Where is Rory? An intro.

"Where is Rory?" is a story that I began writing toward the end of November. I think that it's safe to say that I haven't touched it in just over 2 months. While going through my writings folder I saw that I had transcribed a little bit of it and have decided to give it a little air and see if I can rekindle my initial vision for it. More of this story exists but it is in a notebook that is not currently in my possession (My first step, in writing, is hand writing in (usually) a Steno Notepad). In it's finished (or at least further fleshed) form this story will tell a tale of parallel universes, set in a time-frame of the late 19th Century.

Where is Rory?

The wind blew. The wind blew enough that it made that curtains flap, flap just a little. The candles on the nightstand flickered, tempting to extinguished by the same wind. Darkness had fallen a handful of hours before and all the house’s occupants, aside from Rory, were sleeping.

“I wonder if the candlelight bothers her,” he thought to himself after Ingrid stirred.

“Maybes she’s cold.”

Climbing out of bed, careful not to disturb, Rory discovered how cold the late-night floor was. Fumbling for his robe, in the dancing light, he tripped over Hermes. The old dog’s abrupt wake-up call was enough to force a soft “boof” past his whiskers. Frozen in his tracks, now without his nightcap, Rory waited to see if the dog’s noise had been enough to awaken Ingrid. He knew she had a terrible time sleeping these days and the sleep she did have was certainly not that of high quality, as she often awoke, terrified and asking for Harold.

“mwuaahh…” she fumbled out her mouth. “mmwuahaaa” came again and then she was silent.

Still frozen, Rory could hear her deep breaths return. She was asleep, most likely never awoke. Now with his an increased heart rate, Rory did not like his chances of sleep upon returning to his spot in the bed.

“I need sleep, the sun will rise soon and there are chores to be done before heading to the shop” he reminded himself, making way across the room to the open window, to the waving curtains.

“Jesus it’s cold” he thought as he tightened the tie of his robe. “Why the hell did I leave the window open in the first place?” Rory quizzed as he latched the window closed.

He shivered and turned for the return trip to bed. After carefully hurdling Hermes and placing his robe on the rocking chair beside the bed, Rory climbed back into his now not-so-warm spot in bed. Leaning over he blew out one candle of the two candles and reached for the second. It wasn’t until the breath traveled from his mouth to the flame that the room became dark. The dancing little man of fire was still visible to Rory when he closed his eyes. Lids shut, the fading image gave way to an explosion of light. The entire room lit up as if it were neighbors with the sun.

The light pierced Rory’s eyes and seemed to penetrate him to his core. Hot, searing, focused pain.

“Ahhh!” he screamed aloud. The light and pain relinquishing their hold as he breathed the last breath of the scream. Darkness returned in a pure form.

“Rory? What is wrong?” asked a panicked and awakened Ingrid.

When Rory opened his eyes, the dancing fireman had returned only this time he was held by a frightened Ingrid. The flame all but licked her face, not revealing it all but enough to see how startled she was.

“Rory, are you ok? Rory?” asked Ingrid.

“Yes, yes. I think so.” He answered.

The house remained silent. Either the children were not awakened because they are used to startling sounds coming from their parent’s bedroom during the night, or they now lie in their beds, frightened.