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detectivejigsawpines · 4 years

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The Most Hideous Creatures Known to Man, part 1 (A three-hour tour)

Stan continues to find his calling. Unfortunately, not everyone agrees with his methods...

Part 5 of the Flipside AU.

It was only a matter of time before Stan’s clientele in the forest (he’d set up in a glen near C-beth’s place as his unofficial barber shop) began expressing curiosity about the human world.

For all the myths and legends about the amount of time they were supposed to spend kidnapping children, seducing adults, casting spells on farmers’ crops and so on, the creatures in Gravity Falls had surprisingly little direct interaction with humans. Even the gnomes were mostly limited to stealing food from their cupboards or window sills while they were sleeping, except when they were trying to find an offering for their queen (both of the Pineses had made it adequately clear to the little group they found sneaking into their Ford’s house one night that they were not available, thank you anyway).

Stan wasn’t sure if this ignorance was the case for anomalies all over the world or just the ones in this tiny part of it. But as he cut their hair, cleaned and polished their scales and massaged their shoulders, they began peppering him with questions about what it was like for human people.

“How do you get anywhere without wings?”

“What’s it like not having gills?”

“Where do the magic lights in your houses come from? Do you have a wizard who controls all of them? You have a lot of them, so he must be ever so powerful.”

“What is the significance of those strange boxes humans hold up to their ears sometimes? They can stand and talk to them for hours-are they some kind of listening insects, since they have those long antennae attaching them to the bigger boxes?”

He answered their questions as best he could, making educated guesses (or maybe kind-of-sort-of flat-out lying) if he didn’t know the answers...but after a while he realized that it didn’t seem to matter what he told them, as long as he made it sound exciting. The creatures ate it all up in delight, amazed at the way humans seemed to use this strange kind of magic called SCIENCE to make things happen.

And just like with the idea for how to get unicorn hair for his brother, an idea began to spark in Stan’s brain.

“So, let me get this straight,” Stan said one afternoon as he finished putting curlers in a beard cub’s fur, “None of you have actually seen a human up close besides me?”

“And that brother of yours,” C-beth whinnied, looking up from her copy of Whinny, Pray, Trot. “And the occasional visitor to my glen, or hikers, or-”

“No no no, I mean, you’ve never seen humans in their natural habitat.”

The little group-unicorns, fairies, beard cubs, even a mermaid sitting in the nearby pool-all looked at him in sudden interest.

Stan grinned. “What would you say if I offered to give you guys a guided tour?”

Of course, not all the creatures could afford to pay in gold and jewels, like the unicorns. Those who couldn’t had to pay in other things, like samples: skin samples, hair samples, feather samples, tooth samples, any kind of samples they could spare. Stan would bring them home for Ford to study, and he’d get dizzy with excitement over how he’d “been wanting to study this thing for ages, thank you Stanley!” and immediately run off to his lab to put it under a microscope or whatever. It gave Stan a warm feeling in his gut, knowing that he’d given a valuable contribution to his brother’s research, and in the meantime he could use the treasure the unicorns gave him to handle other expenses, like the mortgage and groceries and stuff.

If it wasn’t samples, it was things like mushrooms, which he could then give to the gnomes in exchange for favors, or enchanted items, or whatever else could be used to set up an elaborate and profitable barter system.

It was like nothing Stan had ever imagined for himself, but somehow it all worked like a charm. And now here was a perfect chance to make an addition to it.

If I tell Ford about this, he’s either gonna love it or hate it.

****

For the moment, Stan decided to keep it a secret from his brother. At least until he got all the details worked out and stuff.

This required him first finding a map of Gravity Falls, and marking out places that seemed like the best “attractions.” Then he had to think about how he was actually going to conduct these tours a) without any humans noticing, and b) without letting the group of nosy anomalies wander off and get into trouble, or (in some cases) cause trouble.

It took him the better part of a day to come up with a plan, which turned out to partially involve the, ahem, liberation of a very large golf cart from a nearby Santa’s Village, and a pound of jerky for the manotaurs in exchange for them tracking down the invisible wizard and bringing him to Stan so he could strike a deal with him. To his major disappointment the wizard refused to give up the potion that turned him invisible, but he did lend Stan something that was in some ways even better: a few bottles of what he called “un-notice powder.” I hope I don’t need to explain its purpose.

Once he had these and a few other things thrown together, he was ready to take the first group on a wild tour of...the Human World!

“And on your left, you’ll see ‘Greasy’s Diner,’ home of the perpetually broken spinning pie trolley!”

“Oooohhhh!” The various anomalies leaned so far to the side of the cart that Stan was worried they were going to tip them all over, staring goggle-eyed at the restaurant. To prevent this, Stan hurriedly put the cart in park, and then, remembering what the gnomes were like, he slipped the keys into his jeans pocket.

“Twenty-I mean, two hundred gold pieces or the equivalent in samples to come in and get your picture taken with it!” he proclaimed, rushing over to the door and pushing it open. He promptly had to jump out of the way to avoid being stampeded by the eager crowd.

Inside the diner, the guests looked up in bewilderment at the door, which appeared to have been pushed open by a sudden freak wind. Susan Wentworth, the head waitress who worked there (and who was kinda cute, Stan had to admit), rushed over to close it, and Stan barely moved out of her way in time.

The tour group (ten gnomes, thirteen fairies of various sizes and colors, a Moth Man, the invisible wizard-who’d insisted on coming at a reduced price as recompense for his being manhandled and bullied so rudely, and Stan had decided not to argue with a man who could turn him into a frog if he got mad enough-a manotaur, and the mermaid, who the manotaur was carrying in a portable cooler filled with water) stared agape at the inside of the room, before hurrying over and taking turns being photographed in front of the pie trolley. They also had fun prodding at the humans, swiping bites of food from their plates, and taking pictures of them pretending to squeeze their heads or whatever.

Stan watched the chaos with a smile, and took the opportunity to eat some blueberries off the top of a plate of pancakes belonging to that dumb Gleeful kid.

****

Their next stops were the town hall, the cemetery (where a few Category 2 ghosts tried to sneak on without paying, but were scared off by the silver mirrors Stan had strategically placed on the cart), the library, and the high school, before finally they stopped in front of an electronics store.

“Behold!” Stan leaped out onto the sidewalk, arms spread wide. The dramatic gesture was nearly ruined by a few teenagers who nearly walked right into him (because of course, they didn’t notice him), but he managed to dodge out of their path just in time. “Ladies and gentlemen-I guess that includes most of you-”

The tour group laughed.

“-For today’s final attraction, I give you the most horrifying, dangerous, yet incredibly enticing invention of mankind yet: the Idiot Box!” He gestured at the display of televisions in the front window, which were plugged in to different channels about news, sports, movies, and so on.

The anomalies gasped, staring at the images darting across the screens in transfixed amazement. He could practically see their eyes turning into hypnotized spirals like in the movies.

“These fiendish devices control the minds of millions every day, encouraging them to buy things they don’t need, eat foods that aren’t good for them, and become emotionally invested in the lives of fictional characters who they are never gonna meet in real life!” Stan had no idea where most of his words were coming from, but he was on a roll now, and there was no stopping him. “And all it takes is a little bit of electricity and a good channel-”

“I WANT ONE!”

Stan blinked, startled out of his spiel by the manotaur’s roar.

The beast abruptly hurled himself out of the cart and charged-right. Through. The window. He smashed several of the televisions in his excitement, but he managed to snatch one up intact, ripping the plug out of the socket and hoisting it over his head triumphantly.

Not even un-notice powder was enough to prevent the people inside the store from noticing the wanton destruction.

Time to go.

****

Fortunately, Stan managed to herd everyone (several of the other creatures had rushed into the store to snatch devices for themselves in all the excitement) back into the cart and take off before the cops showed up. Even better, the un-notice powder didn’t completely wear off until they were back in the forest, so even if the townsfolk noticed them fleeing the scene, it wouldn’t have been anything too distinct. Probably.

Stan gladly accepted a few extra tips from the happy group as they left the carts, hurrying off into the forest and chattering excitedly to each other about all the things they’d seen.

“See ya later, everyone! Tell your friends! And remember, we put the ‘fun’ in ‘no refunds!’”

Huh; I like the sound of that. Gonna haveta remember it for next time.

Grinning to himself, Stan finished putting everything in the large treasure chest he’d brought to collect everyone’s payments, locked it, and then drove back towards home, feeling that on the whole this had been a pretty good day.

It was just his luck, however, that Ford would be standing in the driveway as he came up, hands on his hips and wearing his “there had better be an amazing explanation for this” expression.

The cart came to a slow stop, and Stan gave his brother a weak smile.

“...Hey, Sixer. I got you more samples.”

#flipside au #gravity falls #stan pines #ford pines #Celestabellebethabelle #Stan the tour guide

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michellelarina · 3 years

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Supermarket Tribal

In a land of pissed-off shoppers, is peace even possible?

9.05am

My regular supermarket has changed things around again.

I hate that.

It seems a somewhat tone deaf thing to do in the middle of a pandemic, and as I hurry along what used to be the condiment section, clutching my basket, I see my own emotions echoed in the eyes of the masked shoppers around me; confused, angry, frustrated.

We don’t have time for this.

Cowboys and Kisses is playing as I find washing powder where the activated almonds used to be. I hear myself sigh in that irritated, overloud way I’ve always contributed to crotchety old ladies. Further up the aisle, where the fabric softeners are, an elderly gentleman in a biscuit-brown cardigan pulls out a bottle of Sunny Glow Softener, and his face creases around his mask.

‘This is shit,’ he says.

The words are soft; inner frustration spilling out of his lips. But then he says it louder, almost shouting, and as he does he throws the bottle down the aisle.

‘This is shit!’

I find myself watching, fascinated, as the bottle skids across the blindingly white floor. From somewhere in the next aisle I hear a wail.

‘Where the fudge are the biscuits!’

There’s a few giggles. I think it’s because of the word fudge. My feet quicken as I set off once again. I just want to pay for my groceries and leave.

The next aisle is where I normally get tomato paste. Instead I find greeting cards, and feel my mind slipping.

9.15am

I can’t find anything! I’m only halfway though my shopping list. I want to leave but somewhere between frozen foods and garden supplies I feel myself pulled into a circle of spectators who are watching a tiny old lady berate a store manager. Her finger is pointing at him severely.

‘I think its very bad timing, young man, to do this while we’re all trying to get our shopping done as quickly as we can these days . . .’

Nod. Murmurs of agreement. I hear my voice join the others. The manager is sweating slightly under the bright lights.

‘I’m sorry you feel that way, and I’m happy to help you find the paper serviettes . . .’

‘That’s not the point!’ says a woman who’s joggling a plump baby on her hip. ‘I’m trying to do my weekly shop with a kid, and you’ve swapped everything around!’

‘All I want to do is make a slow cooker casserole, but I can’t find anything!’ says another woman, and promptly bursts into tears. ‘I just want to go home!’

‘If you all take a minute to look at the signs . . .’

‘The signs are useless!’ says a man, stepping forward. He looks like a farmer in his town clothes, perhaps sent in by the wife to pick up some groceries while he’s paying bills. Our city is a regional one, surrounded by wheat belts and sheep. The farmer is angry, calloused hands bunched into fists. ‘You’ve made dog’s breakfast of this. I’ve been in here for half a bloody hour!’

More nods. More voices joining in. And then someone says, ‘You can’t keep doing this! We already spend our money here. Why do you always need more of it?’

I never knew who said it. That quiet voice. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

‘If you just give me a moment, I’ll find some floor staff to assist you . . .’

But then someone else says it. ‘Why do always you need more?’

I find myself repeating it, along with half the people around me.

The manager takes a step back as it becomes a soft chant.

As one, we take a step forward.

9.23am

The manager puts up a good fight but eventually goes down, arms flailing, mouth open in shock as the old lady whacks him with her walking stick, saying, ‘Its just not good enough, young man!’

He’s curled up in a ball now, begging for his life. Security is coming. I put down my basket and pick up the heaviest thing in it; a tin of Corinthian chocolate wafers. They weren’t on my list, but I was looking for tea towels, and they were there, and I was so tired . . .

As I pulled them from a shelf a worn-out looking mother of twin boys who seemed to be trying to kill each other in her shopping cart whispered, ‘Don’t you see? That’s how they get you.’

The middle-aged man beside me has a can of peas and carrots in each hand. The security guards, two men in vests, hesitate.

Someone hurls a jar of Olay Regenerist Night Cream at the tallest one, and it catches him above the eye. He collapses, boneless, and we’re running now, hurling packaged meat and tinned puddings and scented candles, animal-like screams coming from our mouths as the second guard turns and runs.

9.28am

The surviving security guard has locked the doors and is calling the police. He’s saying it’s not okay to beat up store managers and kill security guards with night cream. But as he makes his speech, his thumbs hooked into his belt, the woman with the still-fighting twins lifts them out of her shopping cart and shoves them at him.

‘Attack!’ she screams, and the twins hurls themselves at the guard’s ankles. Teeth snap. The security guard is dancing around, eyes bulging as he screams.

‘Get them off me! For the love of god, get them off me!’

We don’t.

The twins are wrapped around his legs. He stumbles and falls to the floor. One boy immediately latches onto his ear with tiny teeth. Blood flows and we watch with shiny, embittered eyes. Someone has wrapped a blue and white tea towel around a broom handle. They light it with a Bic lighter and lift it high as police cars scream into the carpark, sirens wailing above the security guard’s cries.

9.48am

The manager is being spit-roasted in the meat section.

Many have surround him in a circle, swaying and chanting, but I find the smell overpowering, so when someone suggests serving him with mint sauce I volunteer to go find some.

The condiment section has been taken over by a handful of shoppers that stop me from entering. But their leader, a sweaty man with chilli sauce smeared across his cheeks, is willing to trade. They want coleslaw, he says. And three hot roast chickens.

Three is a ridiculous number. I point out how many people are locked in here, and he relents.

‘One, then,’ he grunts. ‘But we want cola. And barbecue shapes.’

I make my way back as Cruel Summer begins to play overhead.

The meat section was taken over by those of us who first turned on the staff. The two women behind the counter quickly surrendered and were seemingly eager to become part of our tribe, but unbeknown to me, while I was searching the land for mint sauce, they rebelled and split up into their own sub-tribe. They are now in control of all the roast chickens.

I approach. They’re defensive, hostile. Susan, the older one, tells me they’ll trade for weapons.

‘There’s only two of us,’ she says, as the other woman, Barb, nods in agreement. ‘We need to be able to defend ourselves.’

I hear someone shout, ‘Where’s the bloody mint sauce?’ I know my position in the meat section is tenuous, so I agree.

10.02am

Kitchen utensils have been claimed by an all-male warrior clan.

They’ve scarred themselves with a Wiltshire Staysharp. A slow burning fire fuelled by cardboard packaging heats the blade red hot, and each man draws it across their chest three times.

Those who refuse the ritual are banished to the barren land of plasticware, further up the aisle. They’re mostly younger and weaker males, their future bleak.

Over the fire looms a vaguely human-shaped effigy made from barbecue tongs lashed together with plastic ties. Jamie Oliver’s face peers out from the cover of a recipe book that’s placed on the head of this figure. I watch, fascinated, as their newest member draws the blade across his skin while the others chant, ‘Blood is life! Life is blood!’

I roll my eyes. Jamie Oliver’s smile seems to grow wider.

The farmer is their leader. He looks down at me as I ask for a knife or two.

‘No woman shall wield the weapons of steel!’ he bellows, and from behind him his clan chant, ‘No woman! No woman!’

I try to explain how offensive that is. He doesn’t listen. His arms are crossed over his bare chest, blood dripping. But as he turns away, one of the younger men takes pity on me. He slips me a small paring knife and a recipe book.

‘May our great god Jamieoliver bestow his benevolence upon you, woman,’ he says. It’s the most kindness I’ll get from these cavemen, so I nod my thanks and leave.

10.12am

The rotisserie warriors aren’t happy with me.

One paring knife to defend themselves is pretty poor, given their numbers. Their hostility towards me grows, and I have no choice. I offer to join them. I never belonged in the meat section anyway.

They anoint my forehead with hot chicken juice. It burns, but I try not to flinch. I promise to uphold our territory, with my life if necessary. I’m handed a hot chicken, nestled inside its little plastic carry-bag, and begin my journey.

10.17am

I trade the recipe book for a box of barbeque shapes.

I don’t know why the people of savoury biscuits would want a recipe book. Maybe its because they’re distracted; they’re at war with the other half of the aisle, the tribe that rule over assorted creams and scotch fingers and caramel crowns. I can hear the warring factions taunt each other loudly as I continue my journey.

The smoke mart has been taken over by teenagers. They’re lanky and feral, demanding chips and cola from those who wish to trade. They’re being watched over by the mothers who have created a sanctuary in the baby aisle. Their children play with each other while the women sit in a circle, breastfeeding and talking earnestly about the politics of the surrounding lands and the possibility of creating a yoga retreat.

In party supplies there’s a celebration that is said to never end. The people of this land pop streamers at each other while dancing to the non-stop music. They don’t seem to eat or drink, and whenever a Kylie song comes on they go slightly bananas. They seem oblivious to everything else as balloons fill the air, but I’m told that if you wander too close they will try and pull you in.

I skirt around the snacks aisle, even though it makes my journey longer. The people there are twitchy and half-crazed. I see a man spread-eagled on the floor, making a liquorice angel. His lips are ringed in chocolate, his eyes glazed, lost in Sugarland.

In the soft drink section everyone is begging for Cola. Someone from the distant electrical tribe hands over a kettle and a toaster for a single 1.25ml bottle. She clutches it to her chest as it’s handed over, and when I get too close to her, she growls.

The leader is short but ferocious. Muscles like MMA fighter. Spiky hair.

‘What do you want?’ she asks.

‘Cola.’

‘One chicken.’

‘What?’

‘I know who you are, rotisserie woman.’

‘I can offer you a quarter pack . . .’

‘No trade.’

‘But a whole one is ridiculous . . .’

‘No trade!’ she screams, and suddenly her crew are behind her. They’ve made armour out of drink cartons, their cardboard-clad shapes hostile.

What could I do? I gave her my chicken.

10.25am

The people of condiments are restless. The leader snatches my offerings and glares at me.

‘Where is the fowl you promised?’

‘I had to trade it, for that,’ I said, nodding at the plastic bottle in his hands. ‘My journey has been long. I could use a meal and rest before I start back . . .’

‘There’s no food in these lands,’ he said, and I suddenly notice that his people are packing jars and squeeze bottles into shopping bags.

‘We are joining the peoples of the great meat section,’ he says, watching me. ‘They’ve agreed we will be a stronger tribe together. Here . . .’ He shoves a jar of mint sauce at me. ‘I would have gone with applesauce,’ he adds, shrugging. ‘But whatever.’

I leave them to pack and prepare for their long journey.

As I pass the biscuit aisle a man in a hoodie whispers a promise of chocolate and sweetness. I keep my gaze steady, and my feet don’t slow. On my travels I have seen what people will do for a tim tam, and I will not go down that road.

When I finally reach the great plains of the meat section I’m exhausted. The mint sauce is grabbed out of my hands.

The manager is being carved and served up on paper serviettes.

10.28am

My homeland has been depleted. Many chickens have been traded for water and coleslaw and lunch rolls. But that’s not all that’s troubling my clanswomen.

There is talk of war.

10.30am

The coming battle is over the bathrooms.

They’re being guarded by a tribe of warriors in store uniforms. They call themselves Staff.

They have nothing but pure hate for us. They talk of how our people once murdered their leader in cold blood, back in ancient times. They refuse all talks of peace and trade.

They are strong in numbers, so invasion will only be possible if enough tribes join together.

The warrior clan are on board, of course, as is the meat section and the condiment crew. The party people don’t even hear the request; they’re too busy throwing glitter into the air and singing along to Black Velvet, and the mothers are putting babies down for naps and firmly shushing anyone that approaches.

We of the rotisserie chickens have no choice other than to join. We are too few in numbers to be truly independent, though we’ve been joined by a fourth. Janet is from the meat section. She became disenfranchised when she suggested they start wrapping the cold cuts and rationing them. Instead, they decided to trade almost a third of their supplies for cheese and olives, and are gorging on antipasto.

‘But what about tomorrow?’ she says. ‘What about the future?’

So we shall fight.

10.40am

The people of Staff were ready for us.

They’re armed with toilet brushes and bleach. The clash is ferocious, chaotic, and unbelievably loud. I’m knocked to the white floor, the smell of bleach heavy in the air. Over the screams I can hear Cowboys and Kisses, yet again. Am I going mad? I get to my feet and run forward, armed only with sharpened chicken bones.

Suddenly a roll of toilet paper is thrown into the air. We stop as one and stare as it unravels in slow motion — a streaming white banner that floats gently to the floor.

Surrender.

The war is over.

We decide not to take prisoners, because we all really need the loo. We line up, bloodied and bruised. Some are weeping.

Suddenly a procession of people appear from health and haircare. They glide towards us, silent, their faces serene, their hair long and glossy. In their hands are band aids and bandages, aspirin and medicated creams. They start to bandage our wounds, tend to our sprains.

We’re suspicious. What do you want? We ask. Who side are you on?

‘We take no sides,’ they say, their words little more than sighs. ‘We wish only to heal.’

It’s been a long, hard morning. Will we ever make sense out of this chaos?

11.05am

We’ve had our first death.

It’s from the small, strange tribe of people that protect all the peanuts. Driven mad by thirst, they went to war with the water people. But there were too few of them , and after they were driven back one of them promptly died of salt poisoning.

We wrapped his body in a blue cotton throw, and the cold, sombre people of frozen foods allowed us to place his body gently in a freezer.

Strangely, it has bought a kind of peace to our lands. We know now that we need to get along, to live in tolerance of one another, if we are to survive. We may be many lands, but we are just one supermarket, after all.

Trade has become easier and more reasonable. Children are allowed to play outside their borders, though adults must seek a clan leader’s permission to enter any land they’re not from. The mothers have lectured the teenagers about sharing and water is distributed fairly, though I can’t say the same for soft drink. Those people are still jerks.

Our one law is that anyone caught stealing will have a hand ceremoniously removed by the warrior clan leader. This was argued against by the elfin creatures of heath and haircare, but in the end even they saw that trust must be built.

As for my small tribe . . . our stocks are low and we know the end is coming. Janet has started dating someone in ice cream. She says the marriage will secure her future. Perhaps she is right, but I have a strong streak of independence and won’t marry, even for choc mint. Perhaps I will join health and haircare — they’ve set up a small salon and are offering a free cut and shampoo to anyone that wants to become one of them.

12.09pm

Janet has done a runner, taking our last precious chicken with her, as dowry.

We are more sad and betrayed than angry, though if I ever catch her alone I’ll use the paring knife without remorse.

Reluctantly we part ways, and I find myself cast adrift in this new world. I set off, looking for a home.

12.14pm

The elder of health and haircare rejects me.

‘You are from those that eat the flesh of animal,’ they sigh. I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman. Their hair is so long it brushes the floor. Their skin in translucent, glowing.

‘But I’m just trying to survive.’

‘We live on vitamins, and the light from above that shines on us perpetually. We spend our days trading peacefully with the people from beauty and cosmetics. We help anyone who is in need of pampering, expecting no reward.’ A delicate eyebrow arches. ‘You would not fit in, you — who battles over bathrooms and wields the knife.’

‘Just give me a chance, please! I don’t want to be on my own out there.’

But its no use. The elder offers me a small packet. ‘Take this peppermint conditioner sample. If you can tame the split ends of your heart as well as those in your hair, you may return.’

‘But . . .’

‘Goodbye, traveller,’ the being sighs, and drifts back to the others.

12.26pm

I’ve been caught up in a small skirmish between pasta and bakery.

I can’t tell if its tomato sauce or blood that’s running across the floor. I don’t even know how the battle started, except that it had something to do with breadsticks. I try to run, but someone hits me with a solid cob loaf. I see the floor coming, but I don’t remember hitting it.

4.35pm

When I come to, the battle is over.

I’m in a deserted no-man’s land, somewhere between bakery and pet food. The floor is smeared with red, the air heavy with the scent of parmesan. Overhead a light flickers, making me disorientated. When I sit up and check my watch I’m horrified by how long I’ve been unconscious.

The land is silent, and eerily still.

Suddenly a tiny service dog bolts out of the pet food aisle, teeth bared and tags jingling. Behind it a group of people are hollering at me and making shooing gestures. Something is wrong with them, but I can’t place it as I stagger to my feet.

The dog is still charging. The people jump up and down, urging the creature on. With horror I register the sounds they’re making; hoots and grunts and strange clicks. There are no words. Their clothes are rags. Their feet are bare.

I’m so dazed the creature is almost upon me before I run.

My surroundings are frighteningly unfamiliar. Aisles twist and curve strangely. Shelves are empty. Some have toppled to the floor. Both hair and healthcare and beauty and cosmetics are completely abandoned, and as I run along a path littered with empty shampoo bottles and broken hairbrushes, I hear a voice whisper from the bright lights above me.

‘We have fled the flesh-bodies, traveller. This land has fallen to ruin.’

I stumble over abandoned Country Style magazines. I catch glimpses of the others; faces that peer from behind cereal box camouflage, figures that sink behind the carcasses of checkouts. Something calls out from wilderness, a long, drawn-out sound that is both mournful and savage.

I keep running long after the snarls behind me have faded, looking for refuge.

5pm

A special-ops team crashes through the doors, hurling teargas cannisters and shouting.

I was asleep under a row of shopping carts, living in the outlands to avoid the violent primitives, and they don’t see me.

From the haze of gas comes startled yips and grunts. In the distance I glimpse wild-looking figures, scattering. I wander out of doors that have been forced open, only to be body-slammed by four police officers in full riot gear.

The pavement rises up to meet my face. I breathe in concrete and cigarette butts and fresh air. The smell of outside. Memories are rushing back, of a younger me, parking my car and pulling shopping bags out of the boot. I’m hauled to my feet and with wonder I see the sky. I’d forgotten its blue. I’d forgotten the sweet, soft brightness of natural light.

I begin sobbing with relief. Someone is saying, ‘What’s your name? Do you know?’

I don’t. I just know I’ve survived. I’ve gotten out of the supermarket.

*Certain events in this retelling may be slightly exaggerated.

If you liked reading this, and I hope you did, please consider buying me a coffee.

#short story #humour #dark humour #fiction #writing humour #writing community #writers on tumblr #was it wrong to spit-roast the store manager?

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apostleshop · 6 years

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Empty Nest

Great News has been shared on https://apostleshop.com/empty-nest/

Empty Nest

Photo via Pixabay (2015), CC0 Public Domain

Empty Nest

Yeah, I know. Original title. (Sarcasm.) During the month of July, I knew what I’d write about for CatholicMom.com. I was so excited to put together my August article. If you follow what I write, then you know I wrote about the tear-jerking effects of a favorite song. The whole trigger for the inspiration was our youngest child was starting college. We drove her out to school, twelve hours away from home.

This month it’s different. Up until this second, I didn’t know what I’d write about. The reason for that is simple. I’m in a mild mourning season. Well, I said it is simple, not easy. I titled the article, “Empty Nest,” but even this isn’t totally pure or true. The reason for this is that our oldest child is 28 years old and he still lives with us, because he is autistic. We are his legal guardians. He doesn’t drive. He is on the mild to moderate end of the spectrum, and this means he is quite capable on many levels. He’s an elite runner. He cooks, cleans, does laundry, works in our family business, mows grass, works as a dishwasher at a local restaurant, and takes care of all our pets, those being an Australian Shepherd, named Shep, a bearded dragon named Mandra, a parakeet named Spartan, and a black and white bunny named Mumford.

But the most important thing our son does is pray. He follows enthusiastically during Mass, reciting the Nicene Creed with gusto. He prays before every meal. He anoints himself with holy water every morning, when he thuds upstairs on the way to the coffee pot.

So many people have commented about our youngest child going off to college. “So, you’re empty-nesters now?” I always feel I must explain, “Sort of. We have Paul, our oldest son.” It is a unique situation. I know we’re not the only ones. There is a whole wave of us who had our babies in the ’90s and one of them ended up with a developmental delay. Some more severe than others. But, if I were to compare myself to most of my peers now, we are still a rare case. We will always consider our son when making plans, whether that is our living situation or taking vacations. We still have to drive him to where he needs to go. Unless the Lord decides to come back soon and totally heal our son, we will grow old with each other, Rob, my husband and I, along with our son. This will be so until our other adult children take the helm and support Paul when we are too feeble to do so.

In other words, when it comes to categorizing our stage in life right now, I would answer, “It’s complicated.”

Right now, I am alone at home at 7:30 in the evening, because my husband had to go lock up the warehouse after UPS made a pick-up, and Paul is working at the restaurant. The clock’s tick-tocks are palpable, and the crackling wick on a candle illuminating a glass statue of Our Lady on this feast day, “The Queenship of Mary,” is about as loud as the snap, crackle, and pop of the old cereal, Rice Krispies ®. Spartan, the parakeet, is also shelling bird seeds with his beak. The quiet is deafening.

It’s not hard to remember when I used to make dinner around 4 PM and the chaos of kids running in and out of the house, arguing, interrupting, and causing all kinds of mess, was the usual routine of the day. I had a friend who used to call it “the bewitching hour.” I can’t believe that I actually long for those days. Well … maybe half the noise. As long as one or two of them could just clean up the kitchen.

You know the saying, “There’s a first time for everything?” Well, yesterday, I experienced something for the first time in this new season of my life. I went to the grocery store and deliberately shopped for just the two of us. Just little ol’ Rob and me. Paul shops and cooks for himself. This is an area where he can be independent.

Oh boy. It was weird. I tried to think back, before kids, when I’d do the shopping. I couldn’t remember. I barely knew how to cook, beyond lemon-pepper chicken and spaghetti sauce from a jar.

There was a long season when I had all the kids with me in the grocery store. One was in the baby seat, dangling her fat little legs. One was holding on the side, with his feet up on the lower rail, taking a ride. Another was asking for all the no-no’s in the candy aisle and stealthily throwing sugary snacks in the cart, whilst I compared prices on canned goods. I may have even carried another in a discreet sling through the produce department as she breastfed to her stomach’s content. I’d always lament, “Why do I do this to myself?” I could have used a babysitter, or waited til Rob came home. I’ll never forget the time I filled the largest buggy they had, and pushing up to the checkout, this old country guy made the comment, “I think you need a bigger truck.” I smiled with pride.

Yesterday, my cart looked like this:

Today, my fiftyish self spends more money on produce for the antioxidants and the promise of anti-aging benefits of real food. I’ve bought two bottles of wine. One for Rob, who doesn’t mind sulfates, and one for me, who does. Today, I buy turmeric. Back then, I’d never heard of it. When your joints start creaking, you start paying attention. Everything’s organic, because. Except for the oatmeal break-and-bake cookies for Rob…because. I’m into beets lately, for the color. Maybe it’ll keep the gray hairs away? Toilet paper. This batch should last us til the kids come home at Thanksgiving. (OK, I’m exaggerating.) I think I spent a total of $168.00. Now that is a first!

My husband is back home. He’s cleaning the kitchen for me. He just made the comment, “I miss Beth sitting at the piano and singing, about now.”

“I miss all the kids. I miss Mark, Scott, Katie, and Danika. But…what are ya gonna do?”

I agree with, “Yeah.”

There is a silver lining though.

Beth’s been gone three whole days. She sent me a text this morning that read,

Good morning. I’ve been up since 4:20 am. It’s 6:20 here. Prayed a rosary and ready to tackle this 8 am on my first official day of classes. Say a prayer for me, my professors, and my classmates! Also, first chorale rehearsal today. ♪

And then, Swam 4000 yards yesterday at a local Y.

And that made me happy.

Because that’s what we do from the first squalling cry into the world. We prepare them to leave and fly out on their own.

Though I miss them to pieces, I don’t want them living in our basement.

Though I miss them to pieces, I don’t want them living on our basement. -@susanswims8 #emptynest Click To Tweet

I just wish I didn’t miss them so much.

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