Author Games: One-Shot, One Kill

Round Three: Ishmael and Shane

Prompt: The beginning of a horror villain

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Ishmael- Apples

Daddy grew the apples and Mama made the pies: that was the deal. From our little country store, you could smell the cinnamon crust cooking every morning and trust the smoke coming from the chimney better than any alarm clock. It wasn't just pies either— no, Momma would fit our gorgeous apples into anything she could get her hands on. Cake, taffy, juice, tarts, soap, perfume, chapstick, if you could find it in our store chances are it had the word "apple" somewhere in it.

Shoot, during the cold season Daddy would even carve figurines out of the smooth, dark wood he collected from the limbs he'd cut down to keep the frost at bay. There was nothing he couldn't make out of that wood. Cats and turtles, horses and fish, whole barnyards came to life the moment his knife marked the wood and his whistle hit the air. Mama said he had a gift— but that's not how he saw it. "Time and practice," he'd tell me with a wink and the fire glinting off his reading glasses. "Time and practice."

And me? Well, my job was just to enjoy it.

Weekend breakfasts were always the best times. I'd never met anyone who could put together a meal as well as Mama. My feet hit the cold hardwood floors as I sped down the hall. My folks liked to joke that during the week, you couldn't get me up for nothing, but as soon as Saturday hit— you couldn't stop me. Stairs didn't slow me down, or the change from wood to tile as I skirted through rooms.

Like a dog hooked on a scent, I made my way into the kitchen were Mama was working hard. "Mornin', Mama." I slid into my chair, scooting it upwards to meet the placemat waiting for me. Warm, thick oatmeal with chunks of apple sat in a glossy bowl, sitting beside slices of buttered toast that made my stomach growl. It took every ounce of my strength not to dive in immediately and gobble up everything in front of me.

Mama turned around to look at me from the stove, her red dress fluttering like the petals of a wildflower. She had a ladle in one hand and a mug in the other, holding both of them out to me before she asked, "You want some hot chocolate, sweetheart?"

My head bobbed enthusiastically, straightening up in my chair. "Yes, please," I answered, watching her scoop the warm chocolate out of a pot on the stove.

With a sprinkle of cinnamon and a splash of whipped cream, Mama put the mug down in front of me. "There you go." She turned her head, one hand on her hip. "Jacob, darling," Mama called into the other room. "Come sit down and enjoy breakfast with your family."

Heavy footsteps answered her words. Daddy stepped into the kitchen, tossing the morning paper onto the table before he took his place at the head of the table. His work boots were already stained with mud on the sides. I didn't know how early Daddy got up to do everything he did, but our orchard was no easy task. But that's not what caught my eye. The open newspaper displayed the same horrible news it had for as long as I could remember.

"Brown sugar?" I hardly heard her. Black and white faces peered out from they grey pages, flooding it with information on the missing persons. Every day it seemed like another face was added. It wasn't safe to go out at night and Daddy said that they'd put a curfew in effect if people kept disappearing at the rate they were. I wasn't even allowed to go out into the orchard alone anymore. "Marcus?"

My head snaped up, meeting Mama's patient eyes and the jar in her hands with an apologetic smile. "Sorry!" I apologized quickly, holding out my bowl towards her. "Yes, ma'am. Please." The corners of her lips twitched upwards as she doled out a small scoop into the steaming bowl. The combination of sugar and cinnamon apples made my mouth water. Identical bowls got placed at the other two mats on the table, Daddy thanking Mama for her hard work with a kiss on the cheek before we started eating together.