Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site


Seeing as how I have the attention span of a beaver on LSD, and have been unable to post anymore than 3 chapters of any novel, I have decided to stick to short stories for a time.

Perhaps I could put them together. Sort of like a collection. Have any of you read The House on Mango Street? It would sort of be like that mixed with American Psycho.

Yeah. Win.


Submitted:Nov 22, 2010    Reads: 42    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


The light in their window stays on all night. I know nothing about them really, except that they go to church (usually) with me and my parents. I've observed during our moments together that they are old - probably mid-70s, but that effect can be created with make-up - and they hardly ever talk. In fact, I don't think I've ever heard either of them speak.
They say that their name is Witherson (or, at least, other people say that they say that- they never actually "say" anything themselves). I don't believe it for a second; nay, not even a milisecond.
I often will watch that window from within my room. They live right across the street from me, so espionage missions are actually quite simple. I usually set my CD-player to the side and play my music quietly as I watch. Mr. Witherson (although, as I explained earlier, this is not his true identity) looks out that window all night.
Every once in a while, when a car passes by (which is not very often, seeing as how he only does his work at night- probably to avoid being detected), he will disappear from his perch for a second. He returns a minute later. I can't exactly see where he goes or what he does, but I was able to put two-and-two together, and now it's fairly obvious.
Mr. and Mrs. Witherson (still going by that alias) are secretly Soviet spies. When Mr. Witherson disappears from the window, that's when he contacts his evil Soviet leader to detail the license-plate numbers of the passing vehicles. They then add it to their top secret government Intel database.
Mrs. Witherson, in the meanwhile, sleeps. They take turns going through a strict regimen. Mr. Witherson sleeps during the daylight hours, so as to have the energy to take over car-duty all night long; Mrs. Witherson stays up all day by the front door, turning away anyone who might be wishing to contact Mr. Witherson.
They think they're doing a good job covering their backs. But they don't know about me. They're probably going through their agenda now, blissfully unaware of my constantly growing knowledge regarding their schemes.
And now they have finally made the last mistake. They have unwittingly placed their king in a position that is three spots above and one spot to the left of my knight. Or one spot above and three spots to the right if you prefer. Definitely not three spots behind and one spot to the left though - Even they wouldn't make that foolish of a mistake.
They have invited my parents and me over for dinner (via written invitation - I assume that they do not speak English).
I can imagine the night already, with vivid clarity. My parents will walk in, followed by myself, and we will proceed to place our coats and jackets in the area that they say we are allowed to place our coats and jackets. We will then be led to the dining room, where they will have a traditional Soviet meal prepared for us, along with three liters of Vodka for us to follow it down with.
I will sit and eat perhaps half of the meal, taking careful precautions to make sure it's not poisoned first, and then I will stand up and ask where the bathroom is located. Upon being given directions (even if it is just a casual hand gesture to the general direction of the restroom, for remember, they do not speak) I will walk away.
Then, while they are still eating and pretending to be interested in my parents' discussion, I will silently steal into the basement, where I will find their evil Soviet death-machine. I will take several snapshots to label and send to police later. I will make sure to point out to officials the parts of the device used for stealing the souls of children and various household pets. If the switch is easily-reachable (or plug, if they're aiming for a more classic death-machine), I will shut off the device.
But perhaps that will upset them. Perhaps the disabling of their machine will disturb their senses, and they will rush downstairs to find me. This is an obstacle that can be easily overcome. I will simply use my kung-fu skills to defeat my Ruskie foes (I was a purple belt in my eighth-grade martial arts class).
I will then gather my parents together, I will explain what is happening, and we will run outside. I will develop the photographs as soon as possible, as my parents make sure the couple does not catch me.
After that, all that will be left is the simple matter of taking the evidence to the local law enforcement headquarters. The Withersons will be sent to FBI prison (about 10 times as strict as regular prison). I will be awarded the key to the city, and will proceed to bask in the glory and adoration that follows suit. Maybe I'll even get to sing the National Anthem at the Red Sox game. That would be so cool.
I can hardly contain all this excitement. My birthday was just last week, and already 27 is turning out to be a good year. Best wishes.




0

| Email this story Email this Short story | Add to reading list



Reviews

About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.