A thick grey fog shrouded the atmosphere of the small town named 'stropical'. Faint carols, heavenly chords filled the streets, their magical lyrics always pleased the warm-hearted.
However, there were very few kind souls, like one sweetened seed in a barrel of thick black cocoa beans. Neutral expressions here were so deep that people instinctively hunched their backs.
The fog wasn't much clearer in the neighbourhood, which presented itself on the tallest peak. A long-beaten road was the only way to the top, except for a crippled path that led to the forest of courage.
This trail — light did not dare to touch, purely because the stench of decayed flesh and musky trees would murder anything of goodness.
Cricket's melodies played in the darkest of places, but not this place. One note, and it was squashed or cursed with a more tragic death than being skinned alive.
Along the track was a young, pale fifteen-year-old boy whose whistle was painfully unskilled; they mixed with wet mouth farts and a snake's hiss. Each time he stopped to think about what he could do better, but it only made them even more ear-wrenching.
Creatures' hollow whispers from the darkened corridor of gnarled trees would disassemble a skeleton. Still, the boy seemed too invested in his wheezes (or whistles as he liked to call them). The murmurs cut short, seemingly lost in whether the boy's sputters were a threat or an act of communication.
He pondered, "So if I press my tongue at the top of my mouth and — BLOWWW!" The boy's cheeks ballooned; the sound of a wet exhaust erupted from his mouth. The rotted trees on either side of him violently shook, coated in his deathly blue breath.
Shards of tree chunks flew from the disfigured towers that cracked with an unpleasant howl, before they atomised to the roots.
The boy paused. His lips took the shape of a fish's mouth, eyes wide as he inspected the pile of dishevelled dust, where the trees once preyed.
"Strong winds, eh?" He resumed his stride, his hands clenched, the boy refused to believe his breath was truly that bad.
The whispers had stopped completely, and no longer was he stalked by the flabbergasted terrors.
Neighbourhood
Along the boy's neighbourhood streets, the pavement held a frozen pale look that, if you were to glance at it, would cast a brain freeze so cold it would feel like your hair fell off, while the Arctic screamed at you.
Every step, his rubber boots suctioned to the icy concrete. Each time the boy yanked his footing off the pathway, which responded with several gremlin-like squeals.
The neighbour stared from her
circular kitchen window, visibly pained by the boys' forced march. "Generation of total freaks," his neighbour whispered to herself with a huff.
Home
He leapt from his front gate and locked eyes with the doorstep; his cheeks flapped vigorously as he gurgled the heavy winds.
His arms and legs swung round and round to a sonic blur of helicopter propellers, a reckless attempt to control himself.
The boy's muscles stiffened as he prepared himself for a crash landing.
His mouth stretched open to shout. "CODE RED!" before the boy smashed into the doorstep with a thunderous crack. A shiver ran along the town's paths, a loud pop in the ears of those with the biggest frowns.
The door creaked open with a menaced laugh. A huge, framed, dark figure appeared in the doorway. He stood on the welcome mat, which showed the boys' parents, their drinks flying through the air, flowers flourished around them. They looked so happy together.
Until.
The boy tugged as he tried to pull himself out of the concrete floor. He pulled, and pulled, and pulled - his skin stretched like cheesy elastic. And with one painful pull, his head flung up with a brittle pop; his mouth stuffed with a chunk of frozen concrete.
"Mh. Mh. Mh. Mhh," he said with a mouthful to the fearsome, large figure, who responded with the growl of a bull.
The boy took two… long… inhales, his head rose, and rose, before he exhaled with a roar; the concrete pad shot from his mouth and clattered to the floor.
The voice was strong, deep, manly, too manly, like a bird that looks cute but roars with a volcano's intent. "Archie, get inside now," he said sternly.
Archie huffed and rose to his feet; the boy's bones clicked in relaxation. "Relaxation," he said in a dreamy tone, a pleased smile played on his lips - before he felt Dad's firm grip planted on his neck; fingers dug into Archie's skin.
"I said - IN!" His dad enforced, while he adjusted his stance, then threw the boy into the house as if he had a nerve, a massive nerve towards Archie.
A young woman in her mid-30s laughed with a cringed smile thrown at the young Archie, who rose from the floor; his casual expression tweaked.
Archie tilted his head towards the carpet, a shadow cast over the boy's defined features. His fingers tucked into his palm.
"Unball your fist. NOW!" his dad said with killer fumes that puffed from his nose aggressively.
The dad's expression was as chilled as a sloth, but at his core was the intent of a hyena filled with blood lust so bad he'd drink his partner's blood at a torturous slug-like pace.
Archie reluctantly untucked his fingers from his palms and marched to the kitchen.
Of course not before his mum ran up from behind and - barged into his shoulder with her wash basket. "Out of my way. Dipshit," she screamed; a princess giggle escaped her glossy lip as she turned back around, out of the kitchen.
Archie stumbled back from the push; his dilated pupils only enlarged. The boy's mouth opened. "Only if there were a way out of this place. No, this world." He strode up to the window and stared into the inky-black sky, while his hands worked on the tap's nozzle.
The tap shook violently; a bulge rose from its base to its end. Its milk sprayed out into his small cup and filled it to the brim. "I know there's more out there, it's just." He stopped to think. Archie's hands rested on the counter, fingers tapping against it in a slow rhythm, which pleased the boy's numb ears.
The water dribbled around the cup that seemed to wave for Archie's help. His gaze returned to the drowned cup; mind raw from dreams, before he sluggishly grabbed it.
Archie walked along the ground floor and up the stairs. A night-coloured cat rose from its slumber. He stopped halfway up the stairs and glanced at the cat, which scowled at him. "All I did was-" the cat cut the boy off with a scoff.
Archie sighed and carried on his gallop up the squeaky steps.
He swung his door open and inhaled the sweet scent of his room; a dark, homey glow enlightened his eyes; it was unmistakable.
The bed moulded around Archie's body, a content sigh brushed against his surprisingly soft lips.
"So warm," he murmured.
As Archie closed his eyes and melted into his mattress, a hard meow - bellowed from the widow's mouth, a barrage of the cat's symbolic words soon followed it.
The boy let out an irritated roar as he rose from his tomb. His eyes twitched as he watched the cat roll her eyes, and model walk out of his room with a flared tail.
"Okay…" he said, unsure of what just happened; his previous anger was forgotten.
A clueless lamb was the word to describe how he sat on his bed, legs crossed, shoulders slumped, elbows on knees; his hands held up his head like a trophy.
His chin captured - some of the drool as he stared, and stared, and stared.
Milky paint tears nervously slid down the wall like it had melted, but instead they ran in fear to the carpet.
The boy was lost in his thoughts, oblivious to the sobs of his bedroom wall.
"I wonder. Who made fire extinguishers? Firemen, not scientists. Hmm, builders," he pondered. A faint buzz slowly crept up into his thoughts, a phone buzz.
The beeps caused the boy to hurry back to consciousness, his mind blown, completely mind blown.
It was a text; he lay down on his bed with a massive grin. "Yipee," he squealed like a schoolboy, and pulled his phone from his pocket and opened the chat.
"Oh…" his grin faded, the smile in his eyes vanished along with it.
"Just a stupid text from a bot account," the boy sighed and scrolled through his contacts on Hapchat.
Most were bots of people who had blocked him in the past, but wait, his childhood friend. Archie's grin returned, wrinkling the skin around his eye.
As he opened the chat, he thought thoroughly about what he should text. And with careful motion, his finger pressed against the type button.
The wall, in its terrified state, paused and peeked over Archie's shoulder in anticipation. It watched as Archie's finger hovered over the H button.
The wind that blew into the room - whipped around harder, the longer he waited. And before he knew it - his finger dropped to the key, then quickly pressed send.
The second Archie pressed send, he held the phone tightly to his chest. A notification buzzed through the boy's body. Not long after, he heard a click, which meant his text had been answered.
"It's only a text," he turned to face his cupboard, where the generator hummed softly. "Only a text, no biggie," he said in an attempt to reassure himself that nothing bad could happen.
"Yeah, I'm fine, we're just childhood friends." Archie brought the phone to his face. His eyes inhaled the content it supplied.
His lips opened as he began to read the text. "H - are you serious? What a total freak, do you realise who I am and who you are? Ugh, honestly, people like you - they disgust me. You're a nobody, don't let that sink in, let it rot, let it be the death of your existence. Do you-" Archie stopped halfway, his expression drooped back to the normal paper plain lines as before.
His mouth was wordless as he fell back against his bed.
The pure silence rang in his breeze-cold ears.
Before his eyes shut with hard silence.