I'm not entirely sure why I wrote this, let's call it a spur of the moment thing that ended up longer than I expected and honestly it probably rambles a lot. But so do I. If you decide to read this, I like feedback. I kind of doubt my commitment to this piece, but I have a general storyline I'd like to follow with it. At this point in time this is all I have written, so updates may be slow. Anyway, kindly proceed.

I own nothing you recognize.

A bright pink house in the middle of the woods. A sort of blinding pink that hurt to look at, a pink that nearly glowed in the dark. He almost turned back for the canary yellow house next door, except the lights were off in this one and there was no barking dog aware of his presence.

Unlocked. He counted his lucky stars and looked forward to the possibility of quelling the rumbling of his stomach. The door opened with a squealing of its weathered hinges and he melted away into invisibility. If the occupant was home, maybe they'd think the wind caught the door. He stood off to one side of the door frame, listening, waiting to see if anyone would appear to return the door to its proper closed position. When no one did, he shut it himself and uncloaked his form.

It was dark, and coupled with his severe nearsightedness he found it difficult to see anything. For several moments he just stood, squinting, as he tried to identify the layout of his immediate surroundings. To his left was the kitchen – fridges had lights, didn't they? If there was nothing he wanted there – although anything was appetizing at this point – he could use the light to look through the cabinets and to try to see around. He briefly fumbled with the handle before succeeding in opening it, and found the little light bulb almost blinding after having been in the dark for so long. The fridge didn't have very much. Half a gallon of milk, some fruit, what looked like a plastic container of leftover spaghetti.

Or maybe it's really guts! the paranoid part of his mind spoke up. He didn't know anything about humans besides what he learned in school and from work, but that was children. From what he could see, whoever lived here didn't have children. He shook the thought from his mind, plucked an apple from the little fruit bowl, and shut the door.

The first bite was glorious, cold, and juicy. The sweetness was a welcomed change from his scavenging, the chilled flesh nearly hurt his teeth from the temperature but it was for the sake of finally making his stomach shut up. Before he knew it, he was entirely too wrapped up in the experience.

A growing roar shook him from his reverie. No, not a roar, the rumbling of an engine. A strong, sturdy one; it came closer to the house, a pair of headlights passed through the ratty curtains on the front window, and all at once the engine died and lights winked out. It was dead silent now. He froze as his blood ran cold.

What had happened the last time he'd encountered humans? He'd gotten beaten with a shovel. Although that family had seemed entirely less civilized than the resident of this pink house, he had no idea what to expect. As he remained rooted to the ground, still clutching his apple in a state of panic, his eyes adjusted still more and picked out a firearm mounted on the wall. Well, shit.

The rickety door swung open and hit the wall with a bang, swinging back and closed just after the house's owner stepped in. The lights flicked on, revealing what he would assume was a female. She shrugged off a plaid shirt, showing a thin cotton undershirt that clung even more than it would have normally on account of the fact that her skin was sweaty. On the bottom she'd donned some slim fitting blue jeans and what he understood to be tan work boots. Her face, arms, and clothes were all smudged with black. She reached one dirty hand up to rake through her short-cropped hair before fitting her hat back on her head.

Move, dammit, before she sees you! he screamed at himself, trying to get his legs to cooperate. Except she was still standing in front of the door, meaning that unless there was a back entrance, he was trapped. He got his mind working enough to make himself disappear, but just as he did, her gaze flicked in his direction. She squinted. The apple!

In a few strides of her long legs she was in front of him, staring hard at the apple. Then she looked up and, although it was impossible for her to know, they made eye contact. Her mismatched eyes bored into his. As he was focused on her dirty tanned face, she smacked the apple out of his hand. She stared at him for a few moments more before shaking her head and slumping down in a chair at the kitchen table, unfortunately still facing his general direction.

"I am too fucking tired for this shit," she murmured to herself in a voice thick with what he knew was a backwoods southern accent. There was something similar in his world, and he tended not to think too highly of those who spoke with it. She rested her chin on her fist and exhaled loudly.

Now! Get out while she thinks she's hallucinating! He tried to take a step forward, only to have his toes connect with the apple that had been introduced to the ground. The rolling of it caught her attention and her face passed through several expressions, all of which pointed to the possibility of the beginning of a mental breakdown. She stood abruptly, strode into the living room and straight up onto the couch, where she removed the firearm on the wall he'd managed to pick out earlier.

He was entirely too aware of the pattering sound of his feet as he rushed into the room after her, making what was probably the stupidest idea ever to reveal himself. Intent on restraining her, he reached out, but at the first sensation of contact she swung the butt of the shotgun toward him. He thrusted her out at arm's length and the thing narrowly whizzed past his face.

Now facing him and seeing him for the first time, her eyes roamed all over him, taking him in and trying to comprehend what he was and what the hell was going on. "Look." He had the brilliant idea of trying to explain himself. What he was going to explain to her he had no idea; after all, he'd just invited himself into her house and started eating her food.

"Are you fucking sentient?" she more or less ask-yelled, trying to push herself back against the wall only to be caught up in the squishiness of the couch cushions and fall on her behind. Since he was still gripping her arms to keep her restrained, he fell along with her and winded up on top of her.

He had to use another arm to grab the shotgun as she made another swing and to yank it from her hands. He made the assumption that it wasn't loaded given that she hadn't tried to shoot him, and tossed it quickly onto the ground as far away as possible.

"Look," he tried again, ignoring the fact that she was repeatedly shoving her hands against his chest in an attempt to get him off. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Why should I believe you?" she hissed, succeeding in making him wince with her next shove. There was a lot of strength in her thin form.

"How is it going to benefit me if you show up dead? They'll come looking for me, which means I die." He spat out the last two words, getting increasingly close to her face in an attempt to get through her panic. Her eyes widened. He could nearly hear the gears in her mind working and after a few moments she finally nodded.

She made a move to sit up, except he was still pinning her down. He allowed her to, but still didn't trust her enough to let her go. They stared at each other in mutual distrust. Then, his stomach interrupted the silence. The sound made her jump in surprise and he rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"Do...do you want some food?" she asked slowly, her eyes coming across the fallen apple. He stared at her hard for a long time.

"I would appreciate it," he replied just as slow. She nodded and stood despite the fact that he was still holding her arms. He spun her around and followed her to the kitchen, still careful to restrain her.

"Throw that away," she instructed as she pointed at the apple, knowing that it was easier for him to pick it up with his second set of arms than for her to bend down awkwardly. He complied as she opened the fridge and stared at it blankly. "What do you like to eat?" she asked, looking at him over her shoulder and trying to attach a general species to his appearance.

His stomach growled again at the idea of eating. "Anything," he replied with a touch of desperation. She examined the container of spaghetti after he answered, frowned, and tossed it back into the fridge.

"I wish to move to the cabinet," she expressed. They did so together, and she grabbed a box of crackers from it and instructed him to eat them while she cooked.

"Can I trust you not to go running?" he asked, eliciting a shudder from the fact that he was breathing down her neck.

"Yes, just stop doing that," she hissed, flinching away. He released her one arm at a time, but remained looming over her. He accepted the box and watched her go about the task of making a fresh batch of pasta, looking for any signs that indicated she might bolt for the door. After she set the timer, she turned around and hopped up on the counter. Whatever, it was her house, she could sit where she wanted.

"So can I get an explanation?" she asked in her deep southern drawl, reaching around on the counter for a pack of cigarettes and subsequently lighting one.

"How am I supposed to explain?" he returned, trying to sound menacing through a mouth full of starch in order to get her to drop the subject.

"Try." She took a drag. "Start with your name, and then we'll work on why in blue hell you're in my house in the middle of the night." Her mismatched eyes narrowed at him in disdain.

"My name is Randall Boggs." She gave one of those snort-like laughs. "What?"

"It doesn't suit you," she chuckled, shaking her head.

"Yeah? And what's your name?" he snarled, eliciting a brief expression of surprise from the human.

"Emerson. Emerson Diebold."

"Isn't that a boy's name?"

"Yeah, but what are you going to do about it?" Emerson ashed into a little glass tray next to her. "Now, Randy, what are you doing here? Ain't never seen the likes of you."

"Let's just say I'm not from around here." He wasn't particularly enthusiastic about indulging her in the subject.

"Suspicious."

"It's kind of a long story."

"Hell if I'm going anywhere. There's nothing I haven't heard, you trust me."