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25 Drabble Challenge: Inquisitive!Neph
Feb. 8th, 2010 11:19 pm((In which wee!Neph is trying and Ben wises up. Based on true-life events!))
Thunder rattled the windows of the old brownstone, shaking them in their warped frames. Ben resolved to have them recaulked as he groped his way through the dark kitchen, half-blinded by that last flash of lightning. His hands closed on the junk drawer's handle and pulled it open, rifling through half used notepads, burned out lightbulbs, capless pens and old batteries. Matches matches matches, he was sure he'd put them here, sure he'd bought a whole three-pack of boxes after that first spring storm. Living in an old house like this, he'd learned to deal with faulty wiring and drafty windows.
"Aha," yes, there, a little stack of boxes about as long as his palm, sided with sandpaper. He slipped one into the pocket of his sweater and passed another to Patricia, who somehow managed to stand right on his heels without actually touching him. They'd been reviewing her Algebra homework when the power blew, close enough that she could fall in behind him without too much trouble. She took the matchbox with hands that seemed to end, disembodied, at the cuffs of her shirtsleeves. Her face and hair hovered above them in the dark, pale enough to make out without streetlamps or ambient light.
"Go ahead and light the candles over the fireplace," he told her, "There should be a couple stubs in the end-table if those aren't enough. I'll check the breaker."
She nodded and scampered off, armed and confident. Ben had the feeling she'd already mapped his home and could get around just fine without any light, that she'd stuck close to him only because he'd told her to. She certainly moved down the hall quietly enough. The sharp crack of a struck match warned him that she'd gone to work.
He crouched to rummage under the sink, where he always kept one flashlight stocked with fresh batteries. Mildewy paper towels and bottles of kitchen cleaner tumbled over his feet, but he'd straighten them up later. Torch in hand, Ben left the kitchen to brave the uneven basement steps. His route took him across the front hall, now dimly lit by the distant, wavering light from the mantlepiece. Thunder boomed overhead, close and low to the ground. In the ringing silence that followed, he clearly heard Trisha say:
"'Strike-Anywhere-Matches?'" it was clear, by the tone of her voice, that she was reading aloud, "Huh. Wonder if they really do strike anywhere?"
Like most professors, Ben led a pretty sedentary lifestyle, but by God did he haul ass to the living room. His momentum nearly carried him through his favorite armchair and he successfully stubbed his toe on the coffee table, but he managed to catch the girl's wrist just before she struck the match off the knee of her jeans. They stared at one another, him panting and grim and her all injured innocence. She rolled her eyes away and dropped the match to the floor, but Ben confiscated her box anyway. After all, he still had to check the circuit breaker.
He turned to head back to the basement door, then stopped, turned back and picked up the discarded match. Just in case.
Thunder rattled the windows of the old brownstone, shaking them in their warped frames. Ben resolved to have them recaulked as he groped his way through the dark kitchen, half-blinded by that last flash of lightning. His hands closed on the junk drawer's handle and pulled it open, rifling through half used notepads, burned out lightbulbs, capless pens and old batteries. Matches matches matches, he was sure he'd put them here, sure he'd bought a whole three-pack of boxes after that first spring storm. Living in an old house like this, he'd learned to deal with faulty wiring and drafty windows.
"Aha," yes, there, a little stack of boxes about as long as his palm, sided with sandpaper. He slipped one into the pocket of his sweater and passed another to Patricia, who somehow managed to stand right on his heels without actually touching him. They'd been reviewing her Algebra homework when the power blew, close enough that she could fall in behind him without too much trouble. She took the matchbox with hands that seemed to end, disembodied, at the cuffs of her shirtsleeves. Her face and hair hovered above them in the dark, pale enough to make out without streetlamps or ambient light.
"Go ahead and light the candles over the fireplace," he told her, "There should be a couple stubs in the end-table if those aren't enough. I'll check the breaker."
She nodded and scampered off, armed and confident. Ben had the feeling she'd already mapped his home and could get around just fine without any light, that she'd stuck close to him only because he'd told her to. She certainly moved down the hall quietly enough. The sharp crack of a struck match warned him that she'd gone to work.
He crouched to rummage under the sink, where he always kept one flashlight stocked with fresh batteries. Mildewy paper towels and bottles of kitchen cleaner tumbled over his feet, but he'd straighten them up later. Torch in hand, Ben left the kitchen to brave the uneven basement steps. His route took him across the front hall, now dimly lit by the distant, wavering light from the mantlepiece. Thunder boomed overhead, close and low to the ground. In the ringing silence that followed, he clearly heard Trisha say:
"'Strike-Anywhere-Matches?'" it was clear, by the tone of her voice, that she was reading aloud, "Huh. Wonder if they really do strike anywhere?"
Like most professors, Ben led a pretty sedentary lifestyle, but by God did he haul ass to the living room. His momentum nearly carried him through his favorite armchair and he successfully stubbed his toe on the coffee table, but he managed to catch the girl's wrist just before she struck the match off the knee of her jeans. They stared at one another, him panting and grim and her all injured innocence. She rolled her eyes away and dropped the match to the floor, but Ben confiscated her box anyway. After all, he still had to check the circuit breaker.
He turned to head back to the basement door, then stopped, turned back and picked up the discarded match. Just in case.
