(Author’s note: I haven’t been to many people’s blogs lately. I haven’t been doing comments. Work has been very tough, and tiredness is a problem. I’m therefore changing some of my habits. I hope to be a bit more…focused coming forth. Starting this week. Now…JUMP!)
(look to your left, it’s right there.)
Jump!
by Miles H. Rost
“Jump!”
Racquon Phillips was surrounded. A brick wall of a man in front of him, a tall lanky weirdo covering on his left.
“Racquon! Jump!”
He himself was six feet tall, but these guys were massive. He didn’t know if he could get the shot off.
“Get ahead and jump!”
Racquon faked left, but no one moved. He was about to move when he saw the hand come straight from the left.
“JUMP!”
He jumped, and let the ball loose. It arced up, looking large as it approached the backboard.
Everyone stared as it started descending, hit the rim, and then…
(Care to find out? Why don’t you end it! I’d love to see what you all think!)
(Author’s Note: Just when I thought things were stable…boom, changes at work. Better stories on the way. Give it time, and here’s another Fictioneers to tide you over!)
He looked down and tried to strain away. Feeling like he was about to tear free, he leaped.
Only to be pulled back in by the claws.
He trudged along, the claws never letting go. He could cut off his feet, if he so chose, but the claws would just latch onto his knees. He realized this, and finally did the only thing he could do.
He asked for help. He called out for help in the darkness.
A single pinprick of light shown through the darkness, and as that pinprick grew, so did hope…
I know each of the houses by heart, knowing the secrets that each of them share with the rest of the world, and those they keep inside. As I lace up my shoes, I notice that Mrs. Coleman in the pink house on the corner is out with her hand-held crane. She’s going to make some apple pies today. Maybe, if things go right after this, I can go back and buy a pie from her.
I put in my earbuds and shoot down the street. The neighborhood I live in is pretty rough, but I think it’s a great place to live if you know how to survive. As I cross over Tremaine Avenue, I run past a blue two-story house where Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson argue about which one will take out the garbage. They love each other, and it’s the small arguments they have which keep them in each other’s arms. Though it only takes me about a second to blaze past their door, I already know that by the time I’m done with my work, they’ll be up in the bedroom doing what couples do best.
Many of the houses I pass in my neighborhood are abandoned, the price paid for an economy that was all eggs in one basket. The city had a thriving cardboard and paperboard mill, and that kept things afloat for nearly 110 years. I can see the former glory of the neighborhood as I cross the next avenue, Waterman Boulevard. It’s a vague memory compared to what I see now, but when I was young, this area was a big one.
After I crossed the street, I passed by Mr. Brody, the postman. He’s been around here longer than I have, and we call him “Dirty Harry”, due to his demeanor and gruff exterior. He is a Korean veteran who is still doing his job at 79. He’s the only one who is willing to actually go around these streets. Not even the drug dealers off Wilkinson Avenue will touch the man. When he goes, there will be no more postal delivery for this area.
I keep running past houses, each one telling a story about the area I live in. I focus on the music in my ears, as I pick up the speed and sprint down the street. I am able to cover 3 blocks in 30 seconds, which gets me closer to the edge of the neighborhood. I slow down and cool down with a slower run over the next two blocks. By the time I reach Townline Road, I can see the empty fields where farmers and vineyards co-mingle like folks at a movie.
I decide to take a moment while figuring out which way to go. I’ve put distance between myself and my home, for sure, and I am not sure which way to go. If I go north up Townline, I go towards more farmland. If I go south on Townline, I will reach the highway. If I continue straight across, I’ll meet up with a hill and eventually a dead end.
I look back behind me, and I can see some movement. Flashlights and chains. Not a good combination in this area. And I know why I can hear them.
I decide to head up the hill, straight ahead. I think if I sprint hard enough a couple times, I can lose them in the trees.
It’s a pain in the butt to try and leave a neighborhood that you’ve lived in all your life. Especially when it’s a prison, run by one of the worst street gangs in the world. But, I think I can get out of this place once and for all, and start my life over again.
Music and Fiction 