Writings of yesteryear...
Just came across an old story for a creative writing class I took in Spring 2005, thought I'd share it with you.
The family next door seemed like an average household. A husband, wife, two kids, a dog. The man worked a typical nine to five job, in a cubicle downtown. The woman was a homemaker, quiet, shy, not friends with the neighbors. The kids, a boy and girl, about six and eight, seemed like normal children. They played with the dog, a German Shepherd, every day after school.
There was only one car; the man used it to go to work. The woman never went out, never had friends over. Dinner was at six-thirty every night, the children in bed by seven-thirty. Shopping was done at ten o'clock every Saturday. The man drove the family in the car.
The family took the dog to the park every Sunday afternoon. The man played fetch with the dog, while the woman and the children quietly fed the ducks. Every time the man pulled back his hand to throw the ball, the dog would cower towards the ground. When the man put his arm around the woman to walk home, she would just slightly flinch away.
Before dinner one evening, the boy was playing fetch with the dog. He threw the ball and broke a bathroom window. The man opened the door, and quietly called the boy inside. He had a soft, studious voice that belonged in a library. That soft voice calling his name caused the boys eyes to widen, his face to pale. With his shoulders hunched up, he slowly shuffled into the house. The dog, like a protective shadow, followed him inside.
Fifteen minutes later, an ambulance came to a screeching halt outside the house. When the paramedics went inside, they found the boy against the wall, cradling a broken arm, crying into the fur of the bloody dog. The man was sprawled on the floor, his throat a ragged, dark red cavity, his blood creating a gory halo around his head.
The ambulance arrived within five minutes of the phone call. The man had been dead for ten.
The family next door seemed like an average household. A husband, wife, two kids, a dog. The man worked a typical nine to five job, in a cubicle downtown. The woman was a homemaker, quiet, shy, not friends with the neighbors. The kids, a boy and girl, about six and eight, seemed like normal children. They played with the dog, a German Shepherd, every day after school.
There was only one car; the man used it to go to work. The woman never went out, never had friends over. Dinner was at six-thirty every night, the children in bed by seven-thirty. Shopping was done at ten o'clock every Saturday. The man drove the family in the car.
The family took the dog to the park every Sunday afternoon. The man played fetch with the dog, while the woman and the children quietly fed the ducks. Every time the man pulled back his hand to throw the ball, the dog would cower towards the ground. When the man put his arm around the woman to walk home, she would just slightly flinch away.
Before dinner one evening, the boy was playing fetch with the dog. He threw the ball and broke a bathroom window. The man opened the door, and quietly called the boy inside. He had a soft, studious voice that belonged in a library. That soft voice calling his name caused the boys eyes to widen, his face to pale. With his shoulders hunched up, he slowly shuffled into the house. The dog, like a protective shadow, followed him inside.
Fifteen minutes later, an ambulance came to a screeching halt outside the house. When the paramedics went inside, they found the boy against the wall, cradling a broken arm, crying into the fur of the bloody dog. The man was sprawled on the floor, his throat a ragged, dark red cavity, his blood creating a gory halo around his head.
The ambulance arrived within five minutes of the phone call. The man had been dead for ten.