I had zero pre thought into this, and wrote the summary on the NaNoWriMo page after writing like 8 sentences in OpenOffice, so I have -no- idea what's going on other than the fact that the story is called Sugar Russ, and involves some kind of priest, some kind of family and some kind of buzzing sound (psst: there's a supernatural killer involved along the lines too~)
Here's the first two days that have zero editing or pacing, not trying to be good so much as trying to get something and all that, so yeah, just hit the jump for the crap~
There, under
the sycamore trees on Booker Street walked Father Iodine, though it
best not to call him by the nickname to his face. His feet, in their
mechanical and evenly paced strides, crunched underfoot loudly with
leaves, not all of which were in orange shades and browns or reds. A
nip in the air brought on by a brief but strong gust spoke of the
coming winter, and the father, without his coat sneered at it. His
gnarled and gray tipped fingers curled and bristled into the pockets
of his black pants for any warmth. Iodine was always cold. There was
probably something about that.
He was cut as a
lean figure, with an appearance that made him out to be far taller
than he truly was. Perhaps that was just the downward look and tall
posture the priest gave to misbehaving children. Or loud children. Or
children in general, so it seemed. After all, children were always
loud and misbehaving. With their greedy little fingers, never washed
of course, leaving finger prints and snot and juice everywhere.
Disgusting little habits for disgusting little things.
The dark was at
least a time when most children were out of the street. Some wondered
if that was why Iodine took his walks so late, even in the cold. Was
that why the priest became one in the first place? The celibacy
alone? The innate prospect the office gave of judging others? Could
anyone so seemingly displeasing and without joy truly be moved to
things such as grace?
Se-eun didn't
seem to think so, as Father Iodine was spotted across the street of
her corner deli, coming closer like a phantom. She took a breath, the
father always bothered her. Especially how he butchered her name. She
tried to ignore, and turn the lock as fast as possible, annoyed more
than ever at the renovations. She never had to step outside to lock
the store up this late, thanks to the connecting stairwell from the
store to her apartment above. Now that it was out, she had to lock up
later and later, and this more often than not found her facing the
father to some degree or another. He looked extra cold and mean
tonight.
“Soon.” the
priest said as he came up, his voice croaking.
“Se-eun-”
the woman said quickly.
“Don't be
foolish,” the priest glared, “That's what I said. It would do
your store wonders if you would just learn English.”
“I speak
English,” she said, “My name is Se-eun, not Soon.”
Though true,
Se-eun did have an accent, and a strong one, but those in the
neighborhood easily understood her well enough and knew the
difference. Perhaps Father Iodine simply refused to be incorrect on
anything.
He shook his
head, “I need you to open your store, Soon.”
“We closed.”.
“I know
that,” he stated, “That is why I need you to open it. If it were
open I wouldn't need you to open your store, it would already be open
of course!”
“We are
closed!” Se-eun said, more sternly and forceful.
“Don't be
contrary!” Father Iodine hissed, “I just need to step in for a
moment, you can close up when I'm done.”
“No! We
closed! No stepping in, you go somewhere else.” Se-eun snapped, her
hands motioning to shoo the priest away, “Go away.”
“What?”
Father Iodine scoffed, “I am a priest! Is this how you treat me?”
For all her own
stubbornness, Se-eun's shoulders collapsed. The small woman with the
wrinkled eyes cast one more look at the priest, almost baleful and
contempt, “Okay. Fine. Just one minute!” she said as she moved to
undo the lock.
“I only need
a moment,” Iodine admitted, “Just one will do. Can't you open
that lock any faster? Come now, Soon, be quick about it.”
“Se-eun!”
“Yes, yes,
Soon- Soon, I know, just open the blasted lock!”
“I'm opening
it! There, it's open! Come on, one minute.” she said stepping in,
and just barely holding the door open for the priest as she moved to
behind the counter where the switches for lights were. She was
muttering in her own Corean as she watched the priest move quickly
and with purpose, knowing exactly what he was after, and where it
belonged on the shelves.
She didn't like
the man. His constant mispronunciation of her name, the constant
ignorances he laid upon her, as well as the hypocrisies he carried on
with. There were rules, she remembered he would dictate during the
Sunday service, rules that needed remembering.
“This is why
the youth today act as they do.” he had said, while standing at the
pulpit, shoulders squared and back straight, looking seven feet tall.
“You know this,” he continued, “You've seen this. Wild times.
Desperate times. A ruleless time.
“No, it is
not lawless, we have laws, but we lack the rules to go with them.
Rules of etiquette. Rules of proper conversation. Rules for the
young, yes, but also for the grown. The old, even.”
The priest had
taken a moment to look through the flock, each eye from the pews sure
he had just stared at them specifically. Se-eun sure felt that way,
and when she sat there that Sunday, just as every other Sunday, to
hear the homily she was sure in part was aimed directly at her.
Everyone felt that way, though few would say it.
“We have the
law to say don't kill. That law comes both from the Highest and from
man. Thou shalt not kill, from God himself. But we also have the law
to state it illegal, and punishable. It is punishable, both here and
in the after. It is a rule.” He blinked. It was strange, the man
seemed to hate blinking. It was an exaggeration that he never
blinked, or that he never blinked during mass, though there are some
in the parish who had stated, from time to time, to have watched his
eyes the entire time only to see them stay open and sharp. Children
mostly, but even a few adults seemed to believe the thought. Se-eun
remembered it as a long and pausing blink, one she wasn't sure had
caused his face to sour at it's own action or if she merely imagined
it.
“We have the
law to say don't steal. But we have lacked the rule. Don't steal –
but we talk ourselves away from that law. Yes, we do, don't we? Don't
steal, unless it is bread for your starving family. Don't steal from
your neighbor, but they won't miss the coupons in the paper, will
they? They don't even shop there, we can take those. Don't steal from
your parents, but they don't need all the change back from the store,
do they? Why, they wouldn't even notice, will they? Of course not,
but you know who does notice? You know fully well who notices. Yes,
He does notice, and all debts must be paid in time. He, He is the one
who will remember, who will notice and who will mark and remember
when it comes the time to collect.”
Se-eun couldn't
help but glance at one particular child seated a few pews away and to
the right. The youngest MacArthy, whose father always sent him for
beer, and who she knew received far less in allowance than the amount
of sweets he would buy after school. She knew father Iodine was
speaking of him, and that he knew it. The young boy couldn't help but
shuffle in his seat slightly at the words.
“But we -”
a slight pause after yet another blink, was he really angry over it
or was Se-eun listening to much to the school children's gossip and
tall talk? “We need to keep the rules. It is a very simple thing to
do. Our weekly morning service is at eight am. It isn't a quarter
after. It isn't four past eight. It is at eight am.”
Again Se-eun
saw one individual's slight change in pose, though Se-eun wasn't sure
her name. Unlike Iodine, however, she didn't simply assume and push
the mistake constantly. Se-eun was more tactful, and simply avoided
using her name in every possible way imaginable. It had always served
her well enough thus far. Always tardy that woman. Every week. What
was her name again? That's what Se-eun was thinking at the time, but
now in the current, Se-eun was thinking of the father's words
directly, not to whom they spoke of.
As he shuffled
towards the counter, she couldn't help remember how he had mentioned
rules of time. When he came up to the store front and placed the
antiantidiarrheal tablets on the counter, she didn't judge him or
find it humorous as the glare from the priest had warned her not to,
but neutrally rang him up.
After the
exchange of money for medicine was made, the priest immediately
pocketed the package and turned to leave, offering no thanks or other
words. Se-eun, however, at the door couldn't help herself.
“Rules,
Father I-Dyne.” she said, catching herself before she fully stated
the nickname, “Are we close at six. It is eight. Eight is after
six.”
“I know when
the times are!” Iodine coughed angrily back, he had of course
noticed the small slip, but still kept some control over it, “And
the name is Dyne. Not Idyne.” choosing to believe, or at least for
the sake of his own brevity, create the illusion of believing that
was the mistake.
“And I am
Se-eun not Soon! Rules are rules, yes?”
“Of course
they are, don't be silly.” he said, with a particular grumble to
his throat, before briskly and stiffly going through the door without
any further involvement from Se-eun.
Once out and
back across the street he turned the corners of his lips downward,
aggravated and annoyed more so than before. His cracked knuckles
balled when he heard Se-eun's store locking up again from behind, and
he quickened his pace. His footfalls a seemingly perfect pattern of
crunches and heel thuds.
His stomach
churned. What, he thought, was in that awful food?
He had allowed
himself the displeasure of company earlier in the evening. Ms
Rubottom, and her family, had invited him. Good standings, the
Rubottoms. Always came to service, always on time. Always donated,
financially to the offering both as well as fundraisers and with
their time as well. Always made a point to say hello and comment on
how well the sermon was. Granted, even father Iodine knew he didn't
enjoy the small talk, but it was the point; to be appreciated. Or at
least to have one's ego stroked, even if secretly. It would have
seemed rude to not accept. So he did.
Everywhere he
went, whatever he ate, it always mattered little. He hadn't yet
conveyed his theory to anyone else, but he was sure something was
wrong. That food was different. It always tasted almost the same, yes
almost but not exactly right. That's how it's been for years, he had
always thought so. The food when he was younger, if he could have it
now to show them all how different it was now. The restaurants. Even
the same cooking – even his own, he had to admit. It tasted -like-
the old food, similar but different. That's, however, where any
similarities ended. He found himself eating less, and to be quite
frank, found himself ridding himself of what he had eaten far quicker
than he had in the past. Often more than once.
It had to be
the food. Nothing was like it used to be. People weren't like they
used to be. Faces like his own gave way to faces like other people.
Clothing too. His, when not in his priestly wear, weren't at all like
everyone else's now. Hair had changed too. Length. Colour even.
Tattoos and piercings. No, he didn't call it godlessness, but he did
feel it a source of rudeness. Like Soon.
She was rude.
Like Reuben MacArthy. Like Ms Rubottom's cooking.
Wait, he half
thought, why did I turn down Merriden Drive? He was suddenly struck
confused, he had walked more than a block down Merriden before
realizing his mistake. Turning back would be an admittance that he
had made the mistake, so best to continue on his way; he'll continue
down Merriden and turn on Penneton. It'll take him several more
minutes, and it'll involve several more blocks than intended, to get
back to the rectory, but all in all it'll be worth it. It'll prove he
had wanted to turn down Merriden, and that he didn't make some silly
mistake, no that couldn't be it. Even if he had. It had to be on
purpose. Yes, of course.
He continued
down Merriden, naturally, until he made it to the corner with
Penneton. The small houses had given way to a school, and of course a
playground. A small deli was situated close by, naturally, as was a
candy shop. Wasteful things, Iodine thought; other than the school
itself that is. And that included the playground.
The wind blew
again and he gritted his teeth, his lips curling back in a sneer yet
again. This time the wind was blowing straight to his face, and the
sneer met the wind. It stung, the wind. Not so much his face as his
teeth themselves being brushed against by the cold air. Refusing to
lose to a thing such as wind, Iodine's bitterness saw itself win out
over the wind, as it died down shortly. A small victory, of some
meager measure.
Heading down
Penneton further, Father Dyne, as he preferred to be called, was soon
under the shadows of more trees, and not just sycamores. It was the
park, and had he been the man to be untidy at times he would have
walked straight instead of following the winding path that cut around
and through the park in ways that meant walking around obstacles one
needn't if only they were willing to step in the mud or grass. That
is, until a strange sound came.
Buzzing. Lots
of buzzing.
An annoyingly
loud amount of buzzing from a distance.
Iodine hated
such things, flies and bees and all manner of annoying insects.
Causing him to suffer the indignity of his skin crawling, without
permission at that. To cause a flinch, or worst an itch. If there was
one thing Iodine was said to hate more than blinking, it was itching,
which was almost as bad as sneezing. It wouldn't be unusual for
Father Dyne having an itch or a sneeze to ruin a day, or what little
mood he might have been having.
Still, it was
strange. And Iodine could't let something odd be about, not without
confronting it and setting it to normality, where it belonged. Even
if that did mean, when the stubbornness was enough to allow it,
stepping on grass and mud.
As if he was to
catch his own child, had he had any, doing something he forbade, he
suddenly moved with a stomping pace. Even his posture, straight up
and vertically stiff even while walking, bent forward as he did so.
His stomach was upset, his mood was upset, and now whatever this
buzzing was he was planning to upset it greatly.
His lifted foot
wavered in the air a moment, the grounded on shook nearly giving his
leg out as he halted quite suddenly in his stompings. He could see
the source of the buzzing now.
* *
*
“What are you
drawing?” Delores Cray asked as she passed by the table where her
only daughter, Rita, was busy colouring her newest creation with
crayons, “Looks scarey.”
“It's the
honeyman.” Rita said, without stopping.
“Honeyman?
Doesn't look very sweet. Kind of scarey,” Del, as most, including
her husband, called her spoke as she leaned closer to see, “Has
Owen been letting you watch his movies again? You're going to get
nightmares like this.”
Rita merely
shook her head, “Nah,” in the casual tone her children always
seemed to have had, probably from their father, “He's not from a
movie.”
“No?” Del
couldn't help but smirk, “Then where's he from?”
“Iunno,”
Rita shrugged nonchalantly, “Probably somewhere where there isn't a
lot of people.”
“No people?
Doesn't he get lonely?”
Rita nodded, “I
think so. Probably.” she reached for the red crayon to draw and
colour a small red circle over what Del believed to be a head, “He
doesn't have friends.”
“Oh, no
friends? Then I think he is lonely.” there was a bit more caution
in Del's tone than previously, and she moved to sit down, “Ritie,”
she said, using the pet name that Rita always hated, not that she
ever showed offense, “Is your Honeyman lonely because he doesn't
have friends at school?”
“Oh,” Rita
said shaking her head, reaching for an orange crayon now, “He
doesn't go to school. He's too old for school, like you and dad.”
“Okay,” Del
nodded as she spoke, “So he's an adult?”
“Kinda.”
“Is that his
eye? He has two different colored eyes?”
“Those aren't
eyes, I don't think.” Rita responded, still not haven looked up
from her picture.
“No? What are
they?”
“They're
buttons.”
“Buttons? On
his head?” Del couldn't help but laugh.
“Uh huh.”
Rita nodded again, but this time paused and looked up, “Mom, can
people not have heads? Like, without dying?”
“Well, no
Ritie,” Del said now looking with an outwardly concerned air, “No,
they can't. Is this about- Is this about the Shiller boy? William?”
“Iunno,”
Rita said with a shrug, “It's just I don't think the Honeyman has a
head.”
“Well, you
know what I think?” the mom said getting up from the table, “I
think you have been watching Owen's movies, and I think you're going
to give yourself a nightmare if you worry too much about that… All
this nonsense about not having heads.”
Rita, after a
long pause where she even stopped her colouring, kept her head and
her voice low as she asked “Do you think they'll find them?”
“Oh,” Del
said and moved back to sit at the table, “Honey, Ritie, I'm sure
they will. They're probably… Probably just out camping or something
silly like that. Remember when Owen wanted to spend the night at the
graveyard with his friends on Halloween? We wouldn't let him, and he
snuck out? Him and Jeff, and when they couldn't get in your brother
came home, but Jeff got tired and stayed at his uncle's house without
calling anyone? Jeff's mom got worried the next day, called here
asking about Jeff and Owen?”
Rita giggled,
“And Owen got in trouble?”
“Yes, well,
of course he did,” Del was quick to respond, “But remember she
said she called everywhere? Even the police? When she called her
brother, no one answered, and she left a message and no one saw it on
the answering machine till after Jeff came home?”
“And he got
in even more trouble.” Rita giggled.
“Yes, well,
of course he did.” Del repeated, not liking how Rita seemed to
enjoy those parts of the story, “My point is they just disobeyed
and… Well…”
“Is that what
you think?” Rita asked, “That William and the others ran away?”
“Well,
maybe.” and after a slight pause she gave a stern look, “I'm
certain though their heads aren't… Well, you know. They're not cut
off if that's what you're thinking.”
“Well, well,
well-” came a voice from the kitchen, Rita's father haven finished
cleaning the dishes had come in, and in his own way gave a joking jab
at his wife's overuse of the word, “What have we here, hm? Why are
we talking about cutting off people's heads? What has Owen done this
time?”
“Nothing-
nothing.” Del quickly answered, “Your daughter is just asking a
lot of weird questions.”
“Ah. More of
Owen letting her borrow from his famous movie collection?”
“I hope not.”
Del said moving away, and with a subtle nod to the picture at the
table as she walked past, “Anyway I have to get ready for
tomorrow.”
Mr Cray moved
over and looked over his daughter's shoulder to see her drawing.
“Oh, cool
eyes.” he said.
“They're not
eyes, dad, they're buttons.”
“He has
buttons for eyes?”
The child shook
her head, continuing drawing, “Nah, they're just buttons. I think.”
“Ah, good. If
those were eyes they'd be in the wrong spot. Is that a third button?”
“Mhm.” Rita
noised with a nod.
“What's all
this?” pointing and wiggling his finger around the figure's torso,
“Looks like spider webs.”
“I think so.”
Rita said.
Mr Cray smiled
and grabbed his daughter for a tickle, “Is it because the spiders
bite him and suck his blood?”
After some
involuntary giggling, and a swift kick that bumped a chair, along
with one squeeing sound of protest, he let go for Rita to try to
compose her breath before answering “No!” a bit more delinquent
in tone, thanks of course to the unwanted ticking, “I think spiders
live there to catch the flies.”
“Oh,” Mr
Cray mused, “Because he doesn't have a head? Like a zombie? All
rotten and nasty like your aunt's cooking?”
One more
unintended giggle, “Nooo,” Rita said, “It's because he smells
sweet. Like whipped cream.”
“Oh, he
smells like whipped cream? Okay, fine, I'll accept that, but…” he
paused as if trying to find the right logic to apply, after all he
always enjoyed challenging his children's imagination, and puzzle
their own logic and foster it, “Why does he have a head there in
the drawing, if you don't think he has a head?”
“Well,” she
tried to think as if she hadn't given it much thought, “Iunno. It's
not really a head, it's, it's something else.”
“Something
else?” he smirked, “Okay, what kind of something else?”
“I think it's
meat?”
* *
*
The buzzing was
loud, but not because something of large size was making such a large
noise. It was a collective sound of many tiny and small things.
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