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fuzzybluemonkeysI like it but I'm not sure the format and tenses work outside my demented little mind:
The End.
The House.
Her grandfather built the house. He made it strong to withstand the elements. He made it stronger to withstand… other things. Runes and sigils are carved into every available surface. The windows and doors are masterpieces of warding. If a culture considers it a symbol of protection, he has carved it there in the wood. He's carved her name as well; in every alphabet he can find.
Her mother is dead, like the mother before her, and the one before that. But this time, Grandpa says, this time will be different.
Every November 2nd for as long as she can remember she has sat in the center of a chalked out pentagram, surrounded by a circle of salt and guarded by Grandpa and Great Uncle Dean. Great Uncle Dean is very fond of his full title. Something about being called great, he says.
The Chair.
She doesn't remember her mother, who burned up on the ceiling, but she remembers her father, who sat in the chair. Who came home late at night, if at all, smelling of sweat and smoke and gunpowder. And when she tells him she thinks there's a monster in her closet, the look in his eyes scares her more than anything that might be lurking behind her clothes. He teaches her what he was taught by his father, who was taught by the father before that.
Her father sat in the chair while she propped herself up in bed and fired six bullets into her closet.
The Car.
There wasn't a monster in her closet. The Winchesters buy salt by the bucketful and it's not for giving a '67 Impala traction in the snow. The old Chevy is unlike any other car she's seen. Its engine was replaced long ago, its axles and wheels updated, but the frame that is older than Great Uncle Dean is the same. Rusted and dented yet somehow still whole.
They put her father in the trunk the night he died. Grandpa holds her in the backseat, rocking her back and forth, telling her it's okay to cry as hot tears stream down his face and onto the top of her head. He doesn't even notice when Great Uncle Dean calls him Sammy.
The Guns.
She lost her father to a skinwalker. A pack of werewolves took Grandpa and Great Uncle Dean. Grandpa went down first. Great Uncle Dean knocked her to the ground. With a gun in each hand, he unerringly fired silver bullets into each heart. She picked off the few that went after her, but mostly they'd converged on Great Uncle Dean, ripping him up as he killed them all. Great Uncle Dean uses his last words to ask if Sammy is okay. He isn't.
For years she had begged to be allowed to go hunting on her own. When she realizes every hunt will be on her own, she throws up.
The Ceiling.
She sits in the center of a chalked out pentagram, surrounded by a circle of salt and guarded by no one. She wonders if it will come when there's no one left to drip blood on as she scuffs the lines of the pentagram with her shoe and gets a broom to sweep up the salt.
All that night and into the day she stares at the ceiling wondering what it will be like to be pinned up there, burning.
She is exhausted from fear but afraid to sleep. Afraid she might miss it. She dozes in fits and starts until she wakes up in the early morning of November 3rd. She isn't sure whether to laugh or cry.
Years later she will fall in love with a man who will die burning on the ceiling.
The End.
The House.
Her grandfather built the house. He made it strong to withstand the elements. He made it stronger to withstand… other things. Runes and sigils are carved into every available surface. The windows and doors are masterpieces of warding. If a culture considers it a symbol of protection, he has carved it there in the wood. He's carved her name as well; in every alphabet he can find.
Her mother is dead, like the mother before her, and the one before that. But this time, Grandpa says, this time will be different.
Every November 2nd for as long as she can remember she has sat in the center of a chalked out pentagram, surrounded by a circle of salt and guarded by Grandpa and Great Uncle Dean. Great Uncle Dean is very fond of his full title. Something about being called great, he says.
The Chair.
She doesn't remember her mother, who burned up on the ceiling, but she remembers her father, who sat in the chair. Who came home late at night, if at all, smelling of sweat and smoke and gunpowder. And when she tells him she thinks there's a monster in her closet, the look in his eyes scares her more than anything that might be lurking behind her clothes. He teaches her what he was taught by his father, who was taught by the father before that.
Her father sat in the chair while she propped herself up in bed and fired six bullets into her closet.
The Car.
There wasn't a monster in her closet. The Winchesters buy salt by the bucketful and it's not for giving a '67 Impala traction in the snow. The old Chevy is unlike any other car she's seen. Its engine was replaced long ago, its axles and wheels updated, but the frame that is older than Great Uncle Dean is the same. Rusted and dented yet somehow still whole.
They put her father in the trunk the night he died. Grandpa holds her in the backseat, rocking her back and forth, telling her it's okay to cry as hot tears stream down his face and onto the top of her head. He doesn't even notice when Great Uncle Dean calls him Sammy.
The Guns.
She lost her father to a skinwalker. A pack of werewolves took Grandpa and Great Uncle Dean. Grandpa went down first. Great Uncle Dean knocked her to the ground. With a gun in each hand, he unerringly fired silver bullets into each heart. She picked off the few that went after her, but mostly they'd converged on Great Uncle Dean, ripping him up as he killed them all. Great Uncle Dean uses his last words to ask if Sammy is okay. He isn't.
For years she had begged to be allowed to go hunting on her own. When she realizes every hunt will be on her own, she throws up.
The Ceiling.
She sits in the center of a chalked out pentagram, surrounded by a circle of salt and guarded by no one. She wonders if it will come when there's no one left to drip blood on as she scuffs the lines of the pentagram with her shoe and gets a broom to sweep up the salt.
All that night and into the day she stares at the ceiling wondering what it will be like to be pinned up there, burning.
She is exhausted from fear but afraid to sleep. Afraid she might miss it. She dozes in fits and starts until she wakes up in the early morning of November 3rd. She isn't sure whether to laugh or cry.
Years later she will fall in love with a man who will die burning on the ceiling.
so like sam is grandpa
Date: 2005-11-13 12:15 am (UTC)this is cute if mildley sueish the end makes perfect sense that the curse would carry so her bf is on the celling not her were does nov 2nd come from is that important or did u make it up
i like the thing about the monster in the closet "the look in his eyes scares her more than anything that might be lurking behind her clothes." thats really spooky i like this story alot but u have to be careful with the random relatives of main charters u do it right but it is offten a sue (sorry i read god awful fanfic to much they r overly critical)
basicaly i like the story i dont know anything about tenses but the warewolf bit is choppy although the is sammy ok thing is uber sweet
is that enough concrit lol
nov 2nd
Date: 2005-11-13 05:00 am (UTC)