Hi, I'm Llrâc Nôdbé (Pronounced ‘Lark Nod-Bee’), or simply 'Lark' for short.
I'm a British Armed Forces and Gulf War Veteran, with a sarcasm to match.
I write whatever the voices tell me to write, and they don't always have something nice to say.
Because I've spent most of my life there, I tend to live in the past, and you can find me lurking around the 80's.
Listen out for the voices herehttps://www.facebook.com/LlracNodbeAuthor
THE RED SQUARE
by
Llrâc Nôdbé
No one believed me, and then it happened again. The knobs on the Etch a Sketch turned; rotated by unseen hands, and I stared in disbelief as the stylus moved across the screen. The aluminium powder scraped away from the glass in jerky movements and I willed it to stop.
It didn’t.
The stylus etched a track across the glass, changing direction several times and then abruptly stopped. Then it disappeared back under the bed.
I shivered, but then, I’m always cold. I needed to tell someone; someone who would listen. My best friend, Mikey, would believe me, even though we haven’t spoken in ages. I reached for the walkie-talkie — I had to really concentrate to lift it. I squeezed the talk button, but the words failed to come; my mouth hung open, redundant.
I slammed my eyes shut and slid my shoulders up the headboard whilst drawing my legs up to my chest, wrapping my arms tightly around them as I rocked back and forth.
Why won’t they believe me?
I let my eyelids relax slightly, and my squinting eyes were immediately drawn to the red square, which slid out from under the bed and across the carpet, and I was sure I saw something move amongst the shadow. Words were etched on the red square’s shiny, silver screen.
BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT REAL
My heart tried to squeeze between my ribs like Play-Doh Fuzzy Pumper hair and I felt sick. I thought of screaming for my parents but, it they were here, they would just smack me or tell me to stop being childish. I’m eight; what else could I be?
Big brothers are supposed to stick up for you, but Jack simply called me a pleb and stole my last Bazooka Joe. I didn’t care, though, ‘cause I can’t eat them; I just read the comics.
Apparently, there are no monsters under the bed, ghouls in the closet or ghosts in the toys and the walls, but they’re wrong. For three nights I’ve cried myself to sleep — from fear of the boogeyman and fear of father’s belt. It hurts so bad; I turn on my side, not to the left and the Superman wallpaper, but to the right and the thing in the room.
I want to see it coming.
I look past the candlewick bedspread to the rug, and the Etch a Sketch tilts vertically and violently shakes up and down clearing the screen, just as mother pokes her head round the door. The thing knew she was coming, and I hear the stylus frantically writing.
She smiles, but she’s distracted; guilty. She kisses me goodnight, stroking strands of hair behind my ear, and shushes away my tears.
‘It’s all in your imagination. Just listen to your dad, Alfie,’ mother says.
My hand slides over the raised welts on my bottom; I don’t want her to call father. I pluck up the courage and raise my hand, pointing a shaky finger at the red square.
She still doesn’t believe me.
The thing giggles, or possibly cries, but she doesn’t hear it; adults don’t for some reason. The thing scratches, high-pitched, like nails on a school blackboard … or did I imagine it? Angry, I glance over at the Swiss Army knife on the shelf. It begins to unfold itself and the corkscrew clicks silently in place before the whole thing rises up, hovering, unseen, just a few feet behind mother’s curly perm. It rotates in mid-air, then edges slowly forward.
‘Mother, there’s something under my bed,’ I say pitifully.
She sighs, her head rocking from side to side and eyes rolling like pinballs, and I know she doesn’t believe me. The knife hurtles at her and, to my surprise, she kneels. The corkscrew embeds itself in the dartboard and I cough to hide the noise. She rolls her eyes once more, as though she knows I’m hiding something, and raises my bedding with a swoosh, sending a draught of air over my flushed face.
‘See, there’s nothing there,’ mother begins to say, before the Alfie under the bed slides into view, Etch a Sketch in his hands.
‘Mam, there’s someone on my bed,’ the other Alfie says.
Before she can turn to look at me, I slide into the wall. Maybe tomorrow they’ll believe me, not him.