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[Foxaèr]

[Foxaèr]

Seventeen days......

[Fireball]

Seventeen days......

in May.......

[Angrboda]

[Fireball]

I knew a gal named April, in high school.  She was pretty nice. I might see her in October when our high school class  of '70 actually has our 50th reunion.

[arewethereyet]

Seventeen days......

[Foxaèr]

Week one of my two weeks notice complete.

[BrianSoddingBoru4]

I admire you for writing that. The few times in my life I’ve been an employee, I always left by just walking the fuck out and not coming back.

Boru

[Foxaèr]

---

I have no idea what lies beyond the door upstairs. My parents never informed me before they disappeared. Six years have passed and my only comfort has been escaping into fictional worlds provided by the written word. But I have read all the books in the library, the food supply in the pantry is running low, and I am constantly engaging in an internal argument that I simply cannot find the courage to resolve.

Staring at a blank wall, I wonder where I will disappear if I open the door and cross its threshold. Dare I follow their footsteps into the unknown? Frankly, the thought of such an experience frightens me. Yet, I also understand that I cannot realistically remain where I am for too much longer. A week at most, maybe?

A rumbling sound disrupts the quietude and draws my attention to the ceiling. It sounds as though something is happening with the air conditioning system. Having no clue as to how to maintain anything, it is likely that industrial processes will eventually decline in service. All the more reason to leave before I am left in the dark and struggling to breath while starving.

The sound continues, increasing in volume, until it passes me directly overhead. A flash of movement at the vent draws my attention. The sound ceases, for a single moment I think I perceive an eye staring back at me, and then a flurry of what appears to be fur catches the light as the rumbling sound continues into the next room.

An animal of some sort in the air duct system? This means something, at least. It means that life exists out there beyond the door. Also, not knowing what kinds of creatures live out there, I should probably be scared of what is attempting to infiltrate my sanctuary. Yet, I am more curious and excited than scared.

I follow the scurrying sounds above, going from one room to another. When the scurrying once again ceases, this time in the last room of the only home I have ever known, I hear a more enraged scurrying behind me as though something is being reckless in its travel through the ventilation system.

Is the poor creature being chased by something? My gaze immediately finds the final grate near the ceiling, and I see something flurrying about as though it comprehends its state of being trapped. A weird vocal sound accompanies its physical antics.

Whatever the creature may be, I feel compelled to save it. A memory floods into my mind, of my father having used a small handheld tool to open the grate. The tools are kept in a hallway closet, and I immediately bolt from the room as I ponder having adequate time to save the desperate creature from harm.

An inhuman cry behind me sets my heart to racing faster, but I know the creature is still safe. The predator is elsewhere and sounding almost as though it is slamming itself against the walls of the ventilation system in a senseless fervor. Which makes me think I also need to grab something to defend myself against the predator.

The supply closet, which I never have reason to enter, is at the end of a seemingly longer hallway now that I am in a hurry to get there. I imagine myself tripping over my own feet in an effort to succeed in a timely manner, my heartbeat booming in my ears, and a nervous chuckle escapes my mouth.

Breathing heavily, I finally reach the supply closet and nearly fall inside when the door effortlessly opens at the brute force of my entire weight. I manage to quickly maintain balance upon my feet as my eyes notice a formidable looking crow bar hanging on the wall at eye level.

Forget the tiny tool, I figure as I grab the iron instrument and marvel at its weight in my hand. This will do just fine.

The journey back to my parents room, frozen in time the way they left it the last day I saw them, seems to happen in the span of a single heartbeat. The terrified creature quiets itself at my return and stares at me with a single eye, as though beckoning me to rescue it posthaste.postmaster.

I am nowhere nearly tall enough to reach the grate without assistance. With the desk chair under one arm, I waddle over toward the wall where I place the chair beneath the vent. Then I step up onto the chair and stare through the slats of the vent, at which point the creature disappears from sight.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I whisper in a calm tone.

Figuring the creature has the right to be wary, I lift the crowbar and squeeze the chiseled edge through the finely narrow space between wall and plate. Once I believe that I have penetrated far enough, I pull the crowbar toward me in an effort to separate the plate from the wall. With a great deal of effort, the sound of metal on metal friction drowning out the noisy approach of the predator, eventually the plate frees itself from the wall.

The sudden release sends me toppling backward. As gravity takes hold of my body, I wonder how painful the fall will be. Trying to recall what is behind me and if there is a chance that I will bust my head open on something, I watch fearfully as the ceiling seems to greatly distance itself from me.

As the divide between myself and the ceiling increases, with it seeming as though I am going to fall for an eternity, I panic as my vision darkens. Through a narrow tunnel of perception, I watch in wonder at a furry creature that reveals itself from beneath an ever swinging grate.

Before I can see anything beyond a twitchy nose at the tip of a long snout, the darkness overwhelms me and sends me reeling sickeningly toward an unconsciousness I hope to awaken from no worse for wear than a scrape or a bruise.

---

Something new I started working on writing.

[Foxaèr]

Sometimes I will feel the tiniest twinge of discomfort in my big toe area, but so far there have been no flare-ups. I suppose I am doing something right with my new diet.