Ninea by Chris Makowski Storytime Blog Hop
NINEA
by Chris Makowski
Ninea dropped a coin into the phone and called. The bus had run late, so she missed the connection. She’d be there tomorrow. She put her bag on the bench and lay down.
“Can’t stay here, Miss. We’re closing up. The sun’s going down.”
“But I missed my bus?”
“Sorry, Miss, the next bus is after sunrise. Gotta close up. You can’t stay here.”
He locked up and all but ran down the alley. She heard the whine of an engine and smelled exhaust. There was a bench out front. Sweat discolored her dress.
The light above went out. Everywhere she looked, the lights were out. Businesses were closed, and not a soul walked the streets.
Except in one direction – a radio was playing, and there were lights from houses.
“Gotta be something this way.” At least her bag had rollers.
The street was potholes and broken asphalt, and the sidewalk was cracked and spat itself up here and there. Windows were open and inside people were listening to the radio about how they were responsible, they were ruining things, and if it weren’t for them, everything would be better.
A dog’s head came up in a yard; instinctively, she turned away and kept walking, right into the darkness.
“Barking dog ain’t safe,” she told herself. “Gotta find somewhere safe. Then get back for the bus.”
It got quiet. A slight breeze ran through her legs, and the moon played hide-and-seek with banks of clouds.
Her stomach rumbled.
Dark, dark, dark – a porch light was on. The house was old, a shotgun shack with one light inside, perched in the middle of all these trees. On the porch, an old man in old overalls and a pair of old boots rocked back and forth, each rock a squeak or a sigh.
Fireflies floated all over the lawn.
Everywhere else was dark.
The rocking stopped.
“You’re not supposed to be here.” He said.
She pointed down the road. “My aunt’s just down that way.”
He didn’t look. “That’s a graveyard, so she’s not likely much help now.” He stood up and stretched. “Hungry?”
“No,” but her stomach growled again.
“Ain’t much, but it’s dinner and it’s food. Or you can stay out here. Likely not safe out here… but it’s your choice.”
The sound of the radio carried from far behind her, a speech, cheering, louder and louder. The hairs on her neck stood up as she glanced back into the darkness. The dog barked.
He was holding the door open when she turned back, stepping carefully over the toadstools on the walkway up to the house.
It was basic fare – potatoes in white gravy, fried chicken, collard greens, rolls and butter, and sweet tea. He laid a second plate and let her choose, and when she chose he nodded and filled her glass. He ate as much as she did, set the bones in a pile, and asked no questions she’d have to lie to answer.
Not even her name.
One cough and he wiped his face. She blinked. All the food was gone, they’d eaten it down to the dregs.
Her stomach felt full.
“Can I wash up?”
He pointed at the sink, got up, stretched again, and went into the other room. So, she washed and dried; he only had four spoons, four forks, four knives, and four plates.
The wind blew again, cold and harsh, rattling the window. Outside was darkness, even the moon had fled.
The middle room had a box fireplace lit and burning so it was warm but not hot. A cotton sheet, a blanket, and a pillow sat on the couch.
A grandfather clock, the wood lovingly polished and each figure a craftsman’s delight, shared the room with her.
“Plumbing is in there. Sink, washcloths, soap, so not that hard.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the only other door. Then he closed his door, a yellow light spilling underneath until she heard a click and it went out. Fold the sheet in half the long way, put the blanket over and the pillow at the top.
There was a creak from the other room. Then silence.
No music.
No radio.
The clock chimed.
She woke up with the sunrise in her eyes.
“Morning.” He came out of the kitchen. “Sausage in a biscuit, if you hurry you might make your bus.”
Thanking him, she accepted her breakfast in a napkin and took off down the road. Halfway there, she heard the radio again and saw the dog sleeping on the ground.
She hadn’t mentioned the bus. She hadn’t talked at all about traveling. She hadn’t talked about much at all.
The dog looked up and then lay back down. The radio was still talking about them and how awful them was and how them caused all the trouble. The sidewalk was still a cracked and broken mess.
The phone was still there. She sat on the bench. The man came and jingled his keys and opened the bus station.
The bus arrived, and she got on.
Ninea dropped a coin into the phone and called. The bus had run late, so she missed the connection. She’d be there tomorrow. She put her bag on the bench and lay down.
About Chris Makowski
Chris was born in the Pacific Northwest and lived briefly in Hawaii before being reared in New England. After traveling up and down and back and forth from coast to coast, he was dragged kicking and screaming in the bonds of matrimony to the State of Texas and has been mostly residing there ever since with his wife and son.
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Ninea by Chris Makowski <–YOU ARE HERE
May 11, 2023 @ 08:40
I didn’t understand the end and the dog and the radio, but I loved the writing and the characters feel real. Maybe add a few more explanations so the reader doesn’t feel lost?
May 1, 2023 @ 13:53
That…was interesting. I liked the touches of fae in this story without pointed ears and how the magic seamlessly blended into the events.
I’m not sure I understand why the last paragraph is a repeat of the first, but it gives a sense of time looping, which is nice. 🙂 And I’m probably just missing something within the story itself.
Overall, inspiring. 😀 Thank you for posting this, Chris!
April 29, 2023 @ 18:02
Nicely creepy.