Freddy
A Write or Die (Flash Fiction response)
It was going on ten o’clock at night when the drapes moved.
He’s kind of weird, Henrietta said, pointing toward the first floor apartment.
Weird? How do you mean? Asked Freddy, unsteady on the balance beam, swinging one foot in front of the other, who’s family had recently moved into this neglected neighborhood.
I mean seriously weird, Freddy. Like, cut you into pieces if you’re not careful.
You’re just saying that to scare me, right. He hasn’t ever cut anyone into pieces, has he?
I’m telling you, Freddy. Stay away from him. He has a terrifying face, one from which humankind cannot separate itself. His hands are decaying, and his eyes don’t blink, bloodshot and yellow. My dad thinks they guy is a mistake made by God.
Wow! How cool is that.
Freddy, don’t you be weird.
Welcome to primetime, Henrietta!
Behind the drapes of the immodest Chicago first floor apartment, palms and fingers pressed up against a window.
The first day Freddy arrived, Henrietta had become a friend. Together they found reasons to rush through the heated garbage days of the neighborhood, playing their mysterious games, entertaining each other with stories, hiding in alleyways, shielding themselves from that Chicago blasted heat and dust and playing in the nights of rattling air-conditioners.
When we get away from this place, what do you want to do, Freddy?
I’m going to be a writer. I’m going to eat poetry, put down lightning, lick syllables, stretch sentences to the fifth line… and as he kept talking, his red hair glowed against his forehead. Do you want to come to my secret place, Henrietta? It’s not far.
Why is it a secret place?
It’s the place where my tender poetry resides, the spheres of love live, and imagination runs through my head. Come, there’s not much time.
The next night, Henrietta didn’t show up in the delipidated park. Freddy walked a block to where she lived. Police cars were everywhere. The scope of activity forewarned him of the violence he would hear about as the chatter started flying into the neighborhood. Body parts. A child’s arm discovered, a bracelet on its wrist. A foot, wearing a pump. The words: bloodbath, gruesome, cannibalism, homicide, girl, Freddy heard it all.
There was something about Freddy; something invisible to the rest of the world. A great circular solitude had descended upon him. He felt alive, condemned to his ignoble fate. Like he couldn’t be played around with.
Last night, Freddy had puked up Henrietta’s greasy hair, picked at the bones of her scabby kneecaps, feasted on her shoulder blades, spit on her eyeballs and left them shining in the moonlight on the unoiled see-saw.
Freddy turned away from the chaotic scene.
Back near the park, the drapes in the first-floor apartment moved. The fingers and palms of a decaying hand beckoned Freddy to come home.
…….
Love to see what these excellent writers come up with.
erika sauter Brad Stulberg you have been entered to the Hell of the Dead by me. To escape to the Living Hall, you will have to recreate this piece in your own words or extend it as part of the Write or Die collaboration. Failure to comply will leave your name and soul in the Hell of the Dead.
