#it is odd that after a few months living together el starts having these visions around the time of wills birthday | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hotdogjumpingfrog5 · 6 years

Text

It’s Strange - Chapter 19

Previous Chapters: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, Chapter Twelve , Chapter Thirteen, Chapter Fourteen, Chapter Fifteen , Chapter Sixteen, Chapter Seventeen, Chapter Eighteen

April 25th, 1987

It is Saturday afternoon, and for the first time in a long time, Stanley returned with his seasonal bird watching, now that the weather was warmer, and the grass was getting greener

Stan had convinced Mike Hanlon to come along with him, and just him. The two of them were really close, and he wanted to spend time with just Mike today.

Sometimes they would ask the other losers or party (the ones who were interested), but every once in a while they would just want to spend time together one on one.

They had took in the breezy 15 degree weather, while laying down in the tall grassy field observing the birds

“Hey look! I spotted a canary over by that tree!” Mike pointed out

“Impressive,” said Stan, “So we got one canary, two robins, six sparrows, and I guess we’ll just keep watching.”

“This is actually amazing,” said Mike, “And this is a hobby my grandfather finally approves of.”

Stan smiled at just about everything Mike had said, and the fact it was a lovely day outside, and the only sound in the air was the breeze swaying in the trees or the sound of birds tweeting.

They were now there an hour, just watching and chatting away.

After a while, they just decided to lay down in the tall grass, taking in the peace and waiting for more birds.

From a distance, the sound of twigs could be heard snapping in the forest, which made both Stan and Mike perk up their heads.

“Did you hear that?” Mike whispered

“Yeah, sounded like -”

“Footsteps? How many?”

“I don’t know,” said Stan, “It’s probably nothing.”

The two of them brushed it off, while their bodies faced up towards the sky, closing their eyes again.

Minutes had passed, and both Stan and Mike now felt as if they were being watched by someone, or something. Hopefully birds.

“Do you think we should cut this short for today?” said Stan

“Yeah, feels like we’re being watched,” Mike replied, “It’s kinda creepy.”

As soon as they had gotten up, they felt the urge to look in the forest, to find out the source of the sound.

They leaned closer, and noticed four shadows lurking in the woods, close to the steep hill by The Barrens.

“I told you fuckfaces, don’t mess this up, or I will have to kill you guys the same way I killed my father.” said a familiar voice in the distance, “Do you understand me? Now we gotta wait here for Billy to arrive, he’ll be here in a minute. He will tell us what to do next.”

“Shit is that - Fuck.” Stan croaked

“That sounds like...Bowers.” Mike muttered

Both of them were ducked underneath bushed, and they were about 70 feet away from then

“I don’t get it either, I thought they were dead a long time ago!” said Mike, “This can’t be them.”

“Yes Henry, we understand.” said another familiar voice, “Belch and Victor won’t let you down either.”

“Yeah, you three better fucking hope not. Now keep wearing the goddamn wigs in public, no matter how hot it is.”

Stan turned to look at Mike

“Sorry Mike, but I think they just might be.” Stan gulped

“But how??”

The two of them couldn’t bare to stick around any longer, to avoid bad memories flooding back and to avoid getting caught by the now undead Bowers gang

They had made their way back to the trail which was by the field they were in, and hopped on their bikes, and managed to not get spotted by the Bowers gang

May 15th, 1987

The party had all gotten together that weekend, as they had managed to set some time together before exams in a couple of weeks.

The weather was getting slightly warmer, and they had decided to make their way to the quarry that afternoon.

“I can’t wait for school to be over,” said Dustin, “Two more months of no nonsense.”

“You and Richie.” said Lucas, “Best of luck to you both.”

“At least I’m the smarter one.”

“Not by much though.”

“Can you guys stop bickering?” Max rolled her eyes, “I’m trying to enjoy the sunset here.”

On the other side of the trees, Eleven and Will had happen to wander into the trees, and Mike followed them

Eleven and Will were now basically siblings after Joyce and Hopper became official weeks ago. Eleven and Will had formed a special type of bond since then, getting along very well.

Yet they seemed to communicate in a strange sort of way; non verbally. Not even Mike could understand their way of communication, and he was both their friend and boyfriend.

Then again, the rest of the party and just about everyone else they knew couldn’t understand either.

“Hey, I’ve always wondered,” said Mike, “I know you guys are now siblings, but what does it mean when you look at each other like that?”

“I told you.” Eleven responded

“We’re psychic.” Will finished

“You even know what each other are going to say next!” Mike laughed, “Come on, I think you should just tell us.”

“We would but, we can’t.” El looked down

“What? Why not?” Mike asked, “Everything okay?”

Will nodded

“Yes,” he responded, “It’s just…not right if we do.”

Just then, Lucas, Dustin, and Max came from around the corner, rustling of the trees moving making the three of them look over

“Mike, tell Dustin I’m right, like I always am.” said Lucas

“No, I’m the right one here!” argued Dustin

Max stood behind them with her arms crossed, huffing in silence at their bickering.

“Guys, now’s not a good time!” Mike insisted

“I think we need to tell you guys something.” said Eleven, “And swear to me and Will, you won’t tell anyone.”

The group nodded and agreed, while her and Will went around to whisper the same thing in everyone’s ears; “We had a vision. The older girls you saw with Billy are not who they say they are.”

“Well, obviously.” Max rolled her eyes, “They’re always at Billy’s plotting some sort of ‘weird scheme’ -”

“Shhh!” said Will, “Don’t let them hear you.”

June 25th, 1987

An entire month has past, and both parties only now started to hang out again a few days ago, now that exams were over. Their studying sessions for exams did not count as hanging out unlike junior high studying, which was much easier at the time now that they realize it. But as for high school, as all they did was study.

During that time, none of them got up to anything too exiting or crazy, nor did anything weird happen.

Mike and Bill sat at the Wheeler-Tozier’s kitchen table, as it was a rainy day, while Richie and Georgie were outside sailing boats. Two introverts coming together, and Mike and Bill got along just fine, drawing, and were the ones who made the paper boats for them.

It was the first time Mike was learning how to make paper boats, but Bill showed him how to properly do so.

Sucks that it had to rain on the last day of school, but at least Georgie and Richie were having the time of their lives.

“Does your mom know you and Georgie are -”

“I’d m-much r-rather be up here than with my w-weirdo parents.” said Bill, “T-They don’t really c-care what me and G-Georgie do. So we just d-do our own thing.”

Bill’s stuttering was now improving. Aside from the weekly speech therapy, Bill was no longer afraid of stuff, what people thought of him, his somewhat strange parents, he managed to overcome a lot of things in the past year or so.

“You’re lucky your parents don’t care what you do,” said Mike, “My parents are always on me and Richie’s back about everything, more our mom than our dad though.”

“I t-think it’s because you and R-Richie are the y-youngest.”

“One of the youngest, Bill.” Mike continued, “We are much older than Holly, and our mom still flies over us.”

After being out in the pouring rain for a half hour, Richie and Georgie finally come back inside, their clothes dripping wet.

“I had so much fun!” said Georgie, “We need to do this again!”

“Yeah, I agree George,” Richie sighed, “I’m really exhausted.”

As soon as Georgie ran upstairs, Richie turned to Mike and Bill, and they knew something was a bit off.

Richie didn’t have that usual goofy smile he had after having fun, especially saying he was tired right after it.

“Did you and Georgie have fun out in the r-rain?” Bill broke the silence

“Yeah, though Georgie was acting really fucking strange, even stranger than you, Bill.” said Richie

Bill looked down

Mike rolled his eyes knowing that Richie never apologizes for his lack of filter.

“Don’t think he means to offend you,” whispered Mike, “His imagination is just running wild like always.”

“W-What happened?” Bill asked

“Well we were walking along,” said Richie, “And I got distracted and started to pet this old lady’s cat. When I turned back around he’s looking down the sewer, with some creepy expression on his face staring back at me.”

“You should’ve been watching him! Are you crazy??” Mike butted in

“I’m not done,” Richie ignores, “We continued and he started saying weird shit for a few odd minutes.”

“W-What were they?” Bill asked

“I don’t even know, it ranged from complete gibberish to ‘Do you like floating’ and ‘Want a balloon’ in these weird voices. Then he went back to his normal self.”

All of them had confused expressions on their faces, something was weird about what Georgie did, but they could not lay a finger on it. They knew, but they didn’t. It’s like whatever the clue was as to why Georgie was acting weird, was erased from their minds.

“Really fucking weird if you ask me.” Richie shrugged

Next Chapter: To Be Continued

#it movie 2017 #stranger things #mike hanlon #mike wheeler #stan uris #henry bowers #lucas sinclair #max mayfield #dustin henderson #will byers

2 notes · View notes

joebookish-blog · 7 years

Text

Ladder Dream

Rewritten for podcast - 3/27/17

As I walked through the ICU, family told me that my dad hadn’t opened his eyes for a week. Nurses said he’d need a tracheostomy, he might not survive the surgery, and at best he’d spend the rest of his life in bed. That night, the night my dad died, I held his hand for six hours and talked to him the entire time. He was incapable of responding; his lungs didn’t work and the rest of his organs were failing. They’d pumped him full of opiates to keep him from reflexively pulling on his respirator tube.

Before my dad’s hospitalization, my sister and I hadn’t seen him in over a year. While he was around, he’d developed a gambling problem that put a lot of pressure on me to provide for the three of us. My sister is much younger than I and wasn’t yet capable of helping out, so I worked and gave all my money to him for a while. It wasn’t anywhere near enough to support us and he still spent most of that on scratch-off lottery tickets. My money drained, we didn’t have food, and our power was cut off every month. Eventually, I convinced him to move to his hometown more than 500 miles away so he could work and follow his passion for singing. At 77 years old, I never thought he stood much of a chance at success, but I kept that to myself so he’d give my sister and me the opportunity to eat regularly and live in a place with lights that worked most of the time.

Once he moved away, we kept in regular contact, spoke every other day at least, and I stressed my sister’s way through high school. I worked full time, came home, cooked, helped her with homework, and read until falling asleep in the La-Z-Boy left from our parents’ house. My sister got my old bed. With the combined income of my twelve dollar an hour job and the survivors’ benefits we received for outliving our mother, we lived in a two-bedroom apartment that I could barely afford. My dad always told us he was okay and I always promised we’d go up to see him as soon as possible. He said that we shouldn’t, he had no room and there was nothing to see. I never saw where he lived, but it was a two room apartment that he’d built for himself in the middle of the nowhere. I don’t know that it had running water, but it didn’t have air conditioning. When he’d lived with us, he drank coffee almost exclusively and sometimes chain-smoked; as far as I know, those habits only got worse out there. He had one friend, the son of the man on whose land my father lived. Together they’d worked to build some sort of community center with a dance hall, though I don’t think anything ever materialized.

One night, my father called us. He coughed very weakly and I knew something was wrong. After the call, I told my sister that dad sounded very sick and he might not be okay this time. A few weeks later, my uncle called, told me that my father’d been hospitalized. I told him we’d head to El Paso. My dad could still speak and when he had the chance, he called us. As always, he assured us that he was okay, not to worry. When we arrived at the hospital three days later, I discovered that my father had had an emergency heart surgery. I left my sister in a waiting room with family and went in to visit; Dad was delirious from the pain killers. He saw me walk up with the doctor, seemed relieved. I snaked my arm through the tubes that surrounded him and gave him a hug, kissed his head. He asked me to help him sit up. The doctor stood on the opposite side of the bed and tried to assist. Dad grimaced as the doctor leaned in, saying “ow, ow, ow,” calling the doctor a motherfucker before any physical contact was ever made between them. The doctor pulled back, I apologized to him, and I sat my dad up. I told him I loved him and held his hand while my dad’s brothers and nephews stood nearby telling childhood stories about living in a Texas barrio. I brought my sister in and my dad said, “Hi Moe,” which was a nickname he’d adopted for her from her friends. We promised to be back soon and left.

I had one more phone conversation with my dad. He sounded better. I honestly believed he’d be okay, that he’d pulled through the worst of it. I told him I loved him, told him I wished he’d taken care of himself, told him we’d be up there as quickly as possible and I passed the phone to my sister. I remember her saying she was okay, that she loved him and missed him. After they hung up, she cried because she’d ignored his last call before all this began. I told her it was okay, we didn��t know any of this was going to happen. We visited once more before I signed the paperwork to terminate life-support. They’d said my dad had low odds of surviving, but they were going to try one more operation, this one on his kidneys or liver. That was when he’d stopped opening his eyes.

Then on that last night, while walking up to the bed, everyone telling me that my dad was basically dead, I locked eyes with him. Of course, he was looking right at me when I got to his bedside. His eyes were hazy, but defiant as ever. I greeted him, told him I’d brought my sister and that the cousin we were staying with had taken good care of us. He reacted to what I said, squeezed my hand. I let him know they wanted to do a tracheostomy. His eyebrows called them motherfuckers, and I told him all the things they’d said about him spending the rest of his life on machines. I think they had him on codeine, his eyes rolled slowly wherever he looked, and I told him that I’d sign the paperwork to terminate life support; he’d live if his lungs would work. He looked confused and wary, but I assumed this was what he’d want; we’d always talked about needing to live without machines. I signed the paperwork.

That is second biggest mistake of my life my life, getting him to leave home was the first.

I held his hand, which was swollen because of the organ failure, and I told him I loved him. They removed the tube and he started gasping. I hoped this meant his lungs were working, but he just kept gasping as though he were drowning. It went on, progressively lighter, for six hours. He looked calm and I cried, telling him I loved him, asking him to go to heaven and fix up the house we’d abandoned, that my sister and I would see him later on. I’m not religious, but he was Catholic, and I thought it was something he’d want to hear. I felt guilty as I said it, but I said it anyway because it might mean something to him. I told him I’d take care of my sister always, not to worry about me and her, told him he’d made us strong, asked him why he’d done the things he did, asked him why he hadn’t taken care of himself, told him to fix up the house, that we’d see him again and we’d all live there with no bills to worry about. People filtered in and out, my sister came in and hugged and kissed him. The loss in his face was the worst when she came into his field of vision. He cried and his breaths were further and further apart, then grew shorter and more rapid and eventually I couldn’t hear them anymore. I let his hand go when his eyes emptied. I went to the restroom and took a walk to a nearby gas station, bought Chapstick and told the guy behind the counter that my dad had just died. I called a family friend and let her know.

His funeral came and went and my sister and I returned home and moved in with an aunt who took care of us through my sister’s senior year. After my sister started college and I got my own place again, I had a dream that I broke into my parents’ old house. I walked through its long central hallway, saw the ceilings collapsing and black mold everywhere, paperwork scattered across the floors. I saw the cot my dad slept on next to an air purifier I’d given him; the home’s decay started while he’d still lived there alone, sometimes without power, later on without water. I walked through our living room, kitchen, TV room, his bedroom, my sister’s room, and came to my old part of the house, which, through the doorway, I could see was bright and restored. I entered and my dad was on a ladder, alive, painting one of the walls. He asked how we were doing, I told him my sister had started college and that I got my own place, told him he should move back in with me, that I could support him and that I wanted him around, that I wanted to make sure he was healthy. He said no, that he was okay where he was. I told him my sister would love to see him, that we could all get a place together if he wanted, that maybe we could get the old place back and make it work, that he’d need to get a job but we could do it. He said that he couldn’t. I tried for a while longer and eventually, in his certain, knowing, sarcastic way, he said, “it’s a little late for that,” and I woke up. I think about him every day. I see him in my face and my actions, and in the actions of my sister too. I think of him when I’m being careless and I think of him when all of my flaws come together and make things work that way he could. My sister still cries for him, I think we both try to avoid fixating on the negative aspects of all of it, but sometimes it’s impossible, there was too much sadness. We embrace what we can and laugh about his jokes and his personality.

We miss him.

0 notes

joebookish-blog · 7 years

Text

Ladder Dream

9/6/2014

The night my dad died, I held his hand for six hours and talked to him the entire time. He was incapable of responding; his lungs didn’t work and the rest of his organs were failing. They’d pumped him full of opiates to keep him from reflexively pulling on his respirator tube. Outside the ICU, family told me he hadn’t opened his eyes for a week. As I approached him, nurses said he’d need a tracheotomy, he might not survive the surgery, and at best he’d spend the rest of his life in bed.

Before my dad’s hospitalization, my sister and I hadn’t seen him in over a year. While he was around, he’d developed a gambling problem that put a lot of pressure on me to provide for the three of us. My sister is much younger than I and, frankly, I don’t think it was her place to help. So I worked and gave him all my money for a while, it wasn’t anywhere near enough to support us and he still spent most of that on scratch offs. My money drained, we didn’t have food, and our power was cut off every month. Eventually, I convinced him to move to his hometown more than 500 miles away so he could work and follow his passion for singing. At 77 years old, I never thought he stood much of a chance to succeed, but I kept that to myself so he’d give my sister and I the opportunity to eat regularly and live in a place with lights that worked most of the time.

Once he moved away, we kept in regular contact, spoke every other day at least, and I stressed my sister’s way through high school. I worked full time, came home, cooked, helped her with homework, and read until falling asleep in the La-Z-Boy left from our parents’ old house. My sister got my old bed. With the combined income of my twelve dollar an hour job and the survivors’ benefits we received for outliving our mother, we lived in a two-bedroom apartment that I could barely afford. My dad always told us he was okay and I always promised we’d go up to see him as soon as possible. He said that we shouldn’t, he had no room and there was nothing to see. I never saw where he lived, but it was a two room apartment that he’d built himself in the middle of the nowhere. I don’t know that it had running water, but it didn’t have air conditioning. When he’d lived with us, he drank coffee almost exclusively and sometimes chain-smoked; as far as I know, those habits only got worse out there. He had one friend, the son of the man on whose land my father lived. Together they’d worked to build some sort of community center with a dance hall, though I don’t think anything ever materialized.

One night, my father called us. He coughed very weakly and I knew something was wrong. After the call, I told my sister that dad sounded sick andhe might not make it this time. A few weeks later, my uncle called, told me that my father’d been hospitalized. I told him we’d head to El Paso. My dad could still speak and when he had the chance, he called us. As always, he assured us that he was okay, not to worry. When we arrived at the hospital three days later, I discovered that my father had had an emergency heart surgery. I left my sister in a waiting room with family and went in to visit; Dad was delirious from the pain killers. He saw me walk up with the doctor, seemed relieved. I snaked my arm through the tubes that surrounded him and gave him a hug, kissed his head. He asked me to help him sit up. The doctor stood on the opposite side of the bed and tried to assist. Dad grimaced as the doctor leaned in, saying “ow, ow, ow,” and called the doctor a motherfucker before any physical contact was ever made. The doctor pulled back, I apologized to him, and I sat my dad up. I told him I loved him and held his hand while my dad’s brothers and nephews stood nearby telling childhood stories about living in a Texas barrio. I brought my sister in and my dad said, “Hi Moe,” which was a nickname he’d adopted for her from her friends. We promised to be back soon and left. I had one more phone conversation with my dad. He sounded better. I honestly believed he’d be okay, that he’d pulled through the worst of it. I told him I loved him, told him I wished he’d taken care of himself, told him we’d be up there as quickly as possible and I passed the phone to my sister. I remember her saying she was okay, that she loved him and missed him. After they hung up, she cried because she’d ignored his last call before all this began. I told her it was okay, we didn’t know any of this was going to happen. We visited once more before I signed the paperwork to terminate life-support. They’d said my dad had low odds for surviving, but they were going to try one more operation, this one on his kidneys or liver. Afterward, he hadn’t opened his eyes. Of course, he was looking right at me when I got to his bedside, eyes hazy, though defiant as ever. I greeted him, told him I’d brought my sister and that my cousin had taken good care of us. He reacted to what I said, squeezed my hand. I let him know they wanted to do a tracheotomy, his eyebrows called them motherfuckers, and I told him all the things they’d said about him spending the rest of his life on machines. I think they had him on codeine, his eyes rolled slowly wherever he looked, and I told him that I’d sign the paperwork to terminate life support, that he’d live if his lungs would work. He looked confused and wary, but I assumed this was what he’d want; we’d always talked about needing to live without machines. I signed the paperwork. This is second biggest mistake of my life my life, letting him leave home was the first. I held his hand, which was swollen because of the organ failure, and I told him I loved him. They removed the tube and he started gasping. I hoped this meant his lungs were working, but he just kept gasping as though he was drowning. It went on, progressively lighter, for six hours. He looked calm and I cried, telling him I loved him, asking him to go to heaven and fix up the house we’d abandoned, that my sister and I would see him later on. I’m an atheist, but he was Catholic, and I thought it was something he’d want to hear. I felt guilty as I said it, but I said it anyway because it might mean something to him. I told him I’d take care of my sister always, not to worry about me and her, told him he’d made us strong, asked him why he’d done the things he did, asked him why he hadn’t taken care of himself, told him to fix up the house, that we’d see him again and we’d all live there with no bills to worry about. People filtered in and out, my sister came in and hugged and kissed him. His expression was one of loss when she came into his field of vision. He cried and his breaths were further and further apart, then grew shorter and more rapid and eventually I couldn’t hear them anymore. I let his hand go when his eyes emptied. I went to the restroom and took a walk to a nearby gas station, bought Chapstick and told the guy behind the counter that my dad had just died. I called a family friend and let her know. His funeral came and went, my sister and I returned home, moved in with an aunt for my sister’s senior year. After my sister started college and I got my own place again, I had a dream that I broke into my parents’ old house. I walked through its long central corridor, saw the ceilings collapsing and black mold everywhere, paperwork scattered across the floor. I saw the cot my dad slept on next to an air purifier I’d given him; the home’s decay started while he’d still lived there alone, sometimes without power, later on without water. I walked through our living room, kitchen, TV room, his bedroom, my sister’s room, and came to my old part of the house, which, through the doorway, I could see was bright and restored. I entered and my dad was on a ladder, alive, painting one of the walls. He asked how we were doing, I told him my sister had started college and that I got my own place, told him he should move back in with me, that I could support him and that I wanted him around, that I wanted to make sure he was healthy. He said no, that he was okay where he was. I told him my sister would love to see him, that we could all get a place together if he wanted, that maybe we could get the old place back and make it work, that he’d need to get a job but we could do it. He said that he couldn’t. I tried for a while longer and eventually, in his certain, knowing, sarcastic way, he said, “it’s a little late for that,” and I woke up. I think about him every day. I see him in my face and in the actions of my sister and I. I think of him when I’m being careless and I think of him when all of my flaws come together and make things work the way he could. My sister still cries for him, I think we both try to avoid fixating on the negative aspects of all of it, but sometimes it’s impossible, there was too much sadness. We embrace what we can and laugh about his jokes and his personality. We miss him.

#autobiography #short story

0 notes