Crickets / December 2022

Crickets Fall/Winter 2022 Creative Writing, Semester 1 @ Compass Homeschool 1

2

The Jorougumo’s Toy Hospital: Chapter 1: Enough G.M. Germer, 17

"You good for nothing rodent!" Mrs. Miyake spat, shoving a plate of food in the face of her 19-year-old son Hibiki, who had just been shoved onto the floor of the dingy kitchen.

"I give you exact instructions, down to the fractions, and you still screw this meal up!" Mrs. Miyake threw the plate onto the floor, smashing it and sending sauce flying onto Hibiki's old uniform. "How am I supposed to retire when I have no heir worthy of inheriting my shop and no way of making another ever since you make Papa end his own life?!"

Hibiki didn't answer, nor did he make eye contact with his mother, until she grabbed a fistful of his shaggy black hair and forced him to look up. "You will never be able to surpass me or your Aunt Minami at this rate," she spat, "I don't know why I even gave you a chance to cook tonight."

Hibiki stared into his mother's dead black eyes. "I swear I followed it this time, Mother. I swe-" A cold hard slap was planted on his face before he could finish.

"It was not good enough for me! And if not good enough for me, then not good enough for customer!" Mrs. Miyake dragged Hibiki by his hair to the back of the restaurant and threw him out the door into the cold, mid-Autumn night. "You no cook here any longer. Clean out food scraps, then go home." She kicked the broken plate out the door before slamming it.

Hibiki gave a sigh before running a hand through his hair. Phew. Still no bald spot yet from all the tugging. He looked back up to the door, then over at the bags of trash waiting to be hoisted off to the nearest dumpster, which was a good hike away from the family restaurant. Better get going, then.

Taking two of the bags in each hand, Hibiki dragged them across the carpet of damp leaves left from noon's thunderstorm, thankful for them, as it lessened the chance of the bags getting shredded by the concrete. He walked through the dark back alley in his half of Brichester City, ignoring any shady pair of eyes who just happened to look his way. Honestly, at this point, he'd prefer

4

getting kidnapped or murdered to going back home to that woman called his mother. She probably wouldn't even put up missing person posters for him, or even notice his corpse if she ever came across it in this alleyway.

Hibiki gave another deep sigh as the weight of the trash bags began to take its toll on his poor arms. He looked up into the sky and saw the crescent moon staring down at him. He knew his father was sitting in its shadow, looking down on him. "I'll be with you soon, Father," Hibiki murmured, "you won't be alone for much longer now."

Looking back down, Hibiki saw the dumpster come into view. It was already filled to the brim with junk. Why did this one dumpster have to belong to this entire block? It was so inconvenient for everyone.

One by one, Hibiki took the trash bags and threw them up onto the growing mountain as high as he could. He missed two out of four times, but he couldn't care any less. He just kicked the bags that missed and slunk back home.

With back bowed, he crossed his arms running them over the old, filthy bandages snaking from his wrists up to his forearm. They had soaked up a lot of blood that week; so many broken plates thrown at him, so many whippings… how no one had noticed Hibiki didn't know. He was too busy wondering why he still put up with this. Oh, well. No time to ponder it now. There was his front door The key should be under the welcome mat.

Crouching down on the doorstep, Hibiki felt under the tarnished old piece of fabric, searching for the little metal trinket that could temporarily liberate him from this cold autumn night. If only he had something warmer than this stupid blue jersey tee and ratty old red scarf! And where the heck was the key?! Hibiki had felt all under the mat and he hadn't found any trace of metal. Maybe he accidentally pushed it out and didn't notice it? Turning his attention away from the rug, Hibiki searched the rest of the porch, going as far as to search for it in his mother's thorny rosebush, which had grown quite out of control. Hibiki didn't mind the new pokes and scratches on his body. What were a couple new injuries to a million old ones?

5

Well, no matter how hard Hibiki searched, he couldn't find the key. Giving up his search, he figured that he probably misplaced it. Great. One more thing for Mother to be mad about. Might as well just knock and get it over with.

Raising a fist to the door, Hibiki knocked firmly and loudly, as if he were delivering a package. After waiting a minute, nobody arrived. He knocked again, and waited again. Still nobody. Well, third time's the charm. One more knock, and still nobody came. Maybe Mother was still at the restaurant? Looking across the street to the shabby old building, he saw that every last light was off. Mother had to be home. What was she doing?

Hibiki decided to knock one more time, as loudly and as firmly as he could. BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM. He immediately regretted it, knowing it would get him into even more trouble. Oh, but the doorknob was already turning. At least she finally answered the door

The front door of the old house flew open, barely even making Hibiki flinch, as this action towards doors was very common for his mother

Mrs. Miyake stared Hibiki down once more. "What are you doing here?" she asked bluntly.

"You said I had to take out the trash, then go home," Hibiki stated. "Well, it's all gone now, and I'm home."

Mrs. Hibiki continued her glaring. Suddenly without a warning, she shoved Hibiki out into the street. "I change my mind," she snapped. "I slave around all day while you give me headache. You are burden to me, not son. Get out and find a more suitable place for your scumbag self to live." The door slammed shut, echoing throughout the street like Mrs. Miyake's words echoed in Hibiki's head. Burden. Scumbag. She didn't really mean that, right? No, she was probably just upset about him screwing up the meal! It was an accident.

His mind suddenly in a blended frenzy of anger and anxiety, Hibiki ran back up to the door and began mercilessly pounding on it. "MOTHER!" he cried. "LET ME IN! I WON'T BE A BURDEN ANYMORE! THE MEAL WAS AN ACCIDENT, I SWEAR! PLEASE! PLEASE, LET ME IN!"

6

A window above Hibiki suddenly opened and Mrs. Miyake charged out. With a demonic expression of animosity on her face, she let out an inhuman screech:

"GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

Hibiki only had enough time to get a glimpse of his mother before something hard and heavy clocked him square on the forehead, sending him tumbling to the streets again.

The asphalt road tore through Hibiki's old bandages and skin as he slid onto the road. He fell limp, laying there for at least a good few seconds before returning to his senses. Looking to his right, he saw what had hit him.

A large, sharp stone as big as his fist. And a part of it was oddly red.

Red? Red?! Wait, and it had hit him! Did that mean--

Bolting upright, Hibiki placed a hand on his forehead… and winced in pain. He quickly withdrew his hand, and felt lightheaded at the sight of his entire palm painted the same red hue as the rock.

Blood. Hibiki's blood. His own mother had just struck him with a rock. Gazing back up at the window, Hibiki saw it closed and locked, with all the lights out.

Hibiki's own mother had just… kicked him out. Disowned him. And without even giving him anything to help him while on his own.

Hibiki felt numb. His own mother just betrayed him. His. Own. Mother His. Own. Mother.

CRASH! Hibiki didn't even have time to think about what he'd done before he heard glass break. Before he knew it, he had thrown the rock at his mother's restaurant, breaking the window. Then, without another thought, Hibiki raced into the night. He had had enough.

Ignoring his injuries, Hibiki ran all the way through the city as city lights began turning on and night owls began marching to and fro, neither caring a

7

feather nor a fig for his condition. Hibiki didn't care either. Right now, he just wanted to run.

Hibiki ran and ran and ran, blood loss and fatigue slowly chipping away at his stamina, but he still pressed on. When he was going to collapse and die, he wanted it to happen somewhere nobody even knew existed. He didn't know where that place was, so he just kept running until he found it.

Absentmindedly, Hibiki ducked down a dark alley and kept following it. It twisted and wound around like a ball of yarn, but it only went one way, so Hibiki followed it.

After a few minutes of what now had become a tired jog, Hibiki reached the end of the alleyway, emerging at the city border. Past chain link fence was a large, open field, filled with wildflowers. Hibiki could smell them, their aroma being blown his direction by the Autumn winds, which now felt a little calmer, as if they were calling him to the field. "Doesn't sound like a bad place to bleed out," Hibiki told himself, trudging out of the alley and up to the fence.

Hibiki craned his head up, staring at the fence. It dwarfed him, which was saying a lot since Hibiki was quite tall. It would be hard to scale in his condition, but he was determined to do it.

He clutched the chain link fence with his hands and began scaling it. As if his stamina wasn't drained enough, it was a long and tedious climb, and Hibiki's limbs almost gave out once or twice, nearly sending him back to the ground. But he persisted and managed to heft a leg over the top of the fence. There, he sat for a little while, taking in the scenery.

The field was like an ocean of color. Every inch you looked at was painted with wildflowers of the most beautiful kind. Hibiki descended into the night-bathed palette, letting the blood of his wounds mix with the yellows, purples and whites.

Hibiki felt like he was already dead. This was the afterlife. A calm, peaceful place to finally rest. He walked through the field of flowers, leaving behind the bright and blaring Brichester City, ready to go to the crescent moon and meet his father again.

8

Hibiki walked and walked and walked deeper and deeper and deeper into the field, lost in its glory. He hoped that his body would give life to more beauty like this.

Hibiki gave an innocent, childlike laugh, and his legs finally gave out. He quickly was submerged in the flowers, his face resting against cold dirt. Surprisingly much more comfortable than an actual bed.

Hibiki rolled onto his back and stared up at the crescent moon, now hovering directly above him. "I'm going home, Father," Hibiki sighed as he shut his eyes.

"I'm going home."

9

10

excerpts from class prompts

FaithLustig, 16

fromtheprompt‘LONELYDESERT’

Sand. Freaking sand . Damnit, she wanted to burn all the sand in the world and never ever see sand again, let alone have it in every crevice of her clothes and body Sand sucks Screw sand She was going on a trip to the polar ice caps if she survived this Maybe move to Antarctica. Become a penguin. Get eaten by a polar bear. Et cetera. She stumbled, more sand dumping into her over-ﬁlled sneakers. She’d given up on them a long time ago. She stopped completely, wiping the sweat from her face and giving her bra a tug to release the sand still clinging to her sticky skin from the last accidental tumble down a sand dune

Staring out into the vastness of the desert she’d been dropped in only served to make her want to curl up and burrow into the ground like a scorpion, so she had taken to just staring down at the sand instead. Hence why she wanted to never ever see it again, and why she had sand in her bra. Because, unfortunately, in avoiding the soul-annihilating loneliness of seeing the desert stretching on for as far as her tired eyes could see, her balance was not the best The sand seemed to twirl around her feet, blending together like someone had done an impressionist painting of the glittering sand and then let their ﬁve-year-old run his dirty hands in circles through the still-wet paint.

Sycamores

Sycamores, no matter where or when I see them, will always make me think of home. They love water and since I grew up a five-minute drive from the Potomac river and a thirty-second walk from a creek, they were always there, the limbs like pale, twisting bones at the top before winding down to bark speckled like army camouflage. They were always skeletons, even when green and decorated, looming titans that I could stare up at for hours on end. I’ve always liked to think of them as protectors, like leftover witchcraft from women who knew they weren’t permanent so decided to leave something that was I could easily believe they were that old There’s some indescribable magic to looking at them, especially on cold fall days when the air feels like stepping on a dry leaf witching weather. I don’t live near a creek anymore, but every time I see a sycamore, boney branches stretching toward the sun, pure as cream, that same magic flows in my chest for a moment, and it feels like coming home

Flowers

“Pink roses”

11

“Pink?”

“A pink rose means gentle.”

“Oh”

She tucks the ﬂower behind her ear as the wind blows through the garden, rustling her dress and leaving the plants swaying softly as if dancing to a silent waltz.

“And what do these mean?” The daisies shine under her ﬁngers, white petals reﬂecting the sun.

“Innocence.”

A breath between them, hands brushing as they pass over the tulips “And these?”

Red tulips, “I love you. ”

inspiredbyDegas’“Dancer”:

Back straight, feet together, turned out. Begin. He watches her as she dances, a swirling, twirling silhouette of grace, slender legs and arms gliding through the air She’s enchanting, like watching a bird, and he can’t move his eyes away Her smile is so bewitching throughout it all that he’d swear he saw, from the corner of his vision, the shadow of wings stretch across the stage behind her.

anexcerptfromDeadline, aLuciminalsshortstory:

I have a week left and death trots behind me, a shadow in the corners of my vision. It’s followed me with more persistence as the day has neared, I’ve watched it lurking in alleyways, slinking through the streets unseen by everyone but me Lucky me

I’d considered naming it when it ﬁrst started haunting me but decided that was a bit disrespectful. Best not to dance too close with death. I’ve already made an appointment for that later, anyhow.

As my seventh-to-last day comes to a close, I watch it slink back into an alley, red eyes staring unblinking into mine, and I pick up my ﬁnds for the day and start my walk home ***

Six days left I could be crying in a corner now, but I’m not I never do I’ve never been one for the whole “woe is me ” routine Well, that’s not completely true I’ve been known for a good ol’ mental breakdown every now and again, but living in a world like the one I’m stuck in tends to do away with lamentation and brooding real quick. Dramatically posing on a rooftop at sundown with a picture of your dead family members and-slash-or a romantic partner is useless when you still have to get oﬀ the roof every day and continue living.

12

Sure, a lot of people I know knew have died. It comes with the whole magical apocalypse territory But, every day, I still get out of the pile of blankets that I’ve taken to calling my bed, pick up my bag, and get to work

No time to think about death when you’re trying to extricate a glowy purple stone from a pile of possibly explodey junk. Just kidding! There's a lot of time. All the time. Death and I are buddies now.

13

Red Piece excerpts from class prompts by

Ruby Dews, 11th grade

from the first line of Stand By Me

I was 12 going on 13 the first time I saw a dead body, and 27 going on 28 the first time I was one. Corpse number one of my life was a woman huddled in an alleyway, dead in the coldest San Francisco winter I could remember–it still holds that title today There was nobody there to stop me from looking, and I crouched down to get a better view, noticing how her closed eyes made her almost pass for sleeping. Some part of me wanted to give her my coat, but the more logical part, the part that understood about death, knew that a child-sized ski jacket wasn’t going to do much to help her now.

I wonder if anybody thought something like that about me, that day I was sprawled on booze-sticky concrete where there should have been people to catch my stage dive.

from the prompt “sitting in clock ticking silence”

The clock drowns everything in its ticking, save the whirring inner machinery of Anya’s thoughts. She supposes it’s meant to flood a room, to make you forget you were ever anywhere but here Its pendulum draws the eye, arcing in fluid motions behind the glass pane She wants to punch through, grab it, make the whole system grind to a halt.

Her companion doesn’t appear to harbor the same ideas of violence against an inanimate object He hasn’t changed positions since they got here–back straight, legs crossed, more a statue than a man if it weren’t for his breathing and the faint thrum of his heartbeat, seen more than heard. She is only able to detect it in the absence of her own, and through many long years of learning what to look for

Somebody opens a door, calls a name she does not know, and a stranger rises and disappears into the hallway Her companion checks his watch without moving anything except his eyes A television hums in some far-off corner, its signals trying their damndest to cut through the ticking but still barely audible. She pushes her bare feet into the carpet and wishes it was grass.

The door opens again, and the somebody calls another name, but it’s her companion who stands this time, taking her arm with fingers almost as cold as her own

14