The Doll House

 

Furious Fiction

500 words. 55 hours. Go!

Your November Furious Fiction story criteria are as follows:

1. LOCATION: Your story must take place at a HOTEL.
2. OBJECT/PROP: Your story must include a PHOTOGRAPH. (In the story itself – do not send us a photo!)
3. WORDS: We had a set of ‘red’ words and ‘blue’ words ready and have chosen the blue-themed set. So, your story must include the following words: COLLAR, GLOOMY, POLICE, RHYTHM, SAPPHIRE.

The Doll House

Larry rubbed his whiskers with long sweeping arcs before scrabbling down the corridor until he reached room 701. The door was open. Police sirens blared outside the window, and lights flashed across the wall. The air smelled like rot.

                He crept into the room, stopping in front of the orange cat lying prone on the carpet. He sniffed the air and watched for movement. He squeaked.

Dead as a door latch. Larry thought.

                Memories. Larry’s whiskers twitched in rhythm with ghostly circus music, the refrain repeating over and over inside his head. In his mind’s eye, he watched the cat complete his well-worn routine: jumping through hoops, scaling walls, climbing rope, disappearing, reappearing. Larry pulled fur from the dead cat’s belly, stuffing it into his cheeks for safekeeping. He filled his mouth and left.

                The bells around his collar jingled as he scurried down the gloomy hall. But there was no one around to hear him—no one alive anyway. He entered room 724 and jumped onto the chair, then the table. He hurried into his dollhouse, running up the stairs to his bedroom. He pulled the fur from his mouth and arranged it over the tiny plastic bed, making four more trips to room 701 before lying down to nap. He slept for several hours.

                Larry rubbed his whiskers with long sweeping arcs and opened his eyes. He was alone now. No cat. No one. Nothing. He exited the bedroom, running down the tiny stairs to the living room. He sat on his tail, looking at the miniature photograph framed with sapphire blue as thin as pencil lead. He saw Giggles the clown, Randy the muscle man, Sara and Bobby the Ariel performers, Dumpy the elephant and the scary old tiger, Ralph. There was the ringleader, Mr. Windmire, and his assistant, Gale. There was the orange cat at the bottom. And lastly, himself. Except, he wasn’t in the photograph; he was hiding inside Giggle’s pocket. Larry looked beyond his dollhouse into Giggle’s room, bed. The humans were gone. The circus was gone. The hotel was empty and deserted. The streets outside teamed with monsters: inhuman droolers that shuffled around after dark. Larry wondered if Giggles was one of them now. He hoped Giggles was dead instead.

                The monsters didn’t pay any attention to Larry or others like him. He raided dumpsters, scurried from store to store, car to a truck, house to house, looking for food. Usually, he found it. Then he came home, back to room 724. It was his room now. He remembered a painted face and a warm palm to hold him, a finger stroking his bristly coat, and pieces of fresh, orange cheese offered with a bright, red smile. There was always motion, commotion. Life. Before.

                Larry knew he was a mouse, and mice didn’t love anyone or anything. Still, he felt like something was missing, and it wasn’t an orange cat. It was a clown.