Pavlov Sleeper Cell
By Mark Silverhawk
Greenville Illinois, the Hayward residence, approximately 4:30pm
Buttercup is just standing there, staring at the floor as though her favorite treat is right under her nose and she’s just waiting for the command word to gulp it down. This imaginary treat, however, is somehow extremely threatening. Her growls are long and low in between short intakes of breath. Drool begins to pool on the hardwood floor under her snarling maw.
“Buttercup!” Daron Hayward barks again, his voice as firm and commanding as he can muster at fifteen, but this being the third time his call has been ignored, his tone hints now of fear. He has never heard Buttercup growl before, no one has.
Buttercup is a mutt, Malamute and German Shepherd. She views the world through innocent, ice-blue eyes and sports a thick coat of jet black fur, except for a dusting of silver on her soft belly. She may look intimidating, but she has always been a sweetheart and her temperament docile. The one hundred pounds of pampered and adored fluff just turned one a few days ago. One minute ago she was passionately trotting across the dining room retrieving a tossed knobby ball, now she seems to have completely lost her mind.
Kyndra, Daron’s younger sister by two years, had been camped out at the threshold where the living room carpet meets the hardwood floor of the dining room. She had tossed the retrieved knobby ball back across the dining room when Buttercup suddenly just stopped and stared at the floor. Now, Kyndra stands back as far as she can in the living room and still keep a weary eye on Buttercup.
Daron begins to back away. “I’m uh…just gonna walk away now,” he declares nervously.
Buttercup huffs suddenly and raises her head.
“Oh my God!” Daron gasps.
Kyndra shrieks in horror.
Buttercup’s beautiful, compassionate, ice-blue eyes, now glisten red with blood.
Daron’s intentions were to turn, run, and yell for his parents, but no sooner did his heels complete their fervent pivot, Buttercup was on him.
Kyndra is frozen in fear and disbelief as Buttercup takes her brother to the floor, tearing viciously at the back of his neck, blood spraying out across the living room. She breaks the gridlock between mind and body and blindly turns hard to run away, as far away from this daymare as possible. Her left knee, in full swing, catches the sharp corner of the coffee table cleanly, dislocating the knee-cap. Her screams renew and meld with her brother’s as she goes down.
Their grandfather, retired military official Dr. Albert Hayward, and their father, active military official Dr. Henry Hayward, come rushing into the kitchen then, having heard the event erupt from out on the patio where they were prepping for BBQ night. Albert is armed with a large, bare, steel skewer, his son -a butcher’s knife.
Their grandmother, Mrs. Judith Hayward, and their mother, Mrs. Eleanor Hayward, were upstairs in Judith’s office when the commotion began. Eleanor emerges from the stairwell with a dagger-like letter opener in one hand and a paperweight in the other, her mother-in-law close behind, her youngest grandchild, Peter, cradled in her arms.
Buttercup kills them all.
“The targets?”
“Eliminated.”
“And the subject?”
“Neutralized.”
“Good. Now activate the others.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
- - -
Originally from St. Louis Missouri, Mark Silverhawk is an artist/writer currently enjoying the edenic beauty of Hawaii from the isle of Maui. When He's not manifesting his imagination onto canvas or computer screen, he seeks the company of musical instruments, nature, animals, the ocean and a few select people.
By Mark Silverhawk
Greenville Illinois, the Hayward residence, approximately 4:30pm
Buttercup is just standing there, staring at the floor as though her favorite treat is right under her nose and she’s just waiting for the command word to gulp it down. This imaginary treat, however, is somehow extremely threatening. Her growls are long and low in between short intakes of breath. Drool begins to pool on the hardwood floor under her snarling maw.
“Buttercup!” Daron Hayward barks again, his voice as firm and commanding as he can muster at fifteen, but this being the third time his call has been ignored, his tone hints now of fear. He has never heard Buttercup growl before, no one has.
Buttercup is a mutt, Malamute and German Shepherd. She views the world through innocent, ice-blue eyes and sports a thick coat of jet black fur, except for a dusting of silver on her soft belly. She may look intimidating, but she has always been a sweetheart and her temperament docile. The one hundred pounds of pampered and adored fluff just turned one a few days ago. One minute ago she was passionately trotting across the dining room retrieving a tossed knobby ball, now she seems to have completely lost her mind.
Kyndra, Daron’s younger sister by two years, had been camped out at the threshold where the living room carpet meets the hardwood floor of the dining room. She had tossed the retrieved knobby ball back across the dining room when Buttercup suddenly just stopped and stared at the floor. Now, Kyndra stands back as far as she can in the living room and still keep a weary eye on Buttercup.
Daron begins to back away. “I’m uh…just gonna walk away now,” he declares nervously.
Buttercup huffs suddenly and raises her head.
“Oh my God!” Daron gasps.
Kyndra shrieks in horror.
Buttercup’s beautiful, compassionate, ice-blue eyes, now glisten red with blood.
Daron’s intentions were to turn, run, and yell for his parents, but no sooner did his heels complete their fervent pivot, Buttercup was on him.
Kyndra is frozen in fear and disbelief as Buttercup takes her brother to the floor, tearing viciously at the back of his neck, blood spraying out across the living room. She breaks the gridlock between mind and body and blindly turns hard to run away, as far away from this daymare as possible. Her left knee, in full swing, catches the sharp corner of the coffee table cleanly, dislocating the knee-cap. Her screams renew and meld with her brother’s as she goes down.
Their grandfather, retired military official Dr. Albert Hayward, and their father, active military official Dr. Henry Hayward, come rushing into the kitchen then, having heard the event erupt from out on the patio where they were prepping for BBQ night. Albert is armed with a large, bare, steel skewer, his son -a butcher’s knife.
Their grandmother, Mrs. Judith Hayward, and their mother, Mrs. Eleanor Hayward, were upstairs in Judith’s office when the commotion began. Eleanor emerges from the stairwell with a dagger-like letter opener in one hand and a paperweight in the other, her mother-in-law close behind, her youngest grandchild, Peter, cradled in her arms.
Buttercup kills them all.
“The targets?”
“Eliminated.”
“And the subject?”
“Neutralized.”
“Good. Now activate the others.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
- - -
Originally from St. Louis Missouri, Mark Silverhawk is an artist/writer currently enjoying the edenic beauty of Hawaii from the isle of Maui. When He's not manifesting his imagination onto canvas or computer screen, he seeks the company of musical instruments, nature, animals, the ocean and a few select people.
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