balcony disappeared beneath him. It snapped flush to the wall like someone triggered a trap door. Carver landed on his feet on the balcony beneath, but by the fourth time this occurs and he's on the slightly spongy, oddly tacky material that makes up the path leading into the rest of Gray Harbor, he'd resigned himself to landing face first.

It takes three attempts for the path to finally let him go, the first two being a simple go at pulling away, the third being a resigned acceptance that he'd have to trade his cigarette.

The concrete slab puffed away happily as Carver brushed off his shirt, then swore at him in what he's pretty sure was Spanish when he unceremoniously stomped on it as he walked away.