Ovaltine
by Kell Inkston
Again, awoken
by a sound in the night, but this time, Jane
pushes herself up from her pillow alert and with
stealthed caution. This is not the usual bump
device, or whirr of the air conditioner, or rush
of the pipes; this was a glass window breaking,
downstairs.
Her breath
bates as she creeps along her room on slanted
toes, reaching for the all-american made, 100%
titanium alloy Brooklyn smasher she had for just
such an occasion as this. Guns are a pain to get
one’s hands on, after all, and she was
certain this would never happen- it’s a
shame, then, that it has.
Jane arches
the bat behind her shoulder, her swing eternally
ready as she floats down the steps with a rigid,
icy frame. She passes the kid’s room
undisturbed, turns to the living room, then the
dining room, and finally to the kitchen. The
grand circular pane, flushing a warm light into
the house at day, has been shattered and entirely
cleared of glass, now a portal for the void-like
winter bitterness to gust in freely. Her mind
spins in wild, violent musings of what sort of
sadistic maniac from hell’s just slithered
into her house. She holds her breath and scans
the room, she spots a brick in the moonlight. In
cold, horrified sweat she creeps up to the brick,
and notices a note tied around the back with a
rubber band.
“Have you
drank your oval-tine today?”
Damn kids.
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