Last week, as you'll recall, in Trapped in Time, Myron fell into the quicksand. Will Doll and Vittorio save him? Inquiring minds want to know! And don't forget to check out all the Wednesday Briefers, their links follow my story. Enjoy!
Trapped in Time #5
Myron is a soggy and pathetic mess lying upon the ground at
our feet; he resembles the refuse one might find at the bottom of an outhouse.
And smells almost as bad.
“Enough is enough, Myron,” Vittorio says in a gentle, but
firm, voice. “You’ve had your fun, now let’s all go home.”
“B-but… but… V-Vittorio…” Myron’s voice shakes, and his
lower lips trembles—what there is of it—and I do believe he’s begun to cry, the
streaks of tears clearing a path in the grime upon his face. How he got dirt upon
his cheeks is beyond me; I guess he rubbed them with his filthy hands.
I gaze at my own hand, suddenly curious as to how clean it
is; a long thin red line bisects it, which is growing broader as I gaze, bright
scarlet drops turning into a tiny rivulet that begins to sting. I can only pray
that there is nothing inside that plant that can cause infection.
“Doll!” Vittorio clucks, turning his attention upon me and
my slight injury. Although I assure him that I am fine, he takes my hand and
bathes it with his tongue, cleansing it as best as he can under the
circumstances. The cut is not very deep, and I am very appreciative of his
efforts on my behalf. By the time we again remember Myron, we realize the rat
is crawling away from us.
Vittorio may be the nicest person I know, but he also does
not tolerate a fool lightly. As if he can read Myron’s tiny mind, he kisses me
softly. “Be right back,” he murmurs, disappearing in the direction of where
Myron originally appeared in the treetops. He must be on the right track, as
the weasel begins to scream, crawling faster in the same direction.
“It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine!”
Tired of listening to his damnable caterwauling, and knowing
Vittorio cannot see me or remonstrate with me, I launch a surreptitious kick at
Myron’s middle, and he abates at last, curling up into a loathsome,
foul-smelling ball. I regret the action
immediately, as it has befouled my shoe in the process.
Where is clean water when you need it?
Vittorio returns, a triumphant look upon his handsome face.
In his hand, he holds what appears to be a piece of wood. Myron immediately
launches himself at my Vittorio.
“That is mine! Give it to me now!” I guess he’s forgotten
that he’s in love with my Vittorio. At least at the moment. Good.
Vittorio sidesteps him, rather handily if I do say so
myself, and Myron ends up face down in the dirt.
“I know it is yours,” Vittorio says, as if he is talking to
a particularly stupid child. Which he is. “This is what you used to bring us
here, is it not?”
Myron rolls onto his back, and heaves himself up onto his
elbows, his face a striped mask where the tears have cleansed away the mud. “Yes,”
he replies sullenly, “but it wasn’t meant to… it was a mistake… only you and I…”
Aha! He is admitting what I have long suspected, that he is after
my love. “What did you think, that you would kidnap Vittorio and take him to
some other time and that would make him love you?” My sneer is evident in my
voice. “But why this point in time?” I ask. “I do not understand what you were
thinking.” Well, he wasn’t thinking, that much is clear.
“Is that what you think of me?” he asks indignantly.
“It is what I think too,” Vittorio adds. “I’d like to know
the same thing. You do not seem to understand. It is Doll I love and only Doll.
I would not love you, not ever, but especially under those circumstances. I am
sorry, Myron.”
I’m not, and I feel
very vindicated and very triumphant! I reach for my Vittorio and we do
an impromptu victory polka. He leads, of course.
Once we finish reeling about, we catch our breath and turn
to collectively face down Myron, who seems to have shrunk inside of his nasty
clothes.
“But I love you, Vittorio,” he protests in a very small
voice, as if the words are a mantra that can protect him from harm. In the old
country, there is a man who would take someone such as Myron and have a long
talk with him, to understand why his mind is so… what is the word? I cannot
think. Why he is so verrückt.
Crazy. I believe his name is Freud.
“I am sorry,”
Vittorio repeats, as he slides his arm about my waist, and draws me closer to
him. “Can we go home now?”
Myron throws
himself upon the ground. Well, technically, he was already there. He begins to
thrash about and flail; if he were younger, I’d say he is having a temper
tantrum. I shall say it anyway. He is being a spoiled brat, and he needs to be
disciplined as such. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to touch him, and neither
will Vittorio.
I turn to my
love. “I was thinking…”
“Si, my love?”
“If there are
animals here, there must be water, yes?”
“Yes, I think
there should be. Are you thinking what I’m thinking, my clever Doll?”
I grin at him,
reaching up and sweeping my fingers along his jaw. “Ja. Bath time, my sweet
baby. You and me, ja?”
“You and me, ja,”
he agrees, kissing my fingertips, sending a tingle down the length of my spine.
We start to walk away; Myron screams louder.
“You can’t leave
me, you can’t leave me, you can’t… I’ll hold my breath until I turn blue!” he
threatens.
“Please do,” I
tell him. “You will find that you will pass out before you die.”
He beings to
wail again, an annoying siren sound that is suddenly and mysteriously cut
short. Vittorio and I look at one another, then back at Myron.
to be continued
Go see what the other Wednesday Briefers are doing!
Nephylim m/m
Tali m/m
Michael Mandrake m/m
MA Church m/m
LM Brown m/m
MC Houle m/m
Lily Sawyer m/m
LOL, hold his breath until he turns blue. That's just too funny!
ReplyDeleteHmmm, wonder what he just got himself into now???
~M
Will he thcweem and thcweem until he makes himself thick? :) As much as I hate to say think, Myron is SUCH a pathetic scrap you CAN'T just leave him there
ReplyDelete