Terrible Analogies

Five Minute Fiction is an ongoing experiment. The goal: To write as much as I can in five minutes.  Don’t think.  Let the fingers do the work.  Once done walk away then come back later to clean it up.

Enjoy?

Overnight Delivery

“Trust me kid, when you’ve been in this truck for as long as I have, you get to appreciate the little things, like chewable fiber and hemorrhoid wipes,” Duke says, popping an oversized pill into his mouth.  “GPS says we’re coming up on Dunwich.  Why don’t you go back there and pull the box?”

“You got it,” Allen says a bit too cheerfully as he unbuckles himself from his seat and steps into the cargo area.  ”Which one is it?” he asks, slipping into the shadows of the back compartment.

“All the way to the back on your right, kid!” Duke replies, then resumes crunching down on his fiber pill.

Bracing himself between the metallic shelves that line the interior of the large brown delivery van, Allen shuffles his way to the back and begins scanning the various oddly shaped boxes stacked on top of each other like a teetering, corrugated wall of Tetris pieces.

Examining the hastily wrapped boxes and crumpled tubes bearing dire red warning stamps informing the world that the contents of this particular package is “Fragile!”, “Glass!” or, if you value your life, “Do not mutilate!”, Allen’s scanning laser happens to fall upon a package bearing the stamped image of an eyeball sprouting what looks like tentacles.

Below this box the sweeping glow of Allen’s scanning laser lights up various other packages stamped with astrological symbols, spirals, insects, pyramids, and unfamiliar text.

As his laser slides across the face of the bottom most box it beeps, startling Allen who instinctively jerks back at the sound.  The flashing text on the scanner tells Allen that this is the box meant for Dunwich.

Beneath the QR code the words “Fowler” and “Dunwich” are inked in the slow, methodical style of a shaking, aged hand trying its best to will a flourished script.  Stamped in the lower corner is the vague shape of what looks like an ancient book in the middle of a circle with a tense line slashed through it.

Gingerly cradling the package in the crook of his arm, Allen carefully shuffles his way towards the front of the van.  ”Got it,” he exhales, collapsing onto the passenger seat whose springs groan and squeal as they compensate for his weight.

“’Bout time, rookie.  We’re comin’ up to the house.  Now, listen to me,” Duke says, rounding a corner and coming to a stop in front of a white two-story shake shingled house with a tire swing hanging from a gnarled oak tree on the front lawn,  “I want to you go ’round back and place the package at the back door.  Don’t knock.  Just drop it and leave.”

“But, how will they know that it’s been delivered?”

“Don’t worry, kid.  They’ll know.  These kind of…people, they always know.”