Part Two of That Unnamed Story


     If you’ve read Free Choice Friday, you know that I started a story! If you haven’t read it…Do! Free Choice Friday (I don’t know if this ‘ll work)

     Now, onto the story!

     Riley was surprised, but it felt…Right. She had already loved the transition of day to night. She had already loved thinking about time, it was just so strange. Now, being able to…Control…it felt normal, like it was meant to be, in her bones and blood.
     She stayed in the attic for the week, playing with her newfound power. She made less time for Uncle Rick’s farming by bringing the sun down, and her lack of water made it easy to create a lack of water on the farm. 

     One day, as she sat contemplating whether to let it rain on Uncle Rick’s head or not at all, she heard the very man stomping up the stairs.

  “Come,” he said. That was all. He turned around, paused, and walked down the creaking stairs.

  “Why?” Riley asked, causing him to stop.  “You shut me up here with little food and water, and now you expect me to follow you?” She was indignant.

  “I know what I’m doing,” he came and roughly grabbed her hand, pulling her towards the door.

     Aunt Darla, sewing in the living room, barely glanced up as Riley passed by. 

     They stepped out of the house, Christopher looking on with astonishment from afar.

  “What are you doing ?” Christopher asked, running up to his father. He showed the most concern he had ever shown to anybody, and Riley was surprised.

  “Taking Riley to…Her home,” Uncle Rick answered.

  “I thought this was her home.”

  “With her father,” Uncle Rick held up his hand to stop further questions.

     Natural night soon fell, and Riley was feeling tired when they arrived. It was a home, indeed.

     The tall towers were smooth and glossy, intricately carved windows were placed generously about. There were bright depictions of happy scenes, dark illustrations of angry fights looked so real Riley jumped in horror when a scene of a raging battle came into view. A tall spire made of intricate glass weaving mesmerized Riley. Uncle Rick, though, walked through it like he had seen it millions of times, not stopping to study the intriguing murals.

  “Uncle Rick,” Riley began, but was quieted.

     She realized why he had shushed her: they were at the door. He took the knocker in one hand, in the other he grasped Riley.

     The resounding clang of the knocker against metal was deafening.

     Riley was afraid nobody would answer. She was also afraid somebody would. 

  “I’ve come to see my brother,” Uncle Rick’s cry pierced the night. The door opened, and Riley was pulled in.

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