#Ibis. Why must you never listen to what I ask you to do. GO BACK TO YOUR ROOM YOUNG LADY

[mylove-thresher]

@gorygirllovesart panache cottage fugue eau so far (they’re never getting their names spelled right bc I feel like it.)

[thedyingmoon]

***

"Ave Maria! Jungfrau mild, erhöre einer jungfrau flehen, aus diesem felsen starr und wild soll mein gebet zu dir hin wehen, zu dir hin wehen. Wir schlafen sicher bis zum morgen, ob menschen noch so grausam sind. O jungfrau, sieh der jungfrau sorgen, o mutter, hör ein bittend kind!"

"Ave Maria! Jungfrau mild,..."

The people of the church never ceased praying since news of the Devil Hunters' demise and the rise of the True Demon reached them.

The innocent people of that country in the west, or what remained of them, all huddled close to the altar, joining the endless prayer vigil with personal prayers of their own, hoping for some kind of a saviour that would come down and rescue them.

Kyrie, who watched over the children, was inside that church.

"Sshh, it's okay." The woman cooed, reassuring them to, at least, keep them calm, for they haven't stopped crying for the last half hour.

And who could blame them? Multiple lasers of destruction were raining down from above, killing hundreds, if not thousands, of people.

Despite her vigilant and reliable façade, Kyrie felt really sick.

She closed her eyes, holding back the tears that threatened to spill. Negative thoughts plagued her mind all day, about the genocide, the inevitable end,...

... the life of her one true love and,...

The screams and noises outside grew louder and louder as the massacre ensued. And, just when the disturbing noises drew closer and closer, the heavy wooden doors of the church burst open, and in came a group of six to eight feet tall gargoyle - like creatures whose mouth and claws were dripping with blood,...

... blood of the people they massacred.

At the mere sounds of these creatures of darkness, the people of the church made their prayers louder, hands clasped and knees bent.

"Ave Maria! Jungfrau mild, erhöre einer jungfrau - !"

The Demons laughed and howled, mocking the defenseless.

"GOTT IST NICHT HIER!" The tallest and most horrfying of the horde boomed, its voice engulfing the whole room in hopelessness and making the younger ones cry even louder. "PANDÄMONIUM,... IST GEKOMMEN! IHR ALLE WERDET,... STERBEN!"

An old Priest bravely came forward despite his trembling knees, holding up his crucifix in hopes of warding off the Demons.

"Sáncte Michael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio,..."

The enemies fell silent, looking at each other, confused of what's going on. The priest took this as an opportunity to keep praying.

"Cóntra neqúitiam et insídias diáboli - "

One by one, the enemies started laughing at his words, clearly not affected by his prayer.

With sweat running cold and courage slowly diminishing, the poor old Priest went on, "... ésto p - p - præsídium. Ímperet ílli Déus - "

One of the Demons came forward and mockingly uttered the prayer with the frightened Priest. "... SÚPPLICES DEPRECÁMUR: TUQUE, PRÍNCEPS MILÍTIÆ CÆLÊSTIS - "

"SATANAM!" The Demons bellowed in unison, shaking the faith of everyone in the room, including the now crying Priest, who started to urinate involuntarily.

The old one wiped his tears. Despite the Demons' machinations, he went on, still holding his crucifix up high. "... aliósque spíritus malígnos, qui ad perditiónem animárum pervagántur in múndo,..."

One of the Demons bent low, reaching the Priest's face, and howled, spraying his spit on the poor man's face,

"VENITE IGITUR DESCENDAMUS ET CONFUNDAMUS IBI LINGUAM EORUM UT NON AUDIAT UNUSQUISQUE VOCEM PROXIMI SUI!"

The man started weeping, unable to finish his prayer. Then, the Demon grabbed his body with one hand and lifted him off the ground, earning screams and panic from the people.

"LAUF!" The Priest shrieked for the last time as the Demon lifted him. "LAUF!"

Kyrie grabbed the children and ran as fast as she could with them, not once looking back when the Demons started feasting on the Priest and the people nearby. She hid with them, suppressing her tears and hoping for some form of a miracle.

"Nero,..." she muttered, her eyes shut and her arms around the frightened children. "... please,..."

Then, it came: a Demon who found them, its drool dripping, its menacing red eyes looking down at them like they were some meals on a buffet.

"FOUND YOU!"

...

The remains of the Dreadnought finally fell from the sky, its parts crumbled and destroyed.

Nero pushed back some fleshy debris and looked down at the two people he was protecting with his translucent pair of blue wings. He changed back to his mortal form and supported Dante as he allowed himself to collapse on the ground, the dying girl still on his arms.

"We can't do this! We're all gonna die here!" The youth barked, unable to accept Dante's condition. The wound he received from Vergil was not healing, and he was losing a lot of blood.

“YOU’RE WRONG!” Dante fumed as his hand automatically went to his wounds, wincing with unbearable pain. “Listen to me, kid: you’re the only one left here who could stop my stupid brother.”

“I can’t beat your brother! Not like this - ”

“Then, take this!” The older man snapped, shoving his sword towards the young one. “That’s,… the Devil Sword Dante. Use it to defeat,… Vergil!”

Nero looked at the sword in his hands, still trying to process everything that’s going on. “I can’t accept this! You’re his family! You’re supposed to be the one who must defeat - !”

“AND SO ARE YOU! Vergil - V - is your father! I won’t last,… much longer!” Dante wheezed. “If you don’t want to do it for me, then do it for (Y/N)! You must,… beat some sense out of your old man for,… HURTING HER! AARRGGHH!”

“Hey!” Nero spluttered as he witnessed how the once strong Dante spout out blood, the life leaving his body. “Take it easy,…”

“Swear to me you’ll beat Vergil!”

The youth glanced into his uncle’s worried eyes, searching for some kind of hope in them.

But, there was none.

Dante, the Legendary Devil Hunter, was dying.

Nero grasped the sword like it was his, looked at Dante for one last time, and nodded. He also looked at the girl on Dante’s arms. It seemed that all hope has finally left her, as well.

“No offense here but, Devil Sword Dante sucks ass. Devil Sword Nero sounds better.”

“Whatever.” Dante whispered, his eyelids dropping and his breathing getting shallower. “Do it for the girl,… capisce?”

“Sure.”

The man smiled and wrapped his arms around her for one last time. He closed his eyes and breathed his last.

Nero felt a strange sting in his eyes but, he refused to let his emotions overwhelm him.

After all this time, he finally found out he has a family.

But, Dante was already gone,…

He turned away and ran in pursuit of the man who was the cause of all this shit.

With the Devil Sword Dante on his hand, and the Red Queen and the Blue Rose at his disposal, Nero morphed back into his Devil form and launched in the air, looking for Vergil, all the while seeing the massive casualties of the Hunters on the ground below him.

And just when he was about to speed past them, he noticed a familiar - looking white vehicle making its way past the mountain of Demon and human carcasses.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Nico uncharacteristically cursed as she drove and avoided multiple fallen debris from both the Dreadnought and some destroyed buildings.

“This isn’t supposed to happen!” Lady, who was in the vehicle together with her and Trish, protested. “Why is Shinano Musashi still alive?!”

“Dante, and everybody else, lost! And that’s about it.” Trish asserted, finding her own assumptions, and her untimely headache, hard to swallow.

“We can’t lose right now! That Demon’s on a rampage! Everybody will die!” Lady prodded, still willing to fight despite their huge loss.

“NO ONE’S LEAVING THIS TRAILER UNTIL I SAY SO!” Nico howled as she drove faster, trying to protect the two ladies in her own way.

All of a sudden, they heard a hard thud on the roof of the vehicle, like something heavy landed on it. Then, it was followed by some knocks, like it was begging to be let in.

“What’s that?” Lady questioned.

“I have a fair idea who.” Nico answered as she hit the break. Moments later, Nero entered the trailer, looking devastated and disturbed. “Hey, psycho! What happened out there?!”

“Dante’s dead.”

At the youth’s bombshell of an announcement, the three women fell silent, unable to grasp the truth.

“It can’t be,…” Lady mumbled, eyes wide with shock.

“(Y/N)’s still holding on but, not for long, I know. And V,…” Nero went on, eyes narrow in sheer wrath. “He’s the cause of all of this.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Trish asked, partially expecting V to be somehow involved with everything that was happening.

The young Devil Hunter explained everything, from the moment V took (Y/N)’s powers by stabbing her and the fact that he was Dante’s long lost twin brother, Vergil. And that he was, unfortunately, his own father.

And as the three women heard about the real ShiShi waking up as a true and hideous Demon due to her “sister” being wronged by the man she loved, they couldn’t help but wince in total frustration and disappointment.

“So, V chose power and ended up angering ShiShi in the process.” Nico stated, feeling nothing but anger towards the man she once trusted. “Sounds like a bitch to me. Your father, I mean.”

“Where is V - Vergil, now?” Trish asked.

“I’m not sure but, I have a hunch.”

Just as Nico was about to start the trailer, they heard a fresh batch of frightening explosions nearby - a sign that (Y/N)’s sister was wreaking havoc once more with her lasers of obliteration.

“If we linger here for a bit longer, we’ll all be fried!” The Artisan yelled as she began driving as fast as she could. “Nero, where do you think your old man is?!”

“Fleminger’s mansion!”

The woman’s eyebrows furrowed. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her freckeled nose and nodded. “We’ve got some major bitch ass - kicking to do.” She said as she skillfully grabbed a cigarette stick from her pocket, flipped it, and caught it with her chapped lips. “I’m allowed to smoke now because the girl who forbade me to do it is gone! Nero!”

The youth obliged, grabbing the lighter from his pocket and lighting up the Artisan’s cigar. “Can we get there in five minutes?”

Nico tilted her head and smirked. “Bitch, please. We’ll get there in three!”

“NICO, BEHIND US!” Lady shrieked as she looked at the window, signalling for an incoming attack.

As the bumpy ride went on, the woman has succesfully performed turns, sometimes, flips, with the vehicle, skillfully dodging all of ShiShi’s deadly lasers that seemed to target them and them alone. And a few heart - stopping moments later, Fleminger’s mansion finally came into view.

“We’re gonna make it!” Lady exclaimed but, her positivity was cut short as soon as they noticed Trish pointing at something behind them. The laser, which stayed in one place for a moment, grew wider at thrice its regular size.

“No,… way,…” Nico uttered as she glanced at it on her side mirror. Her eyes grew even wider as the laser chased after them, obliterating everything in its path.

“NICO, IT’S GONNA CATCH UP TO US!” Lady yelled at her.

“I KNOW!” Nico yelled back as she drove faster than ever before. “(S/N), STOP ATTACKING US! WE’RE NOT YOUR ENEMIES!”

“(S/N)?!” Nero inquired as he looked at the Artisan in confusion.

“(Y/N)’s sister. She told me.” The woman answered.

“Whatever her name is,” Trish began in a not - so - calm voice. “… we’re not gonna make it! (S/N) wants all of us dead!”

And she was right: the massive crimson light was inches away from the vehicle, already disintegrating parts of it.

Nico inhaled deeply, contemplating her next move for a few seconds. And when she finally exhaled, filling the air around her with cigarette smoke, she spoke, “Nero, on my signal, I want you to jump out of this trailer. Lady, Trish, you’ll do whatever it takes to get Nero to safety. Is that clear?”

“Hey, hey, hey, what are you talking about?!” Nero started to argue when Trish grasped his shoulder firmly. The youth turned just in time to see the two female Devil Hunters nodding at him.

“Girls, you’ve got to be joking - !”

“IS THAT CLEAR?!”

“We understand!” Trish and Lady answered.

“Okay.”

“You’re being stupid and reckless! I can’t let you die here! I won’t allow it!”

“STOP BEING A BITCH AND LISTEN TO ME FOR THE LAST TIME!” Nico screamed at him in anger, her sight not once straying from the road. “You’re the only one left who could do this! Better us than you!”

“She’s right. We don’t have much time!” Trish added.

“GUYS!” Lady shrieked in utter panic, pointing at the back, or what’s left, of the vehicle, now swiftly being swallowed by the light.

“LADY, OPEN THE DOOR! TRISH, DO WHATEVER IT TAKES TO STOP THAT LIGHT FROM REACHING NERO! AND WHEN SHE DOES, NERO, I WANT YOU TO JUMP AS FAR AWAY FROM HERE AS YOU CAN!”

“GOTCHA!”

“GOT IT!”

Nero watched helplessly as the women did their jobs, of Lady opening the door, of Trish positioning herself in front of the light, her hands sparkling with what’s left of her demonic power, and of Nico driving as fast as she could.

Determined to the bone, the Artisan made one last trick and launched the vehicle in mid air. She turned to them and uttered her final command.

“NOW!”

Trish held up both her hands and channeled every bit of her power to the light, doing everything she can to hamper its movement.

“NERO, PLEASE!” Lady pleaded as she waited for the youth to oblige.

“Y - you,…” the young Devil Hunter stuttered in disbelief, unable to protect them, himself, despite having adequate power.

“PUSH THAT KID OUT OF HERE! AAHH!” Trish howled in pain as the light festered her hands, then her forearms.

Lady made one last effort to push Nero out of the trailer, away from them,…

… away from the very last people who placed, yet, another great burden upon his shoulders.

The last things he saw on the trailer as he gave it one last look were Lady’s worried different - colored eyes, Trish’s serene smile, despite her half - gone body,…

… and Nico flipping the bird as she spat her very last cigarette butt.

A huge explosion followed as the light finally engulfed the trailer, throwing Nero farther away from the road with its impact.

The next time he opened his eyes, everything was quiet, everything was calm,…

He couldn’t see anything,…

… except for the lifeless faces of all the people he lost within a day.

Dante, Nico, Lady, Trish,…

… and that girl,…

All because of one man’s huge blunder.

And he, a proud descendant of Sparda, was hell - bent on bringing that stupid man down to his knees,…

***

🖤 I See My Future Before Me 🖤

***

XXV.A

***

~ Special dedication to @la-vita for the German dialogue. Thank you so much. Latin dialogue by yours, truly. 🖤

~@vergils-daughter , @heaven-on-a-landslide , @beyond-the-mirror , @micaelagua , @sofia-micaela , @lessy86 , @yepps , @ehrzeth , @gxthghoulfriend , @ceruleanworld , @simmy-ships , @boundbysoul , @diabeticsugarush , and @krazy06 . 🖤

***

🖤🖤🖤

***

[unreone]

Aren't You Glad to Have a Boyfriend Like Me?

PROMPT: SERIAL KILLER

Time Taken: 42 hrs 14 min (on/off)

Program Used: IBis Paint

Word Count: 4133

♥~♥~♥~♥~♥

She beamed as I present to her my gift. An expensive perfume that she saw on a shop five days ago. She is squealing in delight at the second she recognize it.

"Oh my gosh! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!! I can't believe that you manage to buy it~

How could I even return the favor?"

I laugh at how cute she is being right now. Little did she know, I did not even spend a single cent to get it. Wait...no I actually have. Just not mine.

"Don't worry, Giggles. To see your smile is enough for me to say it's worth it."

Nice, that's a smooth one Cuddles. My remark brought a blush on her angelic face. She then pulls me into a hug, something that I expected to get but could still appreciate.

"Aww, this is why I love you my fluffybuns. I'm so glad to have a boyfriend like you!"

I smile as I pat her head. Her wonderful scent wafts in the air as I caress her soft, pink fur. Oh how much I wanted to stay like this forever. However, a ring destroys the moment.

Both of us stop and look at each other. Withdrawing, she apologize and picks up her phone from her shoulder bag. I watch her expression change from bright to neutral and then grim.

"I know I understand...I will be there as soon as I can."

She ended the call.

"Something's wrong?"

She looks at me with guilt in her eyes. I could tell that she wanted to stay a little bit longer but the call has given her a reason not to.

"I am so sorry Cuddles but I have to go. The nurses who are suppose to work right now got into an accident and Lumpy couldn't handle it all by himself at the hospital. I guess I need to start my shift early."

What a bummer. Her shift is supposed to begin five hours from now. Despite feeling unpleasant, I manage to keep my cool.

"Ah don't worry my love. I understand. Just call me when you need a backup."

"Oh Cuddles. The world will be a better place if critters are as understanding as you. See ya later then. I love you!"

She pecks me in my cheek and runs toward the location of a bus stop. I truly adore her. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I shout out my response.

"I love you more!"

She turns around and copies my volume.

"I love you more than anything!"

Oh Giggles, my love for you is so much that I'm willing to do anything for you...

I wave my hand at her as she runs away. I did not stop until she is out of my sight. I sighed and walks away. I guess I have to continue my mission early too.

Pushing the boulder away from a certain spot, I stoop to pull the hidden latch, opening the entry to a bunker.

Jumping down, I swiftly takes my bag full of supplies and a vacuum cleaner. I also wear the "job outfit" that I borrow from a certain friend that must not be named.

After climbing up the ladder carrying my props, I close the hatch and push the boulder back to its original place.

As I stroll towards the house of my next target, I found myself recounting the moments I accomplished my first goal. It was...exhilarating. The adrenaline I got is much more than the one I have while skydiving.

True, I felt remorse and a tiny bit of guilt after doing it but I'd be lying if I say I regret everything. In the end, watching how that pedobear mofo suffers from my own paws is satisfying, and that's all that matters.

Critters tends to underestimate me since I'm just a kid in their eyes. Yeah I admit that I'm immature most of the times, but that doesn't mean I'm incapable of doing serious stuff. I watch enough movies and documentaries to say I know a thing or two with slaying rivals creatively.

It all starts with swaying the prey. Luring him is unsurprisingly not that hard. I just have to send him pictures and epic one liners on his inbox at that stupid dating app and boom! Charmed. He's willing to meet me at a specific, secluded place only me and him know. Never suspecting anything for a bit. He's like a really dumb fish who suddenly bites the bait despite a hook sticking through it!

As the fool arrived at my rented apartment room, he did not see the lover of the girl he always flirts with. Instead, he sees a purple female bunny wearing a cute outfit named Toodles who is infatuated with him. I let him in and offer snacks and tea, which he blindly accepts. As he eat, we talks just as the way we do in our chat.

I remember how he makes that disgusting face at me that he dubbed as his "fierce and flirty look" from time to time.

I am keeping myself from puking at the moment as he leans forward with that breath, asking me for a dance.

Despite feeling unpleasant, I manage to keep my cool. I did not become the best actor in drama club for nothing. I have to convince him that my character is so into him. So I did what I have to do in my script.

I pull him even closer, catching him off guard and making the pathetic asshole blush. This malicious pervert flipping blush! I can't even express my repulsion against this filthy degenerate.

"Maybe I would if you finish your tea~" I muttered in perfect, feminine tone.

Oh I just really smile as I saw that he finally ingested the damn fluid into his system. He, however, thinks it's because I fell in love with him. He drinks the whole cup in one go!

He was extending his hand out to me, about to say something, but found himself unable to do so. Or do anything else at all. His hand trembles before he collapses to the floor. I giggled as he flops like a fish. His mouth is gaping as he try so hard to breathe. He looks up at me with utter confusion in his eyes. Can't talk dirty now that you're paralyzed huh sicko?

"Nothing personal Disco. It's just that I heard that you're really messing around this town. You're pretty famous for being a headache for everyone. Now, let me tell you something. This is for harassing and killing every girl you encountered ~"

I grab the kettle and pour its boiling hot contents on his chest. Oh how euphoric it was to see him writhes in pain. The scent of his burnt flesh fills the room. I was grinning ear to ear as I watch in fascination how the tea spreads all over his fur.

"And this is for assaulting my brother's girlfriend, Giggles~"

I suddenly smashed the kettle on his crotch. He would be wailing in pain at the time if his throat isn't numb. All that came out in his mouth is pitiful gurgles as he pees on the floor. I move and stand besides his ugly face. My entire body is quivering in excitement and rage as I clutch on the shattered kettle tightly.

"And this is for killing her with a fucking kettle you ignorant pimp~"

And with that, I found myself bludgeoning the shittyhead over and over again with a kettle until he resembles a squashed tomato. I keep bashing on his shattered skull even after he stopped twitching. Finally, I stepped on his heart with my heels to satisfy my ears with that squelching flesh. Then, I went to the bathroom to shower the dye away. It takes me four hours to remove the fake color entirely off my fur. Of course, I did not leave without taking his wallet.

It's been three days since the incident and I haven't seen him around, which is a good sign. What I've done is super effective. I think after all that, he wouldn't bother Giggles anymore. Heck, I am confident enough to say that he wouldn't even dare to look at any girl ... hehehe ... look. Something that my next victim couldn't do. That makes everything easier.

I found myself on front of the house I seek. I casually walk towards the doorstep and press the doorbell.

Now I would have skip Mole over since the idiot mistaken Lumpy as Giggles on their blind date. That means, my motivation of killing him is not jealousy if that's what you're thinking. No. It's something deeper than that.

His obliviousness and idiocy is what ticks me off. He killed my precious girl by literally stealing her heart with a freaking stick. Then he just throws it in a filthy thrash bag like it was nothing. Oh how much I wanted to punch him square in the face when I see him pries the door open. But I didn't.

Sounding lanky and awkward, I announced my assumed identity.

"Randell of Happy Tree Cleaners, leaving your homes squeaky clean. Our company is very sorry since we couldn't send Petunia today. However, I am here to take her place. I hope you wouldn't mind, sir."

"Oh. Of course I wouldn't mind at all lad but I think you came pretty early."

Feigning confusion, I responded to him in a shameful tone (which I applaud myself for such a convincing performance).

"Oh I truly am sorry sir. I'm still new to the job and kinda not listening to my superior when she's passing the information over the phone..."

"Ah a newbie. No, don't worry at all. I actually admire you! Working so hard, always ready to face the task at hand as immediately as possible. You're also modest. You remind me of myself back in my younger days..."

Then a long time was wasted for his flashback that I could not see. I really hate delays but I'm not rushing so I let him do his thing.

"Oh silly me. What am I thinking letting you stand outside for so long! Come, enter my humble abode young one."

I thanked him as I went inside. The contents of my shoulder bag clatters against each other for every move I make.

As he leads me to the room he thought I'd bother to clean, I am appreciating the edginess of the vacuum's flexible hose that I'm holding. I am very proud to say I assembled it myself. I have tried it on cows and boy the precision of the cut was just fascinating. I left a clean hole through the chest of the dumb animal.

My eyes are locked on his back as he talks about taking pictures of a case that an evil mouse wanted or something like that. His keys are jiggling as he unlocked the door to his kitchen. He turns around to face me.

"-anyways, here we are in the kitchen, Early Randell. You may begin your "germ extermination," as Petunia put it."

"Oh, only she could do that sir. I have a different method and it's called "trash assassination."

"Really? Sorry to break it to you son, but I believe there's no such thing that's present in this room. There is just dust and dirty dishes."

"Excuse my language sir, but I could see one standing out in the middle of the room."

"Oh my, that must be the apple that I lost a while ago. Could you please take it out?"

"It's my pleasure to do so. After all..."

In a second, I thrusts the vacuum hose on his chest. It delights me how its end easily punctures through his clothes then his flesh. The idiot didn't react at first and only notice what I'm doing when I successfully take his heart out.

"The only thrash I see in this room is you. P.S. I know what you've done to Giggles. I'll come back if you repeat it again..."

He actually tries to escape but oh its just too late.

Resistance is futile after all, no matter how much you struggle old guy.

A few seconds pass before his body finally went limp. I smile as I let go of the vacuum hose.

Whistling the theme song of this town, I grab his filthy organ off of my vacuum. I take a moment to observe how it weakly pulses on my grasp. I find it fascinating that this thing is still beating despite its raptured state.

Then I pick the note I left from and continued whistling. I dump his heart into the thrash bag filled with decomposing materials and feces. If you're wondering where the heck it came from, its hidden inside the vacuum.

Of course I didn't want his heart to rot alone so I let his body join in. It's hilarious that his body would regenerate in there. Imagine respawning covered with shit.

I take out something out of my shoulder bag. Opening his fridge, I start lacing his food with cyanide. The medicines in his cupboard also get the same treatment. A sprinkle for this, a bunch on that and I'm done.

An hour was spent of taking care of the evidence. Cleaning is boring and tiresome but I have to do it. After disassembling the vacuum, disposing my outfit, sanitizing the floor and taking a bath, I went out of the house. I casually dump the garbages in the bin and then I take my leave. Two down, few more to go.

Up next is Flippy. He may seem to be an invincible rival but everyone have Achilles's heel – and I'm about to strike it. Wait, I'm not literally saying my target is the tendon at the back of his foot. The point is I know his weakness and its pathetic.

Currently, I am on my way to the psycho's location. My ears are flattened on the side of my head because of the hood of the black robe I'm wearing. My smiling skull mask is partially obscuring my sight. I am holding a blowgun disguised as a trumpet.

Anyway, for those who don't know what the flipping pants a blowgun is, it's a long narrow tube that shoots out an arrow or dart when someone breathes into it quickly and forcefully. Its content is not a dart though. It's peanuts.

Leaping few minutes forward, I am waiting at the entrance of an alleyway. My clothing blends well in the darkness. Flippy is visiting his psychotherapist and any minute now, he would leave the building and take the path in front of me.

Flippy... he is once my bro. He used to be the man I looked up on since he is serving the military from the age of 15. I thought he was cool but what he have done states he is far from that. We accepted him in our town and boy do I cursed the day that we did.

Turns out he gains an alter ego from the war who is a sadistic, bloodthirsty demon. Giggles and I have suffered hell from his paws. Now, it's payback time.

My thoughts were silenced by a voice whose source I'm too familiar with. As he walks into the desired spot, I blow the trumpet the hardest I possibly could. He screams, obviously surprised. Wasting no time, I push a certain button which allows air to pass through the blowgun. I watch a couple of peanuts shoots straight into his throat at bullet speed. All of this happened in just two seconds.

It seems that he didn't notice what just enter his mouth since he is busy catching up his breath. He looks stupid with his pupils dilated in fear. I toss the trumpet on the ground and run into the alleyway. He follows me, trying to match my speed. Amusingly, his body did not react instantly as I expected. Maybe it's because the number is fewer than the ones he ingested at the party.

"Darn it kid, why did you-"

It's not too long before he falls because of the tripwire I set up earlier. As I hear a dull thud, I turned around and smile.

He is groaning as his lips inflate. Multiple zits appeared on his face. His allergy reaction has rendered him immobile. I take out a knife from my shoulder bag, making sure he didn't see it.

His paws are trembling as he tried to stand. I am towering besides him when his limbs puffs up like a balloon.

"Something's wrong?"

Listening to his whimpers, I could tell how much he is suffering as his body painfully swells. I smirk as I kicked his ass hard, making him squeak in pain.

"You know you deserve it, Flip. If you can't handle the consequences, then you shouldn't have done these..."

As I said that last word, I throw photographs down for him to see. He knows he's to blame for all the mangled corpses in it. In the middle of it all is Giggles with a rose puncturing through her head.

I am overjoyed when I hear him cry. Oh the taste of victory is truly sweet. As time passes, he looks like a balloon animal more than anything. His arms give up since it couldn't support his weight anymore.

He mumbles something that resembles to an apology, which is empty since I've heard him say it countless times.

"You could only pay for your sins with death."

Desperate to live, he tries to drag himself forward, hoping he could move away from me. It's amusing that such an indestructible beast lives inside this wimp. We both know that those stubby fingers never help him in this situation in any way. It only makes him more pathetic.

I then dug my dull knife into his back and watch as his skin bursts. His body contorted as unimaginable pain washed over his body.

"What? You say you want more?"

I poked his shoulder with the tip of my blade and it explodes. The walls are painted by its disgusting contents. It's like I'm playing with a living bubble wrap.

"You like pain right? Don't you enjoy this? Huh? Huh!?"

I found myself caught in a frenzied mood of hacking and slashing. His body is constantly receiving new, multiple wounds. His ugly face is squeezed against the asphalt road. His head is twitching every time I plunge my weapon into his body.

For the final act, I hit the top of his head and zip his skull open, splitting his brain apart.

Panting heavily, I laugh. I've done it! I've defeated the unstoppable force. I stand to observe my work.

I turned around and meet the eyes of a preschooler dropping his lollipop. I could tell that he was about to take my trumpet when he saw something in the darkness moves. I guess my robe is really black. Imagine a floating skull smiling down at you.

He backs away as he saw the blood dripping from my gloves. I wave hi to him and he runs away. Yep, I just scarred a child's life forever. I have a pretty good feeling that he's gonna have nightmares about a skeleton and a trumpet tonight.

Welp, time to dispose this body. Good thing there's an incinerator conveniently placed at the end of this passage.

Dragging Flippy by his foot, I hum the coffin meme tune to myself. He's not that heavy anymore since chunks of his flesh pops like a bubble earlier. Scrapes form on his skin as I pull him.

With a heave and a ho, to the furnace he go. Don't forget the knife and the costume~

I just finished disposing my stuffs when my phone plays that special ringtone. Picking it up from the shoulder bag, I greet my precious Red Ribbon.

"Heya Giggles~ How are you?"

My expression shifts from bright to grim when I hear her weakly whispers that one word.

"Help…"

This was followed by a thunderous crash and a white noise. My heart sank deep into my guts. Running out, I only have one thing in mind – save her before it's too late.

I'm not really paying attention so I collided with someone riding a bike. As my butt hits the ground, I groan.

"Gah! What are you thinking running into me like that- Cuddles?"

Looking up, it's my best friend, Toothy. As he help me stand up, I quickly steal his ride.

"What in the-"

"Sorry Toots! Emergency, I'll return it later."

Huffing and puffing, I pedal like my life depends on it. Cars are beeping as I zoom by them. I've taken sharp turns and gave heart attacks to crossing pedestrians. I didn't even bother to stop when the traffic light is red. The only thing I care about right now is to get to the hospital as soon as possible.

Smoke is rising from the horizon. It didn't take long before the building came into my view. My heart skips a beat as I see its remnants. My blood runs cold as a thought of her crushed body appears in my head.

I am preventing the tears that is burning my eyes to fall. I hop off the bicycle and run closer. I keep telling myself that I'm not yet late.

Broken glasses are scattered around. Shattered walls are laying against each other. I found an opening and force myself to fit through it. As I successfully did, I start searching for any sign of her.

I am frantically shaking the doorknobs when I heard her voice screaming for help. It sounds faint, which means she's far from were I'm at, but at least I know her direction.

I crawl under a fallen pillar then run to a door I haven't check. As I press my head against it, I hear her whimpering. I started to charge myself against it, my new attempts stronger than the last one.

Hang in there, Giggles...

Out of nowhere, something crash which makes the earth trembles. I press my ears against the door again. She's not making any sound anymore.

This prompts me to try harder. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins as I imagined the worst possible scenario. The door slammed open with the force I've applied. I can't help but stumble forward a little bit after that. There she was, six feet from where I am. I could not believe my eyes for what I'm currently seeing.

The Golden Idol is laying on the floor, crushed into dust. The crying face of my love is kissing the guy I assume is responsible for the damage of the cursed figure. A sun ray, originating from a huge hole at the ceiling, illuminates the spot where the two are standing. Her hands are around his shoulder. Giggles withdraw and mouthed the words "Thank You" to Splendid.

My whole body is trembling in rage. When did we kissed like that? Oh right! When we're fucking dead. I clutch something from my shoulder bag. I coughed loudly, announcing my presence.

The two turn to my direction. She gasp. She's saying words but I could not understand them. A plain smile is painted on my face as I quickly walks towards them. I brush pass the girl who turns me crazy in love.

Splendid chuckles and spreads his arms, expecting a hug. That's exactly what I give him...with an extra stab on his chest with my kryptonut dagger.

He's lucky because I'm not gonna do what I have in mind for him. He kneels and screams as his body quickly degrades. I snap to Giggles with a huge smile on my face...

The grasses sway with the wind. The view of the sunset in this spot is truly romantic. I sigh as I look into her eyes.

"I'm so glad that you could understand me, Giggles. I've only done all of that because of you. Now, nobody would ever bother you and we can stay like this forever~"

I smile as I pat her head. Her wonderful scent wafts in the air as I caress her soft, pink fur. Oh how much I adore her cute face.

"I know you didn't expect me to forgive you after what you've done. That's just how much I love you. I will do anything and everything just to make you smile."

I touch the spot at the end of her lips and help her to smile. After all, she couldn't done that all by herself in this state. I smiled as I remember what she said to me this morning.

"Aren't you glad to have a boyfriend like me?"

♥~♥~♥~♥~♥

Since I turned Cuddles into a killer, does this story counts as a creepypasta?

Writing this is a doozy so I hope you like it the same way that I make it. Write your thoughts down the comments!

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Scarlet Ibis

James Hurst (1960)

It was in the clove of seasons, summer was dead but autumn had not yet been born, that the ibis lit in the bleeding tree. The flower garden was stained with rotting brown magnolia petals and ironweeds grew rank amid the purple phlox. The five o’clocks by the chimney still marked time, but the oriole nest in the elm was untenanted and rocked back and forth like an empty cradle. The last graveyard flowers were blooming, and their smell drifted across the cotton field and through every room of our house, speaking softly the names of our dead.

It’s strange that all this is still so clear to me, now that the summer has long since fled and time has had its way. A grindstone stands where the bleeding tree stood, just outside the kitchen door, and now if an oriole sings in the elm, its song seems to die up in the leaves, a silvery dust. The flower garden is prim, the house a gleaming white, and the pale fence across the yard stands straight and spruce. But sometimes (like right now), as I sit in the cool, green-draped parlor, the grindstone begins to turn, and time with all its changes is ground away—and I remember Doodle.

Doodle was just about the craziest brother a boy ever had. Of course, he wasn’t a crazy crazy like old Miss Leedie, who was in love with President Wilson and wrote him a letter every day, but was a nice crazy, like someone you meet in your dreams. He was born when I was six and was, from the outset, a disappointment. Everybody thought he was going to die—everybody except Aunt Nicey, who had delivered him. She said he would live because he was born in a caul and cauls were made from Jesus’ nightgown. Daddy had Mr. Heath, the carpenter, build a little mahogany coffin for him. But he didn’t die, and when he was three months old Mama and Daddy decided they might as well name him. They named him William Armstrong, which was like tying a big tail on a small kite. Such a name sounds good only on a tombstone.

I thought myself pretty smart at many things, like holding my breath, running, jumping, or climbing the vines in Old Woman Swamp, and I wanted more than anything else someone to race to Horsehead Landing, someone to box with, and someone to perch with in the top fork of the great pine behind the barn, where across the fields and swamps you could see the sea. I wanted a brother. But Mama, crying, told me that even if William Armstrong lived, he would never do these things with me. He might not, she sobbed, even be “all there.” He might, as long as he lived, lie on the rubber sheet in the center of the bed in the front bedroom where the white marquisette curtains billowed out in the afternoon sea breeze, rustling like palmetto fronds.

It was bad enough having an invalid brother, but having one who possibly was not all there was unbearable, so I began to make plans to kill him by smothering him with a pillow. However, one afternoon as I watched him, my head poked between the iron posts of the foot of the bed, he looked straight at me and grinned. I skipped through the rooms, down the echoing halls, shouting, “Mama, he smiled. He’s all there! He’s all there!” and he was.

When he was two, if you laid him on his stomach, he began to try to move himself, straining terribly. The doctor said that with his weak heart this strain would probably kill him, but it didn’t. Trembling, he’d push himself up, turning first red, then a soft purple, and finally collapse back onto the bed like an old worn-out doll. I can still see Mama watching him, her hand pressed tight across her mouth, her eyes wide and unblinking. But he learned to crawl (it was his third winter), and we brought him out of the front bedroom, putting him on the rug before the fireplace. For the first time he became one of us.

As long as he lay all the time in bed, we called him William Armstrong, even though it was formal and sounded as if we were referring to one of our ancestors, but with his creeping around on the deerskin rug and beginning to talk, something had to be done about his name. It was I who renamed him. When he crawled, he crawled backwards, as if he were in reverse and couldn’t change gears. If you called him, he’d turn around as if he were going in the other direction, then he’d back right up to you to be picked up. Crawling backward made him look like a doodle-bug, so  I began to call him Doodle, and in time even Mama and Daddy thought it was a better name than William Armstrong. Only Aunt Nicey disagreed. She said caul babies should be treated with special respect since they might turn out to be saints. Renaming my brother was perhaps the kindest thing I ever did for him, because nobody expects much from someone called Doodle.

Although Doodle learned to crawl, he showed no signs of walking, but he wasn’t idle. He talked so much that we all quit listening to what he said. It was about this time that Daddy built him a go-cart and I had to pull him around. At first I just paraded him up and down the piazza, but then he started crying to be taken out into the yard and it ended up by my having to lug him wherever I went. If I so much as picked up my cap, he’d start crying to go with me and Mama would call from wherever she was, “Take Doodle with you.”

He was a burden in many ways. The doctor had said that he mustn’t get too excited, too hot, too cold, or too tired and that he must always be treated gently. A long list of don’ts went with him, all of which I ignored once we got out of the house. To discourage his coming with me, I’d run with him across the ends of the cotton rows and careen him around corners on two wheels. Sometimes I accidentally turned him over, but he never told Mama. His skin was very sensitive, and he had to wear a big straw hat whenever he went out. When the going got rough and he had to cling to the sides of the go-cart, the hat slipped all the way down over his ears. He was a sight. Finally, I could see I was licked. Doodle was my brother and he was going to cling to me forever, no matter what I did, so I dragged him across the burning cotton field to share with him the only beauty I knew, Old Woman Swamp. I pulled the go-cart through the saw-tooth fern, down into the green dimness where the palmetto fronds whispered by the stream. I lifted him out and set him down in the soft rubber grass beside a tall pine. His eyes were round with wonder as he gazed about him, and his little hands began to stroke the rubber grass. Then he began to cry.

“For heaven’s sake, what’s the matter?” I asked, annoyed.

“It’s so pretty,” he said. “So pretty, pretty, pretty.”

After that day Doodle and I often went down into Old Woman Swamp. I would gather wildflowers, wild violets, honeysuckle, yellow jasmine, snakeflowers, and water lilies, and with wire grass we’d weave them into necklaces and crowns. We’d bedeck ourselves with our handiwork and loll about thus beautified, beyond the touch of the everyday world. Then when the slanted rays of the sun burned orange in the tops of the pines, we’d drop our jewels into the stream and watch them float away toward the sea.

There is within me (and with sadness I have watched it in others) a knot of cruelty borne by the stream of love, much as our blood sometimes bears the seed of our destruction, and at times I was mean to Doodle. One day I took him up to the barn loft and showed him his casket, telling him how we all had believed he would die. It was covered with a film of Paris green sprinkled to kill the rats, and screech owls had built a nest inside it.

Doodle studied the mahogany box for a long time, then said, “It’s not mine.”

“It is,” I said. “And before I’ll help you down from the loft, you’re going to have to touch it.”

“I won’t touch it,” he said sullenly.

“Then I’ll leave you here by yourself,” I threatened, and made as if I were going down.

Doodle was frightened of being left. “Don’t go leave me, Brother,” he cried, and he leaned toward the coffin. His hand, trembling, reached out, and when he touched the casket he screamed. A screech owl flapped out of the box into our faces, scaring us and covering us with Paris green. Doodle was paralyzed, so I put him on my shoulder and carried him down the ladder, and even when we were outside in the bright sunshine, he clung to me, crying, “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.”

When Doodle was five years old, I was embarrassed at having a brother of that age who couldn’t walk, so I set out to teach him. We were down in Old Woman Swamp and it was spring and the sick-sweet smell of bay flowers hung everywhere like a mournful song. “I’m going to teach you to walk, Doodle,” I said.

He was sitting comfortably on the soft grass, leaning back against the pine. “Why?” he asked.

I hadn’t expected such an answer. “So I won’t have to haul you around all the time.”

“I can’t walk, Brother,” he said.

“Who says so?” I demanded.

“Mama, the doctor—everybody.”

“Oh, you can walk,” I said, and I took him by the arms and stood him up. He collapsed onto the grass like a half-empty flour sack. It was as if he had no bones in his little legs.

“Don’t hurt me, Brother,” he warned.

“Shut up. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to teach you to walk.” I heaved him up again, and again he collapsed.

This time he did not lift his face up out of the rubber grass. “I just can’t do it. Let’s make honeysuckle wreaths.”

“Oh yes you can, Doodle,” I said. “All you got to do is try. Now come on,” and I hauled him up once more.

It seemed so hopeless from the beginning that it’s a miracle I didn’t give up. But all of us must have something or someone to be proud of, and Doodle had become mine. I did not know then that pride is a wonderful, terrible thing, a seed that bears two vines, life and death. Every day that summer we went to the pine beside the stream of Old Woman Swamp, and I put him on his feet at least a hundred times each afternoon. Occasionally I too became discouraged because it didn’t seem as if he was trying, and I would say, “Doodle, don’t you want to learn to walk?”

He’d nod his head, and I’d say, “Well, if you don’t keep trying, you’ll never learn.” Then I’d paint for him a picture of us as old men, white-haired, him with a long white beard and me still pulling him around in the go-cart. This never failed to make him try again.

Finally one day, after many weeks of practicing, he stood alone for a few seconds. When he fell, I grabbed him in my arms and hugged him, our laughter pealing through the swamp like a ringing bell. Now we knew it could be done. Hope no longer hid in the dark palmetto thicket but perched like a cardinal in the lacy toothbrush tree, brilliantly visible. “Yes, yes,” I cried, and he cried it too, and the grass beneath us was soft and the smell of the swamp was sweet.

With success so imminent , we decided not to tell anyone until he could actually walk. Each day, barring rain, we sneaked into Old Woman Swamp, and by cotton-picking time Doodle was ready to show what he could do. He still wasn’t able to walk far, but we could wait no longer. Keeping a nice secret is very hard to do, like holding your breath. We chose to reveal all on October eighth, Doodle’s sixth birthday, and for weeks ahead we mooned around the house, promising everybody a most spectacular surprise. Aunt Nicey said that, after so much talk, if we produced anything less tremendous than the Resurrection, she was going to be disappointed.

At breakfast on our chosen day, when Mama, Daddy, and Aunt Nicey were in the dining room, I brought Doodle to the door in the go-cart just as usual and had them turn their backs, making them cross their hearts and hope to die if they peeked. I helped Doodle up, and when he was standing alone I let them look. There wasn’t a sound as Doodle walked slowly across the room and sat down at his place at the table. Then Mama began to cry and ran over to him, hugging him and kissing him. Daddy hugged him too, so I went to Aunt Nicey, who was thanks praying in the doorway, and began to waltz her around. We danced together quite well until she came down on my big toe with her brogans, hurting me so badly I thought I was crippled for life.

Doodle told them it was I who had taught him to walk, so everyone wanted to hug me, and I began to cry.

“What are you crying for?” asked Daddy, but I couldn’t answer. They did not know that I did it for myself; that pride, whose slave I was, spoke to me louder than all their voices, and that Doodle walked only because I was ashamed of having a crippled brother.

Within a few months Doodle had learned to walk well and his go-cart was put up in the barn loft (it’s still there) beside his little mahogany coffin. Now, when we roamed off together, resting often, we never turned back until our destination had been reached, and to help pass the time, we took up lying. From the beginning Doodle was a terrible liar and he got me in the habit. Had anyone stopped to listen to us, we would have been sent off to Dix Hill.

My lies were scary, involved, and usually pointless, but Doodle’s were twice as crazy. People in his stories all had wings and flew wherever they wanted to go. His favorite lie was about a boy named Peter who had a pet peacock with a ten-foot tail. Peter wore a golden robe that glittered so brightly that when he walked through the sunflowers they turned away from the sun to face him. When Peter was ready to go to sleep, the peacock spread his magnificent tail, enfolding the boy gently like a closing go-to-sleep flower, burying him in the gloriously iridescent, rustling vortex. Yes, I must admit it. Doodle could beat me lying.

Doodle and I spent lots of time thinking about our future. We decided that when we were grown we’d live in Old Woman Swamp and pick dog-tongue for a living. Beside the stream, he planned, we’d build us a house of whispering leaves and the swamp birds would be our chickens. All day long (when we weren’t gathering dog-tongue) we’d swing through the cypresses on the rope vines, and if it rained we’d huddle beneath an umbrella tree and play stickfrog. Mama and Daddy could come and live with us if they wanted to. He even came up with the idea that he could marry Mama and I could marry Daddy. Of course, I was old enough to know this wouldn’t work out, but the picture he painted was so beautiful and serene that all I could do was whisper Yes, yes.

Once I had succeeded in teaching Doodle to walk, I began to believe in my own infallibility and I prepared a terrific development program for him, unknown to Mama and Daddy, of course. I would teach him to run, to swim, to climb trees, and to fight. He, too, now believed in my infallibility, so we set the deadline for these accomplishments less than a year away, when, it had been decided, Doodle could start to school.

That winter we didn’t make much progress, for I was in school and Doodle suffered from one bad cold after another. But when spring came, rich and warm, we raised our sights again. Success lay at the end of summer like a pot of gold, and our campaign got off to a good start. On hot days, Doodle and I went down to Horsehead Landing and I gave him swimming lessons or showed him how to row a boat. Sometimes we descended into the cool greenness of Old Woman Swamp and climbed the rope vines or boxed scientifically beneath the pine where he had learned to walk. Promise hung about us like the leaves, and wherever we looked, ferns unfurled and birds broke into song.

That summer, the summer of 1918, was blighted. In May and June there was no rain and the crops withered, curled up, then died under the thirsty sun. One morning in July a hurricane came out of the east, tipping over the oaks in the yard and splitting the limbs of the elm trees. That afternoon it roared back out of the west, blew the fallen oaks around, snapping their roots and tearing them out of the earth like a hawk at the entrails of a chicken. Cotton bolls were wrenched from the stalks and lay like green walnuts in the valleys between the rows, while the cornfield leaned over uniformly so that the tassels touched the ground. Doodle and I followed Daddy out into the cotton field, where he stood, shoulders sagging, surveying the ruin. When his chin sank down onto his chest, we were frightened, and Doodle slipped his hand into mine. Suddenly Daddy straightened his shoulders, raised a giant knuckly fist, and with a voice that seemed to rumble out of the earth itself began cursing heaven, hell, the weather, and the Republican Party. Doodle and I, prodding each other and giggling, went back to the house, knowing that everything would be all right.

And during that summer, strange names were heard through the house: Chateau-Thierry, Amiens, Soissons, and in her blessing at the supper table, Mama once said, “And bless the Pearsons, whose boy Joe was lost at Belleau Wood.” 

So we came to that clove of seasons. School was only a few weeks away, and Doodle was far behind schedule. He could barely clear the ground when climbing up the rope vines and his swimming was certainly not passable. We decided to double our efforts, to make that last drive and reach our pot of gold. I made him swim until he turned blue and row until he couldn’t lift an oar. Wherever we went, I purposely walked fast, and although he kept up, his face turned red and his eyes became glazed. Once, he could go no further, so he collapsed on the ground and began to cry.

“Aw, come on, Doodle,” I urged. “You can do it. Do you want to be different from everybody else when you start school?”

“Does it make any difference?”

“It certainly does,” I said. “Now, come on,” and I helped him up.

As we slipped through dog days, Doodle began to look feverish, and Mama felt his forehead, asking him if he felt ill. At night he didn’t sleep well, and sometimes he had nightmares, crying out until I touched him and said, “Wake up, Doodle. Wake up.”

It was Saturday noon, just a few days before school was to start. I should have already admitted defeat, but my pride wouldn’t let me. The excitement of our program had now been gone for weeks, but still we kept on with a tired doggedness. It was too late to turn back, for we had both wandered too far into a net of expectations and had left no crumbs behind.

Daddy, Mama, Doodle, and I were seated at the dining-room table having lunch. It was a hot day, with all the windows and doors open in case a breeze should come. In the kitchen Aunt Nicey was humming softly. After a long silence, Daddy spoke. “It’s so calm, I wouldn’t be surprised if we had a storm this afternoon.”

“I haven’t heard a rain frog,” said Mama, who believed in signs, as she served the bread around the table.

“I did,” declared Doodle. “Down in the swamp.”

“He didn’t,” I said contrarily.

“You did, eh?” said Daddy, ignoring my denial.

“I certainly did,” Doodle reiterated, scowling at me over the top of his iced-tea glass, and we were quiet again.

Suddenly, from out in the yard, came a strange croaking noise. Doodle stopped eating, with a piece of bread poised ready for his mouth, his eyes popped round like two blue buttons. “What’s that?” he whispered.

I jumped up, knocking over my chair, and had reached the door when Mama called, “Pick up the chair, sit down again, and say excuse me.”

By the time I had done this, Doodle had excused himself and had slipped out into the yard. He was looking up into the bleeding tree. “It’s a great big red bird!” he called.

The bird croaked loudly again, and Mama and Daddy came out into the yard. We shaded our eyes with our hands against the hazy glare of the sun and peered up through the still leaves. On the topmost branch a bird the size of a chicken, with scarlet feathers and long legs, was perched precariously. Its wings hung down loosely, and as we watched, a feather dropped away and floated slowly down through the green leaves.

“It’s not even frightened of us,” Mama said.

“It looks tired,” Daddy added. “Or maybe sick.”

Doodle’s hands were clasped at his throat, and I had never seen him stand still so long. “What is it?” he asked.

Daddy shook his head. “I don’t know, maybe it’s—”

At that moment the bird began to flutter, but the wings were uncoordinated, and amid much flapping and a spray of flying feathers, it tumbled down, bumping through the limbs of the bleeding tree and landing at our feet with a thud. Its long, graceful neck jerked twice into an S, then straightened out, and the bird was still. A white veil came over the eyes and the long white beak unhinged. Its legs were crossed and its clawlike feet were delicately curved at rest. Even death did not mar its grace, for it lay on the earth like a broken vase of red flowers, and we stood around it, awed by its exotic beauty.

“It’s dead,” Mama said.

“What is it?” Doodle repeated.

“Go bring me the bird book,” said Daddy.

I ran into the house and brought back the bird book. As we watched, Daddy thumbed through its pages. “It’s a scarlet ibis,” he said, pointing to a picture. “It lives in the tropics—South America to Florida. A storm must have brought it here.”

Sadly, we all looked back at the bird. A scarlet ibis! How many miles it had traveled to die like this, in our yard, beneath the bleeding tree.

“Let’s finish lunch,” Mama said, nudging us back toward the dining room.

“I’m not hungry,” said Doodle, and he knelt down beside the ibis.

“We’ve got peach cobbler for dessert,” Mama tempted from the doorway.

Doodle remained kneeling. “I’m going to bury him.”

“Don’t you dare touch him,” Mama warned. “There’s no telling what disease he might have had.”

“All right,” said Doodle. “I won’t.”

Daddy, Mama, and I went back to the dining-room table, but we watched Doodle through the open door. He took out a piece of string from his pocket and, without touching the ibis, looped one end around its neck. Slowly, while singing softly “Shall We Gather at the River,” he carried the bird around to the front yard and dug a hole in the flower garden, next to the petunia bed. Now we were watching him through the front window, but he didn’t know it. His awkwardness at digging the hole with a shovel whose handle was twice as long as he was made us laugh, and we covered our mouths with our hands so he wouldn’t hear.

When Doodle came into the dining room, he found us seriously eating our cobbler. He was pale and lingered just inside the screen door. “Did you get the scarlet ibis buried?” asked Daddy.

Doodle didn’t speak but nodded his head.

“Go wash your hands, and then you can have some peach cobbler,” said Mama.

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

“Dead birds is bad luck,” said Aunt Nicey, poking her head from the kitchen door. “Specially red dead birds!”

As soon as I had finished eating, Doodle and I hurried off to Horsehead Landing. Time was short, and Doodle still had a long way to go if he was going to keep up with the other boys when he started school. The sun, gilded with the yellow cast of autumn, still burned fiercely, but the dark green woods through which we passed were shady and cool. When we reached the landing, Doodle said he was too tired to swim, so we got into a skiff and floated down the creek with the tide. Far off in the marsh a rail was scolding, and over on the beach locusts were singing in the myrtle trees. Doodle did not speak and kept his head turned away, letting one hand trail limply in the water.

After we had drifted a long way, I put the oars in place and made Doodle row back against the tide. Black clouds began to gather in the southwest, and he kept watching them, trying to pull the oars a little faster. When we reached Horsehead Landing, lightning was playing across half the sky and thunder roared out, hiding even the sound of the sea. The sun disappeared and darkness descended, almost like night. Flocks of marsh crows flew by, heading inland to their roosting trees, and two egrets, squawking, arose from the oyster-rock shallows and careened away.

Doodle was both tired and frightened, and when he stepped from the skiff he collapsed onto the mud, sending an armada of fiddler crabs rustling off into the marsh grass. I helped him up, and as he wiped the mud off his trousers, he smiled at me ashamedly. He had failed and we both knew it, so we started back home, racing the storm. We never spoke (What are the words that can solder cracked pride?), but I knew he was watching me, watching for a sign of mercy. The lightning was near now, and from fear he walked so close behind me he kept stepping on my heels. The faster I walked, the faster he walked, so I began to run. The rain was coming, roaring through the pines, and then, like a bursting Roman candle, a gum tree ahead of us was shattered by a bolt of lightning. When the deafening peal of thunder had died, and in the moment before the rain arrived, I heard Doodle, who had fallen behind, cry out, “Brother, Brother, don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”

The knowledge that Doodle’s and my plans had come to naught was bitter, and that streak of cruelty within me awakened. I ran as fast as I could, leaving him far behind with a wall of rain dividing us. The drops stung my face like nettles, and the wind flared the wet glistening leaves of the bordering trees. Soon I could hear his voice no more.

I hadn’t run too far before I became tired, and the flood of childish spite evanesced as well. I stopped and waited for Doodle. The sound of rain was everywhere, but the wind had died and it fell straight down in parallel paths like ropes hanging from the sky. As I waited, I peered through the downpour, but no one came. Finally I went back and found him huddled beneath a red nightshade bush beside the road. He was sitting on the ground, his face buried in his arms, which were resting on his drawn-up knees. “Let’s go, Doodle,” I said.

He didn’t answer, so I placed my hand on his forehead and lifted his head. Limply, he fell backwards onto the earth. He had been bleeding from the mouth, and his neck and the front of his shirt were stained a brilliant red.

“Doodle! Doodle!” I cried, shaking him, but there was no answer but the ropy rain. He lay very awkwardly, with his head thrown far back, making his vermilion neck appear unusually long and slim. His little legs, bent sharply at the knees, had never before seemed so fragile, so thin.

I began to weep, and the tear-blurred vision in red before me looked very familiar. “Doodle!” I screamed above the pounding storm and threw my body to the earth above his. For a long long time, it seemed forever, I lay there crying, sheltering my fallen scarlet ibis from the heresy of rain.