Chapter 4: If Skulls Could Speak
( LINK: In case you haven't read 1-3 )
Harold was in bed early- right after dinner.
He was exhausted, but he had trouble finding sleep. The day was too full, and it needed processing.
Harold thought about Hanlon's punchable face.
He thought about Emily.
And he thought about the skull.
When he finally stumbled into unconsciousness, he fell hard.
----
( LINK: In case you haven't read 1-3 )
Harold was in bed early- right after dinner.
He was exhausted, but he had trouble finding sleep. The day was too full, and it needed processing.
Harold thought about Hanlon's punchable face.
He thought about Emily.
And he thought about the skull.
When he finally stumbled into unconsciousness, he fell hard.
----
He was peering into the hole, listening to the gravel and dirt as it crunched and churned.
"Go ahead," his dad said, "Reach on in."
And he did. He reached in.
The dirt crumbled away before his groping fingers, he felt around for the skull he knew he'd find. He could feel the grit turning over in the hole, the jaw was seeking.
His fingers grasped what would have been the upper snout- if there had been any flesh left at all.
The teeth snapped shut on his curled fingers- he flinched, it hurt... But he would not give up his prize.
He tugged as hard as he could. The skull came out, gnawing on his hand.
Harold, held it aloft, and smiled at his treasure. It continued to chew, like a dog trying to get the marrow.
Blood trickled down his arm.
His dad looked on, with pride.
The skull grunted. It's voice was muffled, for all the blood and skin and bone in it's mouth... But otherwise it sounded exactly like his own. "Everyone dies... Sooner if they're killed."
The skull grunted. It's voice was muffled, for all the blood and skin and bone in it's mouth... But otherwise it sounded exactly like his own. "Everyone dies... Sooner if they're killed."
-----
Harold woke before his alarm, before the sun too. He found himself sprawled across the sheets at a sharp angle, one leg hanging over the edge to the floor.
Traces
of the night lingered on the fringes of his waking mind. He licked up the scraps...
An odd dream, to be sure. But he delighted in it.
The skull was sitting on the top of his dresser, exactly where he'd left it before bed. He ignored the dull throb in his finger.
He planted his feet on the cold floor, walked to the dresser.
He picked it up, and pushed his thumb against one of its teeth, still sharp... And, he thought, bigger than a dog's. Perhaps his biology teacher might be able to make a positive ID, tell him for sure whether it came from a wild or domestic creature.
But it was caked with rust colored dirt.
It deserved a good cleaning, before show and tell. It was still dark outside, and the house was silent. With plenty of time to spare, he brought it to the bathroom.
He filled the bathroom sink with warm water, and dipped the skull in. Gentle strokes with a soft bristle brush, and the years of clay-dust were washed away, and into the basin.
The gritty water stung when it entered his wound.
Harold realized his bandage was gone. He figured it had loosened and fallen off in the murky water. He searched for it with his good hand, but came up empty...
He stopped worrying about the bandage when he noticed that the jagged hole in his skin was puffy and red.
Harold realized his bandage was gone. He figured it had loosened and fallen off in the murky water. He searched for it with his good hand, but came up empty...
He stopped worrying about the bandage when he noticed that the jagged hole in his skin was puffy and red.
He rinsed the dirt off his fingers, and took a closer look. His hand felt warm.
It was the kind of hurt that he didn't really mind, but he knew the signs of infection when he saw them.
He put the skull on a towel to dry, and washed his cut again with hot soapy water. He squeezed the puffy edges, tried to push out the swelling. Pain flared in his knuckle.
But nothing came out. He couldn't put enough pressure with his fingers.
He brought his finger to his mouth, placed his teeth around the swollen joint and almost clamped down.
Then he remembered how filthy mouths are, and though better of it.
He washed it again, applied more antibiotic and a new band-aid.
It was time to get ready for school.
------
The chapter ends here...
if you wanna keep reading: Chapters 5 and 6 (What Happened to Rufus, and Art Can be Whatever You Like)
Everything below this line is my original rant against DestructiveReaders, maintained for posterity's sake (But they have since come around in a few ways, and are no longer on my shit list):
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So I tried joining a reddit community where writers give each other constructive criticism. Understandably, they want to make sure people critique as much as they post.
I thought that sounded great!
So I critiqued two stories (1 and 2), totalling ~8500 words... And asked for very simple feedback on the first three chapters of my story, totalling ~6500 words, missing the 1:1 ratio in their favor.
Well a power-tripping mod came out to tell me how I was such a leech, and my critiques were useless. I defended my critiques because I put a lot of thought into them. Then I got spammed with downvotes, and somebody else called me an asshole.
 |
| A screen cap of a couple of douchebags... click to expand, if you want to read the juicy details. |
Well FUCK both of those shit gobblers.
I was angry when I wrote chapter four. Short and sweet.
Hopefully you enjoy, but if not I'm very open to critique!
UPDATE, I was wrong about the mod over at r/DestructiveReaders. They no longer need to eat shit.
