Suburban Shadows: The Nest

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Descending down the stairs to the basement, I almost gagged on the overwhelming funk that permeated the air. It was the rank smell of a high school locker room just after summer practice; unwashed bodies and stale sweat.

The missing men's clothes lay scattered around a cluster of soiled bean bag chairs but the men themselves were nowhere to be found. I didn't see any signs of violence. The leather linings of the bean bags were filthy but none of the stains looked blood related. Where had they gone? The rest of the house was empty and they weren't running around naked as jay birds, were they? Someone would have called the police. At least they were still alive or had been recently.

I snapped a few pictures to study later and went back upstairs.

Leaning on the edge of the kitchen sink, I splashed cool water onto my face.

Motion in the backyard caught my eye.

A gate swung open and closed in the wind, without the latch ever catching. Beyond it, sparse grass covered a hill that sloped down to a thick woods.


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