Creative Writing: Grandfather Wilson's Home

He sat in the circle, which lay as black as pitch. It could barely be seen, but he sat there like a statue, atop his wretched throne. Luther, was his name. Striking a clear silhouette, overhead, one light shone. Luther was the warm center in the room he called his home. He would just stare, never once blinking, while the demon queen he would kill for sits on his knee. Enchanted? Drugged? Mesmerized? What sort of victim had he been? Seated like a conquering hero returned home and covered in another’s blood, Luther sat in a room as black as pitch. As black as the eyes he stared at me with.

Grandfather Wilson was lying there in bed, waiting for the moment that his life would end. The illustrious Wilson family had seen better days. Grandfather

The room was silent while she sat there, save for the tick of the clock and some rummaging in the next room.

CREEEAAAKK. The girl sat as still as she could, but her posture began to falter. Once perfectly poised, the girl could only rock back and forth. Slow going back, then fast as she would lean forward, only to snap herself slowly back again. With her unnatural motion came a type of noise similar to leather being stretched beyond its threshold. Something was wrong. But the girl seemed to welcome this change, as if it had happened before. A small smile came across her otherwise expressionless face. A new noise built; a percussive gurgle that hid behind a small smile.

“You know what the difference between sushi and sashimi is?” She shook and grunted a little as Luther returned from the kitchen with a platter of sushi. She must have gained her composure quickly, because Luther doesn’t notice anything different about the girl. Though, she can’t stop blinking as her face contorts then settles.
“It’s the rice.” Luther remarks. Clinking on china as Luther serves the sushi, the girl still only sits there. But this time, she gives Luther a somewhat warm

Chopsticks instead of silverware. Luther thought it would add some sophistication to their sushi dinner.
“You know.” Luther pushed the words out through a wad of sushi in his mouth, “Some chefs study for years before they even make sushi rice.” A smile is all she can muster in acknowledgement. He must not be gaining ground, Luther thought. So he continued the conversation in hopes of striking some common interest. “You have to know how to handle a knife first though. There are lots of different sushi cuts.” But all Luther would talk about were sushi