Sarah Genereaux
Short Story
Eng 228
4-10-02
Sliver Hearts
Nestor carefully pulled the covers tight across the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles. He tucked the faded blue fabric tight under the corners of the mattress and swiped his hands over the spread. Next he laid out his tools for the night. Four stakes whittled from chair legs, the ends splintery and blunt from the pocket knife he had used to sharpen them, lay next to garlic salt, he’d run out of cloves, and three bottles of holy water the priest on the corner laughingly blessed for him. Then he laid the gun on the bed, the shiny silver bullets nestled in their special case.
His leather shoulder bag creaked under his worrying fingers as he looked at the gun he’d purchased not long ago. It looked so big and it frightened a deep part of him with its inert violence. Sliding the stakes and the garlic into his bag he spun around and walked to his closet, taking out the little sword that somehow didn’t seem so menacing. Its ruby set handle seemed to wink at him jovially and he would always sit in the circle of the streetlamp on Almond Street and watch the flashing red as he drank his coffee.
Casting one last look over his shoulder, he left the gun setting innocently on the bed as he left his small apartment. He walked down the street, peeping into alleys as he snacked on a fruit bar. The night was crisply cold and his breath puffed in front of him as he turned towards the cemetery not far from his building. He walked through it each night looking for something he’d never seen.
Nestor tensed as he heard the quick patter of feet behind him. He pressed his lips together in a nervous line and pushed his thick-framed glasses up his nose as he turned, already knowing what he’d see.
Four boys, still skinny with youth, stood in the empty street with cocky grins on their faces. The lead boy had the first signs of early muscle that had already begun to develop. He chucked his baseball cap and leered around at the other boys, sharing his malicious glee with them. Nestor shifted nervously, under their attention. His own body was not much more heavily muscled then this teenager.
The boy stepped forward, a silver chain glinting at his neck and his baggy pants riding low on his hips. White sneakers peeped from beneath his jeans as he almost bounced with excitement. He began the chant Nestor knew was coming.
“Necro Nestor,
Dead girl molester!â€
Short Story
Eng 228
4-10-02
Sliver Hearts
Nestor carefully pulled the covers tight across the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles. He tucked the faded blue fabric tight under the corners of the mattress and swiped his hands over the spread. Next he laid out his tools for the night. Four stakes whittled from chair legs, the ends splintery and blunt from the pocket knife he had used to sharpen them, lay next to garlic salt, he’d run out of cloves, and three bottles of holy water the priest on the corner laughingly blessed for him. Then he laid the gun on the bed, the shiny silver bullets nestled in their special case.
His leather shoulder bag creaked under his worrying fingers as he looked at the gun he’d purchased not long ago. It looked so big and it frightened a deep part of him with its inert violence. Sliding the stakes and the garlic into his bag he spun around and walked to his closet, taking out the little sword that somehow didn’t seem so menacing. Its ruby set handle seemed to wink at him jovially and he would always sit in the circle of the streetlamp on Almond Street and watch the flashing red as he drank his coffee.
Casting one last look over his shoulder, he left the gun setting innocently on the bed as he left his small apartment. He walked down the street, peeping into alleys as he snacked on a fruit bar. The night was crisply cold and his breath puffed in front of him as he turned towards the cemetery not far from his building. He walked through it each night looking for something he’d never seen.
Nestor tensed as he heard the quick patter of feet behind him. He pressed his lips together in a nervous line and pushed his thick-framed glasses up his nose as he turned, already knowing what he’d see.
Four boys, still skinny with youth, stood in the empty street with cocky grins on their faces. The lead boy had the first signs of early muscle that had already begun to develop. He chucked his baseball cap and leered around at the other boys, sharing his malicious glee with them. Nestor shifted nervously, under their attention. His own body was not much more heavily muscled then this teenager.
The boy stepped forward, a silver chain glinting at his neck and his baggy pants riding low on his hips. White sneakers peeped from beneath his jeans as he almost bounced with excitement. He began the chant Nestor knew was coming.
“Necro Nestor,
Dead girl molester!â€