Part 2:
Three children; five year- old Mark Miller, seven year- old Andrew Harrison and eight year- old Everett Miller were playing kickball in Josh and Katie Miller's back lawn, located in the town of Thomaston, Maine. The street was Grime St., there house number 167636.
The kickball in question was a dirty softball, very beaten up but in good enough condition to play with. Anyway, the children's standards were not very high; they sometimes played baseball with small branches and rocks. The younger brother, Mark, was not very fond of that game. Twenty six minutes into the strenuous game, Mark got the ball from his friend, a rather pudgy boy but a very good friend who liked to share his school lunches, and most other things. Unlike Everett. He kicked it at his brother , but we wasn't paying any attention, just the girl across the street he had a crush on; Christie Hedfeild. And so, the large ball rolled out of sight, and into the road past the front of the white house. His older brother, out of his trance now, pushed him.
"Why'd you do that, you little whimp!" Mark shoved him off.
"Shut up, Everett! You were looking at that girlie!" he pushed Mark Miller again, and this time his older sibling pushed him onto the dry grass.
"Go get it", Andrew reasonably said to his best friend. Mark sighed, and turned.
"I'll go get it". He slowly walked away, his sneakers dragging.
He walked past the side window, and his mother poked her head out. She was a pretty woman of thirty- three, a housewife/ novelist. Her latest book, The Terror of the Green Dogs, was doing quite well in the market.
"Hey, Bunny Wunny."
"Hey, Mom", he said glumly.
"What's wrong." It's probably the kids. Why does Everett always have to pick on him?
"I accidentally kicked Andrew's softball into the road, and he tried to beat me up."
"Well, just go and grab it. When you come back in, I've made sandwiches. I'm not going to write until tonight. Okay?"
"Okay, Mom." mark continued walking, and looked out at the road.
It was a cracked road, and had one pothole that the Millers' family had to drive over it every morning; Mark loved it because he jumped in his seat. As he walked to the road, something strange happened. A strange, deadly thing, unknowingly caused by his mother's novel.
It was a dog; a very large dog with large fangs and light green fur, with glowed in the warm sunshine. Thinking that it was his imagination, but he blinked, and it was still there.
It was looking at him with it's large, red eyes, and crawled over to the softball. It nudged it a little, then put it in it's mouth on the softball.
Mark Miller was frozen with fear. He wanted to run, to run to Mom, or even to Everett. he stood, and then walked towards it. Everett called out from the back lawn, impatient.
"Will you hurry up, you little wuss! we wanna play by bedtime, you friggin' sissy!" This was followed by a laugh, but Mark heard Andrew punch Mark's brother.
"Knock it off, Everett! Right now!!!"
" Okay, but hurry up, Marky!" Mark did not turn his head, just continued forward. He was too fearful to even turn his head from the menacing animal.
"Come here, little doggy", he whispered, and the dog growled. It showed his teeth, with made the youngest Miller child scared. It growled again, and started to back away.
"I won't hurt you." The dog suddenly dropped the ball, and ran onto the sidewalk. It had gotten it's victim. There was a gleam in it's eyes.
"Yes!" Mark walked into the road, forgetting to look both ways. As he was bending down to pick the ball up, a black sedan came flying down the street. The driver, Cory Tripp, was busy talking to his small cell phone, and was not looking at the road, and...!
Mark never saw the car coming. The Ford hit the small boy at 60 mph, slamming the child against the car and breaking most of the bones in his fragile body. Crushed by the impact, he never even got the time to scream, to really do anything. Blood gushed out of the body's many wounds. Marcus Alden Miller was killed instantly.
The blood spilled onto the sidewalk in streams, big streams that spilled onto nearby lawns, and even stained Christi's beautiful, white dress. She screamed. The canine pranced over to one puddle, fascinated. As chaos spread throughout the street, the dog sniffed the puddle, then licked it a little. It's source of power was an easy enough source to get, if the "dog" tried hard enough.
As Mark's mom came running out of the house, followed by Mark's older brother and their long- time friend, the dog went to the next street. It took one last look at the hideous carnage, weezed (as if laughing), and continued it's journey. A rather long journey, yes, but an ultimately rewarding one.
It pranced away as if nothing had happened one street away, and started to look at the new street, Sanguine Drive. A smaller street, but it would work just as well. A man walking his dog. A harmless dog. A dog, or whatever it had to be, caused by the subject's relative's (or his own) ideas. The perfect weapon. It could be turned lethal, with one look into the shape shifter's eyes. Just one look.
THE END
Three children; five year- old Mark Miller, seven year- old Andrew Harrison and eight year- old Everett Miller were playing kickball in Josh and Katie Miller's back lawn, located in the town of Thomaston, Maine. The street was Grime St., there house number 167636.
The kickball in question was a dirty softball, very beaten up but in good enough condition to play with. Anyway, the children's standards were not very high; they sometimes played baseball with small branches and rocks. The younger brother, Mark, was not very fond of that game. Twenty six minutes into the strenuous game, Mark got the ball from his friend, a rather pudgy boy but a very good friend who liked to share his school lunches, and most other things. Unlike Everett. He kicked it at his brother , but we wasn't paying any attention, just the girl across the street he had a crush on; Christie Hedfeild. And so, the large ball rolled out of sight, and into the road past the front of the white house. His older brother, out of his trance now, pushed him.
"Why'd you do that, you little whimp!" Mark shoved him off.
"Shut up, Everett! You were looking at that girlie!" he pushed Mark Miller again, and this time his older sibling pushed him onto the dry grass.
"Go get it", Andrew reasonably said to his best friend. Mark sighed, and turned.
"I'll go get it". He slowly walked away, his sneakers dragging.
He walked past the side window, and his mother poked her head out. She was a pretty woman of thirty- three, a housewife/ novelist. Her latest book, The Terror of the Green Dogs, was doing quite well in the market.
"Hey, Bunny Wunny."
"Hey, Mom", he said glumly.
"What's wrong." It's probably the kids. Why does Everett always have to pick on him?
"I accidentally kicked Andrew's softball into the road, and he tried to beat me up."
"Well, just go and grab it. When you come back in, I've made sandwiches. I'm not going to write until tonight. Okay?"
"Okay, Mom." mark continued walking, and looked out at the road.
It was a cracked road, and had one pothole that the Millers' family had to drive over it every morning; Mark loved it because he jumped in his seat. As he walked to the road, something strange happened. A strange, deadly thing, unknowingly caused by his mother's novel.
It was a dog; a very large dog with large fangs and light green fur, with glowed in the warm sunshine. Thinking that it was his imagination, but he blinked, and it was still there.
It was looking at him with it's large, red eyes, and crawled over to the softball. It nudged it a little, then put it in it's mouth on the softball.
Mark Miller was frozen with fear. He wanted to run, to run to Mom, or even to Everett. he stood, and then walked towards it. Everett called out from the back lawn, impatient.
"Will you hurry up, you little wuss! we wanna play by bedtime, you friggin' sissy!" This was followed by a laugh, but Mark heard Andrew punch Mark's brother.
"Knock it off, Everett! Right now!!!"
" Okay, but hurry up, Marky!" Mark did not turn his head, just continued forward. He was too fearful to even turn his head from the menacing animal.
"Come here, little doggy", he whispered, and the dog growled. It showed his teeth, with made the youngest Miller child scared. It growled again, and started to back away.
"I won't hurt you." The dog suddenly dropped the ball, and ran onto the sidewalk. It had gotten it's victim. There was a gleam in it's eyes.
"Yes!" Mark walked into the road, forgetting to look both ways. As he was bending down to pick the ball up, a black sedan came flying down the street. The driver, Cory Tripp, was busy talking to his small cell phone, and was not looking at the road, and...!
Mark never saw the car coming. The Ford hit the small boy at 60 mph, slamming the child against the car and breaking most of the bones in his fragile body. Crushed by the impact, he never even got the time to scream, to really do anything. Blood gushed out of the body's many wounds. Marcus Alden Miller was killed instantly.
The blood spilled onto the sidewalk in streams, big streams that spilled onto nearby lawns, and even stained Christi's beautiful, white dress. She screamed. The canine pranced over to one puddle, fascinated. As chaos spread throughout the street, the dog sniffed the puddle, then licked it a little. It's source of power was an easy enough source to get, if the "dog" tried hard enough.
As Mark's mom came running out of the house, followed by Mark's older brother and their long- time friend, the dog went to the next street. It took one last look at the hideous carnage, weezed (as if laughing), and continued it's journey. A rather long journey, yes, but an ultimately rewarding one.
It pranced away as if nothing had happened one street away, and started to look at the new street, Sanguine Drive. A smaller street, but it would work just as well. A man walking his dog. A harmless dog. A dog, or whatever it had to be, caused by the subject's relative's (or his own) ideas. The perfect weapon. It could be turned lethal, with one look into the shape shifter's eyes. Just one look.
THE END