Author's Note: My second Jeepers Fanfic, my overall THIRD fanfic. I plan on putting together a teeny little collection of uber-short stories documenting different parts of The Creeper's life that noone ever really gets to see. And before any of you complain in angry reviews that "HEY THE CREEPER CANT TALK!" allow me to say: check out the Jeepers Creepers deleted scenes on the DVD. Or if you have a copy of the original Jeepers 2 draft script like I do, if you look there's another speaking deleted scene in there.
Enjoy, and remember that these aren't nearly as spooky as my other fanfic-the hat. Or if you'd like, check out my Jeepers fancommunity over at Livejournal dot com. Email, read, and review.
The small bird tilted its head, its eyes cold yet complacent. I lifted my hand again, the dense thread pulling between my fingers, and I thrust the thick needle through almost rubbery flesh. The bird tilted its head again and blinked twice. I couldn't help but grin a little. It fluttered its wings and positioned itself. I paused for a moment, contemplating if I should incorporate any sort of design into this body, and almost jumped as the little crow barked.
"Well then I suppose I shouldn't stitch a design then." I mumbled to myself. And to the crow. It shook its tail as if to say 'You had BETTER not try it' and I shook my head in response.
It was a little too quiet, aside from the sharp echoing of water droplets splattering against the rusted floor. I looked up from my work and saw a cobweb in the corner above my head. There was a mist of water sprayed against it. It was inspiring. I needed some music.
I scooted a little on my stool, then reached into a low drawer and pulled out a record. Louis Armstrong. My eyebrows raised in question, asking the bird if the record was to its taste. It stood perched on a high beam, gazing down at me. It shook its head no. The record dropped back into the drawer with a dull clink, and I raised up another one. Johnny Mercer. The crow seemed pleased this time, so I heaved myself up and walked over to the far end of the water-soaked room and dropped the record into the player. Water splashed my bare feet. I shook them off, set the needle, and the record began to play.
The stool was cool underneath me. I picked up the sewing needle delicately with only two claws. The crow barked. I sighed a deep breath of stale air, and began working furiously on my new acquisition again...
