#it's just me and my wooden spoon and my slowly seasoned pans against the world babey!!!

[madamescarlette]

not to brag but you guys I made such a good stir-fry today!!!

[morganaspendragonss]

holly's august extravaganza day 26: slowly becoming lovers

for sonia (@pragmaticoptimist34)! i have to confess something - i got so caught up in writing this that i actually forgot to include either of the other two prompts you sent me 🙈 i hope you like it anyway!

second confession - it was supposed to be longer and then it kind of got away from me so i had to draw a line somewhere oops

thanks to @ravens-words, @cosmiicmalex, @halsteadmarchs and liz (sorry, i don't know your tumblr!) for enabling me and to @noxsoulmate for beta'ing!

ao3 | 2.9k | falling in love, fluff, tiny, tiny hint of hurt/comfort, soft tarlos, set between s1 and s2

Things don’t get fixed overnight. They agree to give them a shot, but that doesn’t change the fact that TK is still reeling from his break-up and overdose, nor that Carlos is still hesitant and afraid of pushing too hard at once.

But, slowly, they get to know each other. And, slowly, they start to fall in love.

i. food preferences

“You have to be joking.”

“It tastes like soap, Carlos!”

Carlos groans and drops his head into his hands, shaking his head at this latest revelation from his boyfriend. His boyfriend, who has just made his life—or at least his cooking—a hell of a lot more complicated. “My mamá would have a fit if she could hear you now.”

He almost regrets the words as TK’s eyes alight with interest; he’s been dancing around the topic of his parents for a while now, but it’s not like he can deny what he said. His mom would be having a fit, or possibly attempting to kill TK with a wooden spoon, if she found out that Carlos’s boyfriend was not only a gringo, but one who hates coriander.

“I swear, you won’t even taste it when it’s mixed into the food,” he tries, because coriander is a staple of his cooking, and he can’t even fathom not using it.

But TK just levels him with a firm look. “Yes, I will, Carlos. I’ll always taste it.”

Carlos rolls his eyes at his boyfriend’s theatrics, but sighs, relenting. “Fine. I suppose I can—” He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, as TK throws his arms around him and plants a noisy kiss on his cheek.

“Thanks, babe,” he says, grinning cheekily.

“Yeah, yeah,” Carlos grumbles, but he can’t help but smile.

There’s very little, he’s finding, that he wouldn’t do for TK.

ii. nicknames

It slips out by accident one day.

“TK,” Carlos groans, followed by a gasp as TK moves just right, sending sparks of pleasure down his spine. “TK, Ty—”

TK instantly freezes on top of him and Carlos’s eyes open, concern rising in him as he takes in the pensive look on his boyfriend’s face.

“What’s wrong?”

“I…” TK shakes his head and forces a smile. “It’s nothing. I’m good, I promise.” He ducks down to kiss Carlos again, but the mood is all wrong, and Carlos gently pushes him back, raising an eyebrow. TK holds out a moment longer, then sighs and rolls away, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s stupid.”

Carlos tuts, reaching over to brush a hand through TK’s hair. “Bet you $20 it’s not.”

“Hope you have $20 then, Reyes,” TK says wryly. He looks over at Carlos and sighs again, biting his lip. “It’s just… You called me Ty.”

“Oh.” Carlos’s eyes widen and he props himself up on an elbow. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking; it won’t happen again—”

TK presses a finger against his lips, cutting him off abruptly. He smiles softly, then removes his finger and caresses Carlos’s cheek. “It’s okay,” he says. “More than okay, actually. I… I’ve always hated my name, but, I don’t know, I guess it sounded right? Like, when you said it? I think I’d kill anyone else who tried, but I really liked it coming from you.”

“Are you sure? You’re not just saying that because—”

Carlos is again cut off, this time by TK’s lips on his. TK moves so that he’s straddling Carlos again, hands pressed against his chest. “I’m sure,” he whispers, a grin playing at his mouth. “Now, weren’t we in the middle of something?”

iii. religion

Christmas sneaks up on him that year. Between helping the city recovering from the solar storm, work in general, the pandemic, and building his relationship with TK, Carlos has completely lost track of the months, until it’s a week before the date and he has nothing planned.

Really, it’s never been a big deal for him; he and his family used to attend mass and make an event out of it when he was a kid, but now he’s an adult, he’s often working, and he hasn’t been to church regularly since he was a teenager. But this year is different. This year, he’ll be spending it with TK, their first Christmas together, and he wants to make it special.

But he’s left it too late—nothing he orders online will arrive in time, the shops are becoming a nightmare, and he honestly has no clue where to even start. So Carlos resigns himself to another quiet Christmas, frustration and disappointment welling in him at the thought of telling his boyfriend.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out one night over dinner, the thought having been gnawing at him for days.

TK raises a brow. “For?”

“Christmas,” Carlos sighs, looking down into his stew. “It’s our first one together and I had all these plans, and then I just sort of… I didn’t forget! But things have been so crazy, and—”

He’s cut off when TK lays a hand on his. When Carlos looks up at him, TK seems to be fighting back laughter, which is confusing at best and potentially mildly insulting at worst.

“Babe,” TK says, grinning, “it’s okay. You might not believe me, but I forgot too. Christmas wasn’t really a thing growing up—my mom’s Jewish, so I used to celebrate Hanukkah on the years I stayed with her, and Dad was working more often than not. I don’t care, I promise.”

Carlos blinks. “You’re Jewish?” Surely he would know if… But they’ve never discussed religion before, and Carlos had kind of assumed TK had the same ideals as him about the church. In hindsight that was stupid and presumptuous, and Carlos can’t quite believe he’d do something like that. An apology is on the tip of his tongue, but TK just shrugs, going back to his stew.

“Half,” he says. “I don’t really practice anymore but I still keep the beliefs with me, if that makes sense?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

TK smiles at him, and Carlos suddenly realises that this holiday season will be special after all, even if they don’t celebrate anything. Because he’s with TK, which is the most special thing in the world.

iv. how they sleep

Carlos has been sleeping alone for a long time. He’s had a couple of short-term boyfriends and the odd hook-up here and there, but he’s never had someone else in his bed regularly—certainly not regularly enough to get used to it.

TK was hesitant at first to stay over, but once he started to be more comfortable, it was almost a given that they’d be sleeping together whenever their shifts allowed.

And it had been an adjustment.

TK had warned him he tended to move around and be clingy in his sleep, but Carlos hadn’t quite understood what that meant, until now. He is, essentially, trapped under TK, his arms pinned to his sides and one leg thrown over his hip. TK’s head is pillowed on Carlos’s shoulder and his breath is fanning in soft puffs over his skin.

The only way he can move is if he wakes TK up, and there’s no way Carlos is going to do that. His boyfriend looks so peaceful, and Carlos is more than happy to be clung onto like a koala to a branch if it keeps that expression on his face.

In fact, he thinks he can get used to this very easily.

v. pda

In private, their days are filled with gentle touches and stolen kisses. Carlos will be cooking breakfast and TK will slip his arms around him, kissing the back of his neck. TK will be doing one chore or another and Carlos will brush a hand over his back or gently nudge him as he walks past.

But in public, it’s a whole other story.

It’s almost reflexive, the way TK reaches for Carlos’s hand as they’re walking down the street. It’s something they do all the time at home, and even with their friends, but this time, Carlos immediately tenses, seemingly automatically pulling his hand away.

“You okay?” he asks, frowning.

Carlos takes a deep breath, then obviously plasters on a smile, retaking TK’s hand—and TK can feel the tension in the gesture. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” TK gently lets go of Carlos and smiles reassuringly up at him. “It’s okay if you’re not comfortable with touching in public.”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. This is all on me; I should have asked.”

“But—”

“But, nothing.” He carefully bumps their soldiers together. “You’re entitled to your boundaries, I’m just sorry for overstepping. Tell me next time, please?”

Carlos hesitates, but nods, a gentle press of their arms a silent acknowledgment of agreement and understanding.

vi. scars

Carlos, TK has noticed, likes to pay extra attention to his bullet scar. Whether it’s pressing a gentle kiss over it when they’re in bed, or brushing it with his fingers when wrapping an arm around him, it happens too often for TK to believe it’s anything but intentional.

He doesn’t understand it at first.

Then he discovers Carlos’s own scars.

“What’s this?” he asks, tracing over the thick raised scarring on Carlos’s side. It stretches along the curve of his waist and round his back, and TK has no idea how he hasn’t noticed it before.

Carlos cranes his neck, letting out a hum when he sees what TK’s looking at. His head flops back down on the pillow and he closes his eyes, absently stroking up and down TK’s sides.

“It was...three years ago, maybe?” he says. “I got stabbed on a call. They told me it was pretty touch-and-go for a while, but they fixed me up and I was back at work in a month.”

His eyes are still closed, body completely relaxed, but TK can’t take his eyes off the scar. He reaches up to his own scar, and he gets it.

Carlos’s eyes crack open. “TK?”

“I’m good,” TK murmurs. He breaks his gaze from Carlos’s abdomen and smiles at him. “We both are.”

And if, after that day, Carlos notices him paying more attention to that scar, he doesn’t say anything.

vii. penguin or panda

“You’re out of your mind!”

In Carlos’s defence, a zoo date had seemed like a good idea. He knows TK loves animals, and he himself grew up around them, so in theory, a trip to Austin Zoo should have been the perfect time to get to know each other better while enjoying the day.

Turns out, TK has some very strong opinions on animals, and is willing to budge for absolutely no-one.

“I can’t believe you think penguins are cuter than pandas! I mean, look at them, Carlos!” He gestures emphatically to the panda enclosure, where one is napping on a log. It’s pretty cute, Carlos has to admit, but…

He shrugs. “But remember when the penguins were all huddling together?”

TK makes a noise of outrage, and Carlos has to laugh, then some more at the wounded pout he gets for it. “Is this really a thing for you?” he asks. “Like, is this going to be the dealbreaker for us?”

TK folds his arms and levels him with a stern look. “That depends,” he says. “Meerkats or koalas?”

And, just because he knows it will rile TK up more, Carlos grins and answers, “Meerkats.”

(They don’t break-up over it, but Carlos isn’t so sure that TK will be forgiving him any time soon.)

viii. special interests

“Say you could go back to a moment in history, but only once,” TK says, out of the blue, breaking the comfortable silence of the front room. Carlos stops carding his fingers through TK’s hair and looks down at him, curious. “Where would you go?”

Carlos opens his mouth, but TK doesn’t give him a second to answer. “Is it cliché if I said I’d go to Stonewall? I mean, I’d really like to see dinosaurs in the flesh, or—oh! I was, like, obsessed with pirates as a kid; I thought they were the coolest things ever, and I pretty much idolised Anne Bonny. But I’m pretty sure I’d die immediately if I went to either of those places, so…”

He trails off, a blush rising on his cheeks. “Sorry, I’m boring you.”

“No!” Carlos rushes to say. “No, you’re not. I love history, I just… What makes you ask?”

“It’s something we got into at the station earlier. Mateo brought it up first, I think?”

Carlos hums, pursing his lips in thought. “I guess…” He sighs and shakes his head. “It’s too hard. There’s so many places I’d want to go and people I’d want to meet.”

“But if you had to pick?” TK pushes, sitting upright and looking at Carlos with interest.

“I really want to meet Eleanor of Aquitaine, but if I could only go to one place…” He hesitates and thinks it over some more, but then his eyes catch on the masks hanging along the stairway, and he’s sure. “Tenochtitlan, but before Cortés arrived. It was a whole society, and I just think it would be so cool to see it up close and to know what it was like first-hand. I mean, I’ve read a lot of books, but we don’t have much from the Mexica people, a lot is from the conquerors, and—”

Carlos stops and huffs a laugh. “Now I’m the one boring you,” he says, but TK shakes his head, eyes bright.

“Tell me more.”

ix. coffee order

TK accepts the coffee without even thinking about it, even taking a sip before he realises he never told Carlos what his order was. He curses himself but resolves to drink it anyway; TK isn’t too much of a coffee snob, and he’s certainly not going to reject anything his boyfriend brings him.

He takes a second sip, and he’s so caught up in making a mental note to tell Carlos next time that it takes a minute for the taste to register. And…

It’s his order.

He looks sharply up at Carlos, who is smiling into his own coffee—therefore dispelling any notion of this being an insanely good guess. “How did you know?” he asks, bewildered.

The tips of Carlos’s ears turn pink, but the smile doesn’t leave his face as he looks up at TK. “Our first real date,” he says. “You mentioned that this was your go-to order.”

And TK can’t do anything but stare, because their first date was weeks ago, and Carlos still remembered, and it’s just…

He thinks—no, he knows—he’s falling in love.

x. fears

“Weirdest fears, go.”

TK has to laugh at the perplexed look Carlos sends him at the question, the straw of his boba hanging out of his mouth. Now that they’ve figured a sort of rhythm out between them, they decided to try the boba place again—there have been no emergencies or disasters so far, so TK is counting it as a win.

“Come on,” he continues. “Last time we were here, you said we barely knew each other—which was true—so now we’re going to fix it.”

Carlos’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “By telling each other our weirdest fears?”

“Exactly!” TK grins. “I’ll go first if you’re too chicken. Mine is slicing my hands open or cutting some fingers off with ice skates.”

“What?” Carlos breathes, disbelief all over his face. “I’ve never been ice skating but I’m pretty sure your hands aren’t supposed to go anywhere near the blades.”

“I didn’t say it was rational.” TK sips his boba, raising an eyebrow at Carlos. “Your turn.”

Carlos swallows, suddenly very interested in the table. “I, uh. When I was a kid, my Tía Lucy had a snake get into her pipes. She only discovered it when she went to the toilet one morning and it was just...sitting there in the bowl. I was terrified for years that the same would happen to us, and it’s kind of become a reflex to check.”

“Oh my god.” TK can’t help but burst out laughing, even though he feels bad for it as Carlos covers his face with his hands. “I’m sorry, I know it’s a real thing for you, I just…”

But Carlos’s shoulders are shaking too and, bizarrely, TK really does feel closer to him now.

It’s a good feeling.

xi. long-term commitments

Carlos is surprised when TK is the one to bring it up first.

“Do you ever think about the future?” he asks one day, head in Carlos’s lap, staring up at the ceiling.

Carlos pauses the show he’s technically supposed to be watching and quirks an eyebrow at his boyfriend. “Sure,” he says. “What about the future exactly?”

TK hesitates, and his voice comes out a lot quieter when he next speaks. “Like…” He sighs, a small flush rising on his cheeks. “The future. Our future. Us. Maybe...marriage, or…”

He trails off, practically whispering by the end of it. His gaze has shifted from the ceiling to the frozen TV screen and he’s chewing on his bottom lip, body stiff with tension. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Forget about it.”

But Carlos is learning to read TK, and he knows he was looking for reassurance. “I mean, yeah,” he says. “I think about it. Do you?”

TK stares up at him, wonder in his eyes. “After New York, I thought… But yeah. Yeah, I do.”

They share a smile as they lock eyes, and Carlos knows that they’re on the same page here. That, distant though they may be, both of them can hear wedding bells in their future.

[sheerfreesia007]

Fallin’ All In You (Pt. 13)

Title: Fallin’ All In You (Pt. 13)

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x Reader

Author: @sheerfreesia007​​

Words: 1,753

Tags: @cosmo-bear​, @two-unbeatable-beaters​, @randomness501​

Author Notes: I thought this gif was perfect for Agent Whiskey when he’s relaxing at home. Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy.

Gif credit: @pedroispunk​

           You had returned to Kentucky a few days ago after spending time with Jack up in New York for his birthday and we’re finally getting settled back into the Kentucky life. Jack had called you up the other day and told you he was returning from a mission and he’d be stopping by for the night and wanted to see you. You had stopped off at the grocery store after you left the office and picked up a few things to cook a nice dinner for you and Jack.

           You had picked up ground beef, a tomato, black olives, taco cheese, a green onion, and taco seasoning, your plan was to make homemade taco pizza. Turning on the radio that sat on your kitchen counter you began pulling out a pan, cutting board and knife. The music filled the room and you began to hum along to the words that fluttered into your ears. Your body moved around your tiny kitchen effortlessly as you began prepping everything to start chopping. The song on the radio reached the chorus and you sang out enthusiastically.

           “Oh, I need you more than words can say. Oh, you save me in ways that I can't explain. Always been there for me, now I'll do the same. Oh, I need you more than words can say.” You sang and let your voice fall away in a soft tone. You squeaked loudly as large warm arms wrapped around your waist and caged you in against the counter.

           “We’ve been here before.” Came Jack’s deep gravelly voice in your ear and you laughed out warmly. Turning in his arms you grinned up at him and placed your hands around his face and pulled him down for a kiss. You flinched back before your lips to touch as his Stetson dug into your forehead. You giggled and pulled the Stetson from his head. “You know, you’re the only one I’ll let do that.” He admitted softly before kissing you deeply.

           “Hmm, I have no doubt.” You mumbled against his lips when he pulled back.

           “I like this whole coming home to ya darlin’. It makes my heart happy.” He confessed to you. His lips pressed against yours softly again before he trailed them down to your jaw and back behind your ear. You hummed deeply and gripped his forearms tightly needing something to ground you as the pleasure quickly overtook your body.

           “Oh, it makes my heart happy too Jack.” You gasped as he began sucking marks into your neck. Jack hummed softly against your skin and felt your body arching up under his to press closer to him. “Wait, wait.” You tried to gasp out as you felt his tongue drag across your skin.

           “No way darlin’. I’ve got you to myself for the rest of tonight and a few hours tomorrow morning. I don’t want to waste any more time apart.” He said before pressing his body further into yours and you gasped again as your lower back hit the counter edge.

           “Jack you’ve been traveling. I’m pretty sure that you’re exhausted and hungry. We can do this once we eat.” You said out between each kiss. Jack didn’t listen and kept kissing you and you were melting under his hands and lips so easily. You tried one more time. “If you help me cook dinner I won’t make you sleep on the couch tonight.” You whispered out a deal to him. He pulled away from you slowly and you watched him with caution.

           “You’re an evil woman to dangle that before me darlin’.” He said lowly and his words made you shiver. But you put on a brave face and pecked his lips quickly.

           “Go get washed up and come help me. I’m gonna teach you how to cook.” You said warmly pushing at his chest softly. He moved off you taking his Stetson with him and walked back towards the bathroom. You turned back to the counter and picked up the tomato and green onion and began washing them in the sink. It’s not long before Jack is back in the kitchen and crowding your body from behind again. You grin at him over your shoulder and feel his lips ghosting against the back of your neck.

           “So where do ya want me darlin’?” he flirts with a devilish grin. You bark out a laugh and shake your head at him. You jut your chin out to the stove where there’s a pan laying out. “Are you sure darlin’?” Jack asks unsure. “Last time I cooked anything on the stove you told me it could be used as a salt lick.” He gripped softly to you and you grinned widely.

           “I’m sure.” You said and nodded your head towards the stove. “C’mon handsome, I’m gonna teach you.” You said firmly. Jack grinned and began to move to the stove, but before he got too far he leaned in close to your ear and whispered softly.

           “I love it when you get bossy.” Jack’s words made a blush creep up the back of your neck quickly and you shivered.

           “Now turn the heat up to medium high heat and put the chopped meat in there.” You guided him easily as you began to chop the tomato, the black olives and the green onion into small pieces. Jack did as you told him to and you nodded over to the wooden spoon on the counter. “Use the spoon to break up the ground meat so that it cooks evenly.” You guided him again as you leaned around him to turn on the oven to 375 degrees. You bent over to grab a sheet pan from your cabinet and gasped loudly when you felt a sharp slap to your ass. You bolted back up and gripped your ass cheek and looked over at Jack. He was staring intently at the pan of ground meat he was looking over and refused to look over at you.

           “You alright?” he asked grinning smugly. Your cheeks were flushed and you felt your breath coming in rapidly, almost too rapidly. Jack turned his head to you and you watched as his eyes darkened when he looked at you. “Oh darlin’.” He growled lowly at you. He was suddenly on you his hands grabbing at the sides of your face and dragging your lips to his which he quickly devoured. You squeaked softly as his mouth took yours harshly and deeply. His tongue licked into your mouth and you grabbed at his hips dragging him closer gasping into his mouth. You felt more than hear Jack moan into your mouth and you instantly became overwhelmed. This was too much and you began to panic. You pulled away and gulped deep breaths into your lungs. Jack leaned in to press his mouth to yours again but you pressed a hand to his chest shaking your head.

           “I’m sorry.” You whispered and shut your eyes fearing that he would be mad at you for stopping. But Jack’s hands moved from your face down your shoulders to your elbows and stopped there just cupping your elbows as he breathed heavily.

           “Too much?” he asked softly. You nodded your head and dropped your forehead down to his chest.

           “I’m sorry.” You said morosely. “I want to but this is too much too fast.” You admitted. Jack pressed a kiss to your temple and made a noise of agreement.

           “There’s nothing to be sorry for darlin’.” He said softly pressing another kiss to your temple. “I can wait as long as you need me to.” He said with conviction. “I’ve got your heart and you’ve got mine and that means more to me than anything else in the world.”

           “Jack.” You whispered softly and looked up at him with sparkling eyes. He smiled down at you and kissed your forehead softly.

           “C’mon now darlin’. Teach me how to cook.” He said good-naturedly.

             You watched as Jack leaned back in his chair and rested his hands behind his head smiling satisfactorily over at you. Dinner had turned out wonderful and Jack had been quite surprised that he had done the bulk of the cooking. You had showed him other homemade pizza recipes for him to try if he ever wanted to and he promised the next time you came up to New York he’d make you best damn homemade pizza you’d ever eaten.

           “So wait a darn minute, let me get this straight. You don’t know how to ride a horse?” he asked with a furrowed brow. You shrugged your shoulders as you rested your elbows on the table.

           “We had to take care of the horse not ride it during training.” You confessed. Jack looked at your bewildered. “I can do everything for it besides ride it.” You said so nonchalantly that it made Jack shake his head with a smile.

           “Never wanted to try?” he asked curiously. You tilted your head towards him slightly and he smiled amused at you.

           “Once, but then I saw Tequila get thrown from his and the bruise he got from it kinda put me off of it. Besides I’m short Jack, being thrown from that height won’t be good for me.” You reasoned logically.

           “So how’d it get exercise?” he asked curiously again.

           “I was in the corral pen with it and used the blow up balls. And Tequila would ride my mare for me.” You answered unconcerned as you shrugged your shoulders.

           “I’m gonna teach you how to ride.” Jack said firmly and you looked over at him hesitant.

           “Really?” you asked with excitement.

           “Yeah next time I have a few days off I’ll come and teach you how to ride. Since you taught me how to cook a meal I’ll teach you to ride.” He nodded at you and you felt your smile grow widely on your face.

           “Alright then c’mon Jack. I’ll clean up and you go relax on the couch. I can only imagine the day you’ve had.” You said as you stood and began clearing the dining room table. Jack stood up with you and began helping.

           “Nonsense darlin’. I want to help.” He said as he hip checked you before moving into the kitchen before you. You smiled softly and shook your head. Once you entered the kitchen you gasped as Jack pulled you flush against his chest. “Besides when I help I get to steal kisses all I want.” He said softly before kissing you deeply.

[therewasatale]

Imagine: You’re living with Peter B. Parker and one day you talk with him about your negativ body imagie

word count: 1851

chubby reader, and some body positivity 

for Anon who ask me to write some more Peter B. Parker imagine. sorry it took that long. also this is not excatly a peter x reader story. more like a platonic relationship. 

The growling of your stomach sharpened the world around you. The reminder that you haven't eaten anything today and your body needed some nutrients.

Holding a full bag in one of your hand you tried to search for your key, all the while cursing under your nose.

"Son of a-, damn...where's the fuck…of course it's at the bottom."

You felt the anxiety appearing in your shoulder, it slowly began to spread into your body. The first thing that tensed was your arms. You didn’t even realize you were clenching your jaws.

You were too hasty, and you know that you were too hasty for no reason. And still.

Finally, you finally found the key, but you were unsuccessful in finally putting it into the lock. Instead, you knocked it against the lock, and dropped it to the ground. Your stomach has been repeated its growl a little bit louder.

For a few moments you looked down silently. You had to hold yourself together, and stop your tears from starting to flow. After shut your eyes, and took a couple of big breaths before you leaned down and grabbed the key. Your hands were shaking so much that it took you three times to open the door. You pushed in the door and as silent as you could and you found yourself in front of your flatmate.  

"Hey, (Y/N)!" Peter B. Parker stepped out of the bathroom wearing a blue hoodie and his sweatpants. Furrowing his brows, he hurried to you. "Anything okay? Something happened?"

You nodded a little as you stepped out of your shoe. Before you spoke you had to clear your throat. "Yes, of course, everything is okay, just a long day. But I did the shopping at least, it was my turn."

Peter watched you for a moment, then nodded and took over the bag with the food. "All right, I'll help you unpack."

You got in further dropping your backpack on the living room's sofa and letting out a small sigh.

Another world, another life.

Two months ago you lead out in the world of B. Parker. Your life turned to the top of your head after you were in the wrong place and the wrong time. But, as it turned out, there was something good in every bad thing, you had lived alone in a small hole, and now you lived with Spider-Man in the same sublet.

Of course this didn't go from one moment to the next.

Something happened to you when that portal sniffed first and when they, the other Spider-Men, wanted to save you and take you home your body started to fall apart. You still remember the pain that cramped you, you felt like every part of your body burned and wanted to consume it itself.

Neither Peter, nor the other Spider-Men had any better idea, than letting you stay in this world.

You tried to fit in at the beginning, but even if you were far from being proud of this fact, you didn't succeed. You felt lost and weak, you felt like a loser who couldn't stand on their own feet. And then, on a rainy night, when you were in your deepest despair, you found yourself knocking on Parker's door. Since then, there is a roof over your head and a friend who listens.

The first few days you mainly spent in confusion. You never thought that you would be able to talk with Spider-Man, much less live with him. However, the wonder of the thing has gone away and turned into a pleasant confidence. Especially after you saw Peter doing breakfast in his sweatpants more times, than seeing him fighting in rubber clothes.

Your grumbling stomach shook you from your, thoughts. Your hand moved automatically hitting the source of the sound, as an attempt to signal to your body to shut up. It was a stupid habit, and you had no idea where you picked it up to begin with.

"Hey, I think it's murmuring because there's nothing in it." Peter scratched his shoulders and stepped closer to you.

You shrugged "I will eat later, I still want to finish editing, they are waiting for my project." You started to walk towards you room.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Come on." He put his hand on your shoulder and lightly turned you towards the kitchen. "Let's eat something, I actually wanted to tell you about this morning."

"About the fire in that apartment?" You let yourself be guided.

"What caught on fire was his private "garden".  I think I got a little bit high or something, because I babbled something to the fireman regarding "whipped cream"."

"And then you almost hit a lamp post." You interjected smiling under your nose.

"Then I almost hit a lamp post." He repeated grimacing. "Sometimes I curse the invention of the smartphones and the internet. By this time, you could make a small collection of my various screw-ups."

"Come on Peter," You shook your head with a smile. "You saved a man's life, who cares that you got a little bit high and became a bit too cheery after that."

"If you say, (Y/N)." He spun one of the kitchen chairs out for you and started digging around in the fridge. You sat down and he asked:

"So what do you want to eat?"

Your smile withered as you glanced down on yourself "Some vegetables."

"Hmm spaghetti?"

"I said vegetables, Peter."

"Oh, you're right, the tomato is a fruit." He replied totally ignoring the deeper meaning behind your words.

"Peter..."

Your stomach once again vocalized its impatience, which made you feel uneasy again.

"I think, it' agreeing with me." He put water in a saucepan to boil it while continuing to search for the meat. Surprisingly he felt at home in the kitchen.

"Mh, well, somebody who has such a big mouth, better just shut up." You rubbed your belly and sighed nervously.

Peter stopped the rummaging around and turned his eyes towards you blinking.

"I just-" You waved a little and our face run red with shame "Nothing."

Parker put down the plastic container looking at you. "Nowadays you're eating less and less, and in smaller portions."

"Are you just spying on me, Spider-Man?" You snorted sarcastically, and then when your guilt appeared, you turned your head. "Sorry, I didn't want to be a jerk."

"Hey," you winced when he put his hand on your head. "I'm just worried, we became good friends, and you know," Peter smiled at you as you looked up at him, "Spider-Man has precious few friends, so he tries to take care of them, at least in his own lame way."

You looked at him silently for a few moments. You broke the silence with a sniff when your tears started to flow.

"Ah, damn it man. How can you tell me things like that when-" you sniffed a couple of time, but you couldn't help but smile trough the tears "-when I ate nothing and my bloodsugar is low?"

Peter slowly stroked your head.

"I'm sorry, I'm still practicing this emotional stuff, I was a little rusty lately. So, you tell me what's wrong and I'll teach you Peter B. Parker's legendary spaghetti?"

You hesitated for a moment and then nodded standing up. He put the noodles in your hand to break it into the boiling water while he put up some oil to warm up in a pan.

"It all started at home. As you can see, I am not a small person, as in figure. And I was informed about this from my parents and my classmates. I think all of their bullshit convinced me that I should feel like shit because I'm fat, and definitely not beautiful. Beautiful, hell, I felt I was close to being repugnant."

You broke the noodles into the water using more vehemence than it needed. Peter just listened silently, while watching you, guessing it wasn't everything that you had to say.

"And when I moved here I felt like I was getting a new start, a new opportunity to start over everything again and this time do it well. Or at least to try to do it better. " You looked down and poked your belly. "And with a new life, I will need a new body too. Or at least, something that looks a bit better."

After you finished, Parker slowly hummed beside you. He also looked down at himself and then at you, then again at himself.

"Well, mine is bigger." He turned towards you, letting out his belly. "Look at this majestic belly!"

You looked at him wooden spoon in your hand, and as you saw his satisfied grin you couldn’t help but chuckle.

"Hey! Do you know how much work I have in this belly?" Peter looked at you with mock offense and stroked his belly. "You have no right to laugh."

"Sorry, sorry, but you're still a hero with superhuman abilities. I don't think a few extra pound slows you down that much."

"Are you kidding? Do you know how discriminatory the ventilation systems are in modern buildings? A well fed hero like myself" he pointed at himself "or an overly buff hero will have serious problems if he or she tries to crawl through them. It seems as if they intentionally want to make the work of the heroes more difficult."

He smiled warmly as you chuckled again. When he spoke again, his voice was somehow different, more serious. "There's nothing wrong with you, (Y/N). You're pretty as you are, whatever those old memories are telling you they're not right." He scraped the minced meat in the oil and started to slowly stir it. He glanced towards you smiling a little.

"If you want, maybe we can go jogging together, or even just walk if you want to start exercising. Not strictly to get rid of the extra pounds, just to get some air."

"Well..." you hesitantly put your weight on one leg then to the other.

"Before you say anything, I only ask you not to starve yourself. You need your strength." He looked into your eyes with a serious expression. This caused a kind of warmth to run through you. "All right?"

You nodded a little. "Okay, I'll try."

He smiled and stroked your head again. "Thank you. Come on, I'll show you how to do the seasoning, and then when we're done we can take a walk in the city."

"Aaand maybe we'll go to one of the animal shelters I found on the web?"

"(Y/N), we've already discussed this." Peter snorted, but you saw the tiny smile on his face.

"MJ also said that you need someone who you could take care of and look after."

"That is true."

"See? That’s why-"

"That’s why I let you live in here." He squinted towards you.

"Hey!" You chuckled.

Aside from that you noticed that technically, he didn't say no. So, you just had to take him to the shelter you already chosen, it will be smooth sailing from there.

[alchemyphan-blog]

And I Just Wanna Make Love to You

word count: 1.4k (exactly!!)

style: funny smut/idk sort of 

desc: phil is cooking dan and himself dinner when an old jazz song comes on the radio and phil starts to seduce dan. written in 2015.

a/n: inspired by this song! lmao

Cooking was a thing Dan and Phil had always done together, which didn’t change no matter the season.

For some reason the window had cracked open, and large gusts of chilling wind filled the apartment, tiny snowflakes landing on the windowsill.

“Dan, did you open the window? It’s freezing!” Phil yelled to him.

“Of course not, it’s like minus 800 degrees!” he yelled back.

Whatever the consolation Phil shut the window and re-entered the kitchen. They had the Itunes Radio shuffling, something they had never tried before. The room was filled with the smells of cooking Mexican dinner.

Phil went up to the stove, moving it around in the frying pan when something shone into his eye blocking his vision.

What was it?

Tinsel.

The damn tinsel Dan had put in every part of the house possible. On chairs, the TV, Phil’s bedroom, and now on top of the cupboard just above the stove.

Phil ripped it down and set it on the countertop, quickly getting back to cooking.

Dan turned around and saw the tinsel coiled up on the bar.

“Why’d you take my festive tinsel down?” he whined.

“Well, I kinda need to see what I’m cooking. It reflected off the light and I couldn’t see anything. Maybe should’ve thought of that,” Phil said, but internally admitted the whole ordeal was a bit hilarious.

He huffed. “Ugh, fine. I hope you don’t mind a festive…doorway!” he said, finding a place for it to drape for the time being.

A song neither of them knew had but was their style had just concluded, but then a random song came on the shuffle. Phil just happened to know this song.

Although Dan was extremely well-rounded when it came to music, this was a rare time when Phil knew a song and he didn’t.

Dan looked at the phone connected to the speaker and read out the song title, which Phil already knew.

“Etta James?” he asked puzzled, looking at the screen. Phil laughed. Dan turned to me to see if their confusion was mutual, but Phil had a smirk plastered onto his face unlike Dan.

It was an old jazz tune from the 60’s, and immediately when the saxophone could be heard Phil began to dance. Jokingly, he began to goofily sway his hips and instantly Dan was in a fit of giggles.

Phil sang along.

“I don’t want you to be no slave,” grabbing a wooden spoon to use as a microphone.

“I don’t want you to work all day, but I want you to be true.”

 Phil danced around the kitchen, oblivious to all but Dan.

 “And I just wanna make love to you!” he sang at the top of his lungs. In an act of impulse he ran to the doorway and grabbed the tinsel, wrapping it around Dan’s back.

Keeping in rhythm, Phil made an objective to coerce Dan into dancing with him - and it worked.

“I don’t wanna keep you indoors,”  Phil mused, looking into Dan’s eyes intensely. He turned the music up to drown out anything else, and all that mattered was keeping Dan looking back at him.

Phil twirled the golden tinsel around Dan’s hips and he looked at him seductively, biting his lip to keep from pouncing on Dan this very moment.

“There’s nothing for you to do but to keep me makin’ love to you,”  Phil echoed in a deep voice. It always made Dan ache, and all he wanted to see was for him to get off to Phil singing into his ear in the middle of the kitchen. And it was working.

“I can tell by the way you walk that walk, I can hear by the way you talk that talk.”

The tinsel danced between their bodies, and Phil dropped his wooden microphone, startling Dan, his cheeks deepening from a rose to bright red.

“I can give you all the lovin’ in the whole wide world,” Phil whispered into his ear. Dan moaned loud enough for the neighbors to hear, something he was famous for. Phil’s hips almost bucked up against Dan’s, begging for friction. The air filled with their breaths and a burning smell that met the crisp air outside. Phil ignored everything but him.

“I don’t want you sad and blue.”

Dan hungered for any contact as he bit down on Phil’s neck, leaving tiny marks.

“And I just wanna make love to you,” Phil emphasized, biting down just below his ear.

The heated session had ended as the song died down until it couldn’t be heard and they jumped back to reality. Phil quickly realized he shouldn’t have ignored everything, especially that burning smell.

They simultaneously gasped.

“My mexican fiesta!” Dan yelped, seeing the smoke fill the area. Instantly Phil shut off the stovetop, waving a dishtowel around. He took the pan off the stove and turned on the fans.

“Well there goes our special meal,” Dan said, giggling. “I knew how hungry you were too.”

“I think I’m hungry for something else, in fact,” Phil said, squeezing Dan’s backside before smacking it. He knew where Phil was going.

Once the smoke disintegrated and dinner had been dumped into the trash, Phil threw Dan against the nearest wall. He didn’t hesitate to latch onto Dan’s neck immediately, which earned a moan coming from him.

But Phil didn’t stop there. His head nuzzled into the crook of Dan’s collarbone as his body moved downward, leaving trails of kisses on the surface of his thin shirt. Making his way to the base of Dan’s shirt Phil quickly maneuvered him out of it. He dropped down to his knees and unclipped Dan’s belt, releasing some tension. Phil lowered his skin-tight jeans as they came around his ankles, and slipped them off as quickly as he could. He looked up at Dan and took the time to realize his boxers - Pokemon. Phil laughed.

Dan lightly shoved Phil’s shoulder. “Oh, shut it. Like you haven’t had chosen the wrong pair underwear because you were under the impression you were just going to have dinner and a relaxing evening, not sex next to the fridge,” He remarked. He was right, though.

Phil’s fingers wandered over the base of Dan’s slightly tanned thighs, finding a place on the inner part of his left and marked it, kissing overtop of it once he finished. He slowly removed Dan’s boxers, and made no effort to take them off his feet without taking his eyes off of Dan. In a swift motion Phil used one had to grab at his waist softly and used the other to take Dan into his mouth. Phil then realized this wouldn’t take much time at all, as by the time he got to Dan he was already half-hard. It was only seconds later that his moans to become increasingly loud and high-pitched with pleasure.

“Fuck, Phil-” he said, his breath hitching. Dan knew that Phil instinctively knows where his spots were. Phil’s head bobbed up and down at just the right pace, which was practically making Dan hit the roof. Phil’s throat closed around Dan. His hand moved up and down at his base, and Phil could feel Dan aching in his hand. Phil’s mouth buzzed around his length, something he had never done before but kept up his sleeve from a tabloid he read weeks ago. Apparently he should have been doing this earlier, as Dan’s voice went into an even higher range and a string of indecipherable words erupted from his mouth.

“Close,” Dan managed to warn, but it was barely audible for anyone to understand what he was saying. Phil slid his mouth from him and rubbed his hand around Dan’s length. In moments he came onto Phil’s hand, using the other to make sure I was thorough with it. Dan’s chest collapsed as he gave out and sank to the floor next to Phil.

They sat there huddled by the edge of countertop, fringes sweaty and what clothes they had on stuck to their skin, breaths so obnoxious their chests rose over their chins.

And for a few moments they just laid there like that, regaining any strength they had left.

“Jesus Christ, Phil,” Dan said after a few minutes.

And Phil knew he’d have to live up to this and exceed it every time Dan hungered for it.

[itshillaryrodamn]

Domestic Billary

Okay so I’m not that great at writing fluff, but @alwayswithhillary and some others have mentioned wanting to read some lighter, happier billary to help cheer us all up, so this is for you :)

1975. Fayetteville, Arkansas. The warm glow of early autumn sunshine streamed steadily into the bedroom causing Bill to slowly stir awake. He blinked his eyes open and reached out to the other side of the bed expecting to find Hillary’s sleeping form laying next to him, but to his surprise her side of the bed was empty. He sat up and blinked, wondering where she could be, and it was then that he registered the faint sounds of pots and pans clattering in the kitchen. Sniffing the air curiously, he realized he could smell cooking. But not the expected sweet and inviting smell of pancakes or coffee that one might expect at this early hour of the morning, it was something curiously rich and savory. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and slipped into a pair of boxers and a t shirt before heading downstairs to investigate. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he found the kitchen door ajar, and he quietly pushed it open to reveal Hillary standing in the middle of quite an impressive amount of mess for only 8am in the morning, especially considering they had left the kitchen in an immaculately clean condition before going to bed the night before. Hillary had her back to the door, and so she wasn’t immediately aware of Bill’s presence. She was studying the back of a can of tomatoes and Bill ran his eyes down her body approvingly. She was wearing one of his pale blue shirts and had her hair pulled messily back into a ponytail. His shirt was considerably too big on her, and the hem reached almost midway down the creamy skin of her thighs. As she reached down into a lower cupboard he caught a glimpse of the navy lace of her underwear, the only other garment she was currently wearing. God she looks incredible. He felt so lucky that he got to see her like this, fresh faced and glowing with radiance first thing in the morning. He could hardly believe this gorgeous, amazing woman would choose to be with him. And now she was going to be his wife. Bill’s heart swelled with joy as he thought back to the previous week when he had finally won her over and convinced her to follow her heart and say yes to his proposal, bringing them here; to this little house. With it’s screened in porch where they so often sat together and watched the world go by, it’s traditional fireplace, and its large bay window letting the warmth of natural sunlight travel across the hall toward their little dining room and their tiny kitchen. The tiny kitchen that his soon-to-be wife was now making a truly remarkable mess of. “Um, honey what are you doing?” His voice finally made Hillary aware of his presence, and she turned to him with a smile on her lips. “What does it look like? I’m cooking!”

Bill walked over to where she was standing by the stove and slipped his hands around her slim waist from behind, kissing her on the cheek. “You know most people tend to prefer something a little lighter in the mornings,” he nodded at the pan of sizzling chicken and onions and the spicy aromas coming from it, “what are we out of eggs or something?” Hillary rolled her eyes and giggled. The sound of her laughter was always like music to Bill’s ears, and he could never pass up an opportunity to gently tease her if it meant he got to hear it. “I’m practicing.” Hillary explained, trying to refocus on the red peppers she was now slicing. “What, for tonight? Honey you really didn’t need to do that I’m sure whatever you do will be just perfect.” He brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear gently. His mother was coming for dinner tonight, and they were planning on telling her about their engagement. Bill knew Hillary was nervous about it, and as this would be her first time cooking for her future mother in law she was eager to make the best impression possible. “You don’t need to impress her you know.” Hillary sighed, resting her knife on the chopping board for a moment and wiping her forehead. “I know…but it can’t hurt to be prepared. Practice makes perfect. I bought extra anyway and I think we both know cooking isn’t exactly my strongest skill set.” Bill smiled at that last comment, remembering some of her previous culinary disasters and the many calls for takeout he had made when her dishes hadn’t gone exactly to plan. “Well I don’t know about that,” Bill lowered his voice and leaned into her ear, “everything you’ve ever served up to me has tasted absolutely divine.” Hillary felt her cheeks flush, his breath tickling against her ear and the double meaning of his words sending a rush of heat between her thighs. She bit her lip and removed his hands from her waist, faking annoyance as she headed over to the sink to wash tomatoes. “William, if you aren’t going to help with anything useful I suggest you get out from under my feet.” He grinned but stepped aside, his eyes following her around the kitchen as she busied herself with washing, chopping, and stirring. He decided to start on the cleaning up while she cooked, as the worktop was now barely even visible beneath all the pots and pans she had pulled from the cupboards so far. “So what are you making anyway?” Hillary raised an eyebrow, “Is it really that unidentifiable?” Bill glanced into the pan and pretended to look mystified. Hillary watched his expression and swatted him playfully with the tea towel she was holding. “It’s chicken curry!” “Ow! I knew that, I’m just messing with you darlin’! It looks really…great.” Hillary frowned at his lack of enthusiasm and peered into her sauce anxiously, “do you think it needs more spices?” “I seriously doubt that,” Bill laughed, knowing her infamous tendency to over season things, “here let me try it.” He took the wooden spoon from her and dipped it into the sauce before raising it to his lips. He started launching into making a great show out of testing the flavor as though he was at some formal wine tasting, but the heat of the chilli suddenly hit him and cut his performance drastically short as he started coughing to keep himself from choking. “It’s not that bad is it?” Hillary quickly grabbed the spoon back from him and tasted it herself. “No, it’s perfect if you like having your taste buds numbed first thing in the morning.” She rolled her eyes, “it tastes okay to me?” “Well just remember not everyone has your impressive tolerance for spicy food honey.” He grinned. “Don’t tell me your mother shares the same tragically weak taste buds you have?” “Well…just maybe go a bit easier on the chilli tonight, okay?” He chuckled, before stepping in closer and wrapping his arms around her, “anyway, I don’t need to eat spicy food…just being with you is plenty hot enough for me.” She couldn’t stop herself from giggling at that, he always did manage to come out with the most hopelessly cheesy romantic lines. Bill cut off her laughter by leaning in and gently connecting their lips, and she sighed contentedly into the kiss. As her lips parted Bill tasted the hint of spice still on her tongue, and his hands wandered down her back as she threaded her fingers through his thick dark hair. They pressed themselves closer and closer together until Bill eventually broke the kiss, a sudden idea flashing into his head. “You know…there is something else we ought to be practicing, seeing as we are getting married in a few weeks.” Hillary raised an eyebrow suggestively, wondering what exactly he was referring to, “oh?” Bill caught her look instantly, “not that,” he laughed, before lowering his Arkansas drawl to the husky tone he knew absolutely melted her, “but don’t you worry, we’ll have plenty of time to get in practice for that later…Not that we need it of course.” “So what then?” She watched him curiously as he reached across the countertop and turned up the volume of the radio that had been humming pleasantly in the background. “Our wedding dance.” Her face broke into a warm smile as he offered her his hand and twirled her around, before resting his other hand on her back and leading her around the kitchen in a slow dance. They swayed to the music, fingers intertwined as they stepped across the gray kitchen tiles. As they danced, Hillary gazed lovingly up into Bill’s eyes and he gazed right back, their eyes locked onto each other, utterly captivated. Both were absolutely certain they had never felt this way about anyone before. This was undoubtedly the love of their life, and they couldn’t wait to stand up in that church and declare it in front of everyone. Neither were sure how long they had been dancing, but they were suddenly broken out of their trance by the sound of the smoke alarm piercing loudly through the kitchen. Hillary quickly turned around and gasped as she realized the chicken stock had boiled over out of the saucepan and onto the stove. “Shit!” She leaped into action grabbing a tea towel to move the pan off the heat and rescue what was left of the contents. Bill chuckled, even cursing somehow sounded endearing when it was coming from her lips. He reached up to the ceiling and switched off the smoke alarm before throwing open a window to help clear the foggy haze that had spread through the kitchen. “Maybe this practice run wasn’t such a bad idea after all,” he joked as he helped her clean up the mess on the stove, “at least you’re getting all the mistakes out of the way now, by tonight there’ll be nothing to left to go wrong!” She groaned in despair but couldn’t help but laugh at his logic. He wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder and stilled her hand that was still scrubbing at the burnt mess on the stove. “Honestly honey it’s gonna be fine, don’t you worry.” He kissed her cheek and she rested her head on the space between his neck and his shoulder for a moment. “I hope so. And by the way you are so officially barred from the kitchen tonight if this is the kind of distraction you cause.” Bill bit his lip. “I’d say that’s fair.” He shifted back a little to give her space while she put the finishing touches to the dish, watching her delicate fingers sprinkle coriander into the saucepan before giving it a final stir. “So what are you actually planning on doing with all that darlin’?” He gestured towards the rather large steaming pan of food, “because as much as I love you I really don’t think my so-called tragically weak taste buds can handle your cooking twice in one day.” She rolled her eyes at him with a smile, “I’m giving it to Susan and Jake from next door. They’ve both gone down with the flu so I figured they’d be grateful not to have to cook.” “I love how thoughtful you are Hilly.” Bill ran his hands over her silky hair, threading his fingers through her ponytail. “I guess it’s a good job spicy food boosts the immune system.” She laughed, turning back from the stove to face him. “Well in that case they should be better in no time after one spoonful of this!” He grinned and pulled her closer toward him again, placing his hands on her waist and tugging playfully at the material of his shirt she had on. “You’re incredible, you know that right?” “You’re not too bad yourself.” She blushed slightly, unable to take her eyes off him and delighting in the way he looked at her as though she was the most precious valuable thing in all the world. “I can’t wait to marry you Miss Rodham.” She raised herself up on her toes and placed a single kiss on his lips before hugging him close. “I can’t wait to marry you too, Mr Clinton.”

AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9673865

[lhight1-mtsac-eng67-tues-thurs]

HOMEWORK (DUE 11/2):

Please read “The Man Upstairs” by Ray Bradbury, and answer the questions on the study guide.

THE MAN UPSTAIRS

By Ray Bradbury

He remembered how carefully and expertly Grandmother would fondle the cold cut guts of the chicken and withdraw the marvels therein; the wet shining loops of meat- smelling intestine, the muscled lump of heart, the gizzard with the collection of seeds in it. How neatly and nicely Grandma would slit the chicken and push her fat little hand in to deprive it of its medals. These would be segregated, some in pans of water, others in paper to be thrown to the dog later, perhaps. And then the ritual of taxidermy, stuffing the bird with watered, seasoned bread, and performing surgery with a swift, bright needle, stitch after pulled-tight stitch.

This was one of the prime thrills of Douglas’s eleven-year-old life span.

Altogether, he counted twenty knives in the various squeaking drawers of the magic kitchen table from which Grandma, a kindly, gentle-faced, white-haired old witch, drew paraphernalia for her miracles.

Douglas was to be quiet. He could stand across the table from Grandmama, his freckled nose tucked over the edge, watching, hut any loose boy-talk might interfere with the spell. It was a wonder when Grandma brandished silver shakers over the bird, supposedly sprinkling showers of mummy-dust and pulverized Indian bones, muttering mystical verses under her toothless breath.

“Grammy,” said Douglas at last, breaking the silence. “Am I like that inside?” He pointed at the chicken.

“Yes,” said Grandma. “A little more orderly and presentable, but just about the same…”

“And more of it!” added Douglas, proud of his guts.

“Yes,” said Grandma. “More of it.”

“Grandpa has lots more'n me. His sticks out in front so he can rest his elbows on it.”

Grandma laughed and shook her head.

Douglas said, “And Lucie Williams, down the street, she …”

“Hush, child!” cried Grandma.

“But she’s got…”

“Never you mind what she’s got! That’s different.”

“But why is she different?”

“A darning-needle dragon-fly is coming by some day and sew up your mouth,” said Grandma firmly.

Douglas waited, then asked, “How do you know I’ve got insides like that, Grandma?”

“Oh, go ‘way, now!”

The front doorbell rang.

Through the front-door glass as he ran down the hall, Douglas saw a straw hat. The bell jangled again and again. Douglas opened the door.

“Good morning, child, is the landlady at home?”

Cold gray eyes in a long, smooth, walnut-colored face gazed upon Douglas. The man was tall, thin, and carried a suitcase, a briefcase, an umbrella under one bent arm, gloves rich and thick and gray on his thin fingers, and wore a horribly new straw hat.

Douglas backed up. “She’s busy.”

“I wish to rent her upstairs room, as advertised.”

“We’ve got ten boarders, and it’s already rented; go away!”

“Douglas!” Grandma was behind him suddenly. “How do you do?” she said to the stranger. “Never mind this child.”

Unsmiling, the man stepped stiffly in. Douglas watched them ascend out of sight up the stairs, heard Grandma detailing the conveniences of the upstairs room. Soon she hurried down to pile linens from the linen closet on Douglas and send him scooting up with them.

Douglas paused at the room’s threshold. The room was changed oddly, simply because the stranger had been in it a moment. The straw hat lay brittle and terrible upon the bed, the umbrella leaned stiff against one wall like a dead bat with dark wings folded.

Douglas blinked at the umbrella.

The stranger stood in the center of the changed room, tall, tall.

“Here!” Douglas littered the bed with supplies. “We eat at noon sharp, and if you’re late coming down the soup’ll get cold. Grandma fixes it so it will, every time!”

The tall strange man counted out ten new copper pennies and tinkled them in Douglas’ blouse pocket. “We shall be friends,” he said, grimly.

It was funny, the man having nothing but pennies. Lots of them. No silver at all, no dimes, no quarters. Just new copper pennies.

Douglas thanked him glumly. “I’ll drop these in my dime bank when I get them changed into a dime. I got six dollars and fifty cents in dimes all ready for my camp trip in August.”

“I must wash now,” said the tall strange man.

Once, at midnight, Douglas had wakened to hear a storm rumbling outside–the cold hard wind shaking the house, the rain driving against the window. And then a lightning bolt had landed outside the window with a silent, terrific concussion. He remembered that fear of looking about at his room, seeing it strange and awful in the instantaneous light.

So it was, now, in this room. He stood looking up at the stranger. This room was no longer the same, but changed indefinably because this man, quick as a lightning bolt, had shed his light about it. Douglas backed up slowly as the stranger advanced.

The door closed in his face.

The wooden fork went up with mashed potatoes, came down empty. Mr. Koberman, for that was his name, had brought the wooden fork and wooden knife and spoon with him when Grandma called lunch.

“Mrs. Spaulding,” he said, quietly, “my own cutlery; please use it. I will have lunch today, but from tomorrow on, only breakfast and supper.”

Grandma bustled in and out, bearing steaming tureens of soup and beans and mashed potatoes to impress her new boarder, while Douglas sat rattling his silverware on his plate, because he had discovered it irritated Mr. Koberman.

“I know a trick,” said Douglas. “Watch.” He picked a fork-tine with his fingernail. He pointed at various sectors of the table, like a magician. Wherever he pointed, the sound of the vibrating forktine emerged, like a metal elfin voice. Simply done, of course. He pressed the fork handle on the table-top, secretly. The vibration came from the wood like a sounding board. It looked quite magical. “There, there, and there!” exclaimed Douglas, happily plucking the fork again. He pointed at Mr. Koberman’s soup and the noise came from it.

Mr. Koberman’s walnut-colored face became hard and firm and awful. He pushed the soup bowl away violently, his lips twisting. He fell back in his chair.

Grandma appeared. “Why, what’s wrong, Mr. Koberman?”

“I cannot eat this soup.”

“Why?”

“Because I am full and can eat no more. Thank you.”

Mr. Koberman left the room, glaring.

“What did you do, just then?” asked Grandma at Douglas, sharply.

“Nothing. Grandma, why does he eat with wooden spoons?”

“Yours not to question! When do you go back to school, anyway?”

“Seven weeks.”

“Oh, my land!” said Grandma.

Mr. Koberman worked nights. Each morning at eight he arrived mysteriously home, devoured a very small breakfast, and then slept soundlessly in his room all through the dreaming hot daytime, until the huge supper with all the other boarders at night.

Mr. Koberman’s sleeping habits made it necessary for Douglas to be quiet. This was unbearable. So, whenever Grandma visited down the street, Douglas stomped up and down stairs beating a drum, bouncing golf balls, or just screaming for three minutes outside Mr. Koberman’s door, or flushing the toilet seven times in succession.

Mr. Koberman never moved. His room was silent, dark. He did not complain. There was no sound. He slept on and on. It was very strange.

Douglas felt a pure white flame of hatred burn inside himself with a steady, unflickering beauty. Now that room was Koberman Land. Once it had been flowery bright when Miss Sadlowe lived there. Now it was stark, bare, cold, clean, everything in its place, alien and brittle.

Douglas climbed upstairs on the fourth morning.

Halfway to the second floor was a large sun-filled window, framed by six-inch panes of orange, purple, blue, red and burgundy glass. In the enchanted early mornings when the sun fell through to strike the landing and slide down the stair banister, Douglas stood entranced at this window peering at the world through the multicolored windows.

Now a blue world, a blue sky, blue people, blue streetcars and blue trotting dogs.

He shifted panes. Now–an amber world! Two lemonish women glided by, resembling the daughters of Fu Manchu! Douglas giggled. This pane made even the sunlight more purely golden.

It was eight A.M. Mr. Koberman strolled by below, on the sidewalk, returning from his night’s work, his cane looped over his elbow, straw hat glued to his head with patent oil.

Douglas shifted panes again. Mr. Koberman was a red man walking through a red world with red trees and red flowers and– something else.

Something about–Mr. Koberman.

Douglas squinted.

The red glass did things to Mr. Koberman. His face, his suit, his hands. The clothes seemed to melt away. Douglas almost believed, for one terrible instant, that he could see inside Mr. Koberman. And what he saw made him lean wildly against the small red pane, blinking.

Mr. Koberman glanced up just then, saw Douglas, and raised his cane-umbrella angrily, as if to strike. He ran swiftly across the red lawn to the front door.

“Young man!” he cried, running up the stairs. “What were you doing?”

“Just looking,” said Douglas, numbly.

“That’s all, is it?” cried Mr. Koberman.

“Yes, sir. I look through all the glasses. All kinds of worlds. Blue ones, red ones, yellow ones. All different.”

“All kinds of worlds, is it!” Mr. Koberman glanced at the little panes of glass, his face pale. He got hold of himself. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and pretended to laugh. “Yes. All kinds of worlds. All different.” He walked to the door of his room. “Go right ahead; play,” he said.

The door closed. The hall was empty. Mr. Koberman had gone in.

Douglas shrugged and found a new pane.

“Oh, everything’s violet!”

Half an hour later, while playing in his sandbox behind the house, Douglas heard the crash and the shattering tinkle. He leaped up.

A moment later, Grandma appeared on the back porch, the old razor strop trembling in her hand.

“Douglas! I told you time and again never fling your basketball against the house! Oh, I could just cry!”

“I been sitting right here,” he protested.

“Come see what you’ve done, you nasty boy!”

The great colored window panes lay shattered in a rainbow chaos on the upstairs landing. His basketball lay in the ruins.

Before he could even begin telling his innocence, Douglas was struck a dozen stinging blows upon his rump. Wherever he landed, screaming, the razor strop struck again.

Later, hiding his mind in the sandpile like an ostrich, Douglas nursed his dreadful pains. He knew who’d thrown that basketball. A man with a straw hat and a stiff umbrella and a cold, gray room. Yeah, yeah, yeah. He dribbled tears. Just wait. Just wait.

He heard Grandma sweeping up the broken glass. She brought it out and threw it in the trash bin. Blue, pink, yellow meteors of glass dropped brightly down.

When she was gone, Douglas dragged himself, whimpering, over to save out three pieces of the incredible glass. Mr. Koberman disliked the colored windows. These–he clinked them in his fingers– would be worth saving.

Grandfather arrived from his newspaper office each night, shortly ahead of the other boarders, at five o'clock. When a slow, heavy tread filled the hall, and a thick, mahogany cane thumped in the cane-rack, Douglas ran to embrace the large stomach and sit on Grandpa’s knee while he read the evening paper.

“Hi, Grampa!”

“Hello, down there!”

“Grandma cut chickens again today. It’s fun watching,” said Douglas.

Grandpa kept reading. “That’s twice this week, chickens. She’s the chickenist woman. You like to watch her cut ‘em, eh? Coldblooded little pepper! Ha!”

“I’m just curious.”

“You are,” rumbled Grandpa, scowling. “Remember that day when that young lady was killed at the rail station? You just walked over and looked at her, blood and all.” He laughed. “Queer duck. Stay that way. Fear nothing, ever in your life. I guess you get it from your father, him being a military man and all, and you so close to him before you came here to live last year.” Grandpa returned to his paper.

A long pause. “Gramps?”

“Yes?”

“What if a man didn’t have a heart or lungs or stomach but still walked around, alive?”

“That,” rumbled Gramps, “would be a miracle.”

“I don’t mean a–a miracle. I mean, what if he was all different inside? Not like me.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be quite human then, would he, boy?”

“Guess not, Gramps. Gramps, you got a heart and lungs?”

Gramps chuckled. “Well, tell the truth, I don’t know. Never seen them. Never had an X-ray, never been to a doctor. Might as well be potato-solid for all I know.”

“Have I got a stomach?”

“You certainly have!” cried Grandma from the parlor entry. “'Cause I feed it! And you’ve lungs, you scream loud enough to wake the crumblees. And you’ve dirty hands, go wash them! Dinner’s ready. Grandpa, come on. Douglas, git!”

In the rush of boarders streaming downstairs, Grandpa, if he intended questioning Douglas further about the weird conversation, lost his opportunity. If dinner delayed an instant more, Grandma and the potatoes would develop simultaneous lumps.

The boarders, laughing and talking at the table–Mr. Koberman silent and sullen among them–were silenced when Grandfather cleared his throat. He talked politics a few minutes and then shifted over into the intriguing topic of the recent peculiar deaths in the town.

“It’s enough to make an old newspaper editor prick up his ears,” he said, eying them all. “That young Miss Larson, lived across the ravine, now. Found her dead three days ago for no reason, just funny kinds of tattoos all over her, and a facial expression that would make Dante cringe. And that other young lady, what was her name? Whitely? She disappeared and never did come back.”

“Them things happen alla time,” said Mr. Britz, the garage mechanic, chewing. “Ever peek inna Missing Peoples Bureau file? It’s that long.” He illustrated. “Can’t tell what happens to most of 'em.”

“Anyone want more dressing?” Grandma ladled liberal portions from the chicken’s interior. Douglas watched, thinking about how that chicken had had two kinds of guts–God-made and Manmade.

Well, how about three kinds of guts?

Eh?

Why not?

Conversation continued about the mysterious death of so-and-so, and, oh, yes, remember a week ago, Marion Barsumian died of heart failure, but maybe that didn’t connect up? or did it? you’re crazy! forget it, why talk about it at the dinner table? So.

“Never can tell,” said Mr. Britz. “Maybe we got a vampire in town.”

Mr. Koberman stopped eating.

“In the year 1927?” said Grandma. “A vampire? Oh go on, now.”

“Sure,” said Mr. Britz. “Kill 'em with silver bullets. Anything silver for that matter. Vampires hate silver. I read it in a book somewhere, once. Sure, I did.”

Douglas looked at Mr. Koberman who ate with wooden knives and forks and carried only new copper pennies in his pocket.

“It’s poor judgment,” said Grandpa, “to call anything by a name. We don’t know what a hobgoblin or a vampire or a troll is. Could be lots of things. You can’t heave them into categories with labels and say they’ll act one way or another. That’d be silly. They’re people. People who do things. Yes, that’s the way to put it: people who do things.”

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Koberman, who got up and went out for his evening walk to work.

The stars, the moon, the wind, the clock ticking, and the chiming of the hours into dawn, the sun rising, and here it was another morning, another day, and Mr. Koberman coming along the sidewalk from his night’s work. Douglas stood off like a small mechanism whirring and watching with carefully microscopic eyes.

At noon, Grandma went to the store to buy groceries.

As was his custom every day when Grandma was gone, Douglas yelled outside Mr. Koberman’s door for a full three minutes. As usual, there was no response. The silence was horrible.

He ran downstairs, got the pass-key, a silver fork, and the three pieces of colored glass he had saved from the shattered window. He fitted the key to the lock and swung the door slowly open.

The room was in half light, the shades drawn. Mr. Koberman lay atop his bedcovers, in slumber clothes, breathing gently, up and down. He didn’t move. His face was motionless.

“Hello, Mr. Koberman!”

The colorless walls echoed the man’s regular breathing.

“Mr. Koberman, hello!”

Bouncing a golf ball, Douglas advanced. He yelled. Still no answer. “Mr. Koberman!”

Bending over Mr. Koberman, Douglas picked the tines of the silver fork in the sleeping man’s face.

Mr. Koberman winced. He twisted. He groaned bitterly.

Response. Good. Swell.

Douglas drew a piece of blue glass from his pocket. Looking through the blue glass fragment he found himself in a blue room, in a blue world different from the world he knew. As different as was the red world. Blue furniture, blue bed, blue ceiling and walls, blue wooden eating utensils atop the blue bureau, and the sullen dark blue of Mr. Koberman’s face and arms and his blue chest rising, falling. Also…

Mr. Koherman’s eyes were wide, staring at him with a hungry darkness.

Douglas felt back, pulled the blue glass from his eyes.

Mr. Koberman’s eyes were shut.

Blue glass again–open. Blue glass away–shut. Blue glass again–open. Away–shut. Funny. Douglas experimented, trembling. Through the glass the eyes seemed to peer hungrily, avidly through Mr. Koberman’s closed lids. Without the blue glass they seemed tightly shut.

But it was the rest of Mr. Koberman’s body.

Mr. Koberman’s bedclothes dissolved off him. The blue glass had something to do with it. Or perhaps it was the clothes themselves, just being on Mr. Koberman. Douglas cried out.

He was looking through the wall of Mr. Koberman’s stomach, right inside him!

Mr. Koberman was solid.

Or, nearly so, anyway.

There were strange shapes and sizes within him.

Douglas must have stood amazed for five minutes, thinking about the blue worlds, the red worlds, the yellow worlds side by side, living together like glass panes around the big white stair window. Side by side, the colored panes, the different worlds; Mr. Koberman had said so himself.

So this was why the colored window had been broken.

“Mr. Koberman, wake up!”

No answer.

“Mr. Koberman, where do you work at night? Mr. Koberman, where do you work?”

A little breeze stirred the blue window shade.

“In a red world or a green world or a yellow one, Mr. Koberman?”

Over everything was a blue glass silence.

“Wait there,” said Douglas.

He walked down to the kitchen, pulled open the great squeaking drawer and picked out the sharpest, biggest knife.

Very calmly he walked into the hall, climbed back up the stairs again, opened the door to Mr. Koberman’s room, went in, and closed it, holding the sharp knife in one hand.

Grandma was busy fingering a piecrust into a pan when Douglas entered the kitchen to place something on the table.

“Grandma, what’s this?”

She glanced up briefly, over her glasses. “I don’t know.”

It was square, like a box, and elastic. It was bright orange in color. It had four square tubes, colored blue, attached to it. It smelled funny.

“Ever see anything like it, Grandma?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Douglas left it there, went from the kitchen. Five minutes later he returned with something else. “How about this?”

He laid down a bright pink linked chain with a purple triangle at one end.

“Don’t bother me,” said Grandma. “It’s only a chain.”

Next time he returned with two hands full. A ring, a square, a triangle, a pyramid, a rectangle, and–other shapes. All of them were pliable, resilient, and looked as if they were made of gelatin. “This isn’t all,” said Douglas, putting them down. “There’s more where this came from.”

Grandma said, “Yes, yes,” in a far-off tone, very busy.

“You were wrong, Grandma.”

“About what?”

“About all people being the same inside.”

“Stop talking nonsense.”

“Where’s my piggy-bank?”

“On the mantel, where you left it.”

“Thanks.”

He tromped into the parlor, reached up for his piggy-bank.

Grandpa came home from the office at five.

“Grandpa, come upstairs.”

“Sure, son. Why?”

“Something to show you. It’s not nice; but it’s interesting.”

Grandpa chuckled, following his grandson’s feet up to Mr. Koberman’s room.

“Grandma mustn’t know about this; she wouldn’t like it,” said Douglas. He pushed the door wide open. “There.”

Grandfather gasped.

Douglas remembered the next few hours all the rest of his life. Standing over Mr. Koberman’s naked body, the coroner and his assistants. Grandma, downstairs, asking somebody, “What’s going on up there?” and Grandpa saying, shakily, “I’ll take Douglas away on a long vacation so he can forget this whole ghastly affair. Ghastly, ghastly affair!”

Douglas said, “Why should it be bad? I don’t see anything bad. I don’t feel bad.”

The coroner shivered and said, “Koberman’s dead, all right.”

His assistant sweated. “Did you see those things in the pans of water and in the wrapping paper?”

“Oh, my God, my God, yes, I saw them.”

“Christ.”

The coroner bent over Mr. Koberman’s body again. “This better be kept secret, boys. It wasn’t murder. It was a mercy the boy acted. God knows what might have happened if he hadn’t.”

“What was Koberman? A vampire? A monster?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Something–not human.” The coroner moved his hands deftly over the suture.

Douglas was proud of his work. He’d gone to much trouble. He had watched Grandmother carefully and remembered. Needle and thread and all. All in all, Mr. Koberman was as neat a job as any chicken ever popped into hell by Grandma.

“I heard the boy say that Koberman lived even after all those things were taken out of him.” The coroner looked at the triangles and chains and pyramids floating in the pans of water. “Kept on living. God.”

“Did the boy say that?”

“He did.”

“Then, what did kill Koberman?”

The coroner drew a few strands of sewing thread from their bedding.

“This…” he said.

Sunlight blinked coldly off a half-revealed treasure trove; six dollars and seventy cents’ worth of silver dimes inside Mr. Koberman’s chest.

“I think Douglas made a wise investment,” said the coroner, sewing the flesh back up over the “dressing” quickly.

Work Cited

Brabury, Ray. October Country. New York: Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 2011. Print

ENG 67

Hight

STUDY GUIDE FOR “THE MAN UPSTAIRS” BY RAY BRADBURY

           Please answer the questions below on a separate piece of paper, and please keep in mind that I am stupid.  Therefore, I don’t understand short and vague answers.

1.            Douglas seems to instantly dislike Mr. Koberman before he even discovers the man’s secret.  Why?  How can he sense that Mr. Koberman is different?

2.            Based on his specific requests and how he acts, what kind of creature do you think Mr. Koberman is?

3.            What does Douglas see when he watches Mr. Koberman through the stained glass window and through the piece of blue glass in particular?  Does the colored glass truly show what Mr. Koberman is, or does the colored glass merely reinforce Douglas’s pre-conceived ideas about Mr. Koberman? Why?

4.            What has Douglas done to Mr. Koberman?  What has inspired him to do what he did?  Is Mr. Koberman truly dangerous?  Why or why not?

5.            Is Douglas a hero?  Is he a cold-blooded killer?  Is he both?  What do you think and why?

[hightlm-eng21-pierce-thurs]

HOMEWORK (DUE 5/11):

Please read the story, “The Man Upstairs,” by Ray Bradbury posted below and answer the questions on this story (also posted below).

THE MAN UPSTAIRS

By Ray Bradbury

He remembered how carefully and expertly Grandmother would fondle the cold cut guts of the chicken and withdraw the marvels therein; the wet shining loops of meat- smelling intestine, the muscled lump of heart, the gizzard with the collection of seeds in it. How neatly and nicely Grandma would slit the chicken and push her fat little hand in to deprive it of its medals. These would be segregated, some in pans of water, others in paper to be thrown to the dog later, perhaps. And then the ritual of taxidermy, stuffing the bird with watered, seasoned bread, and performing surgery with a swift, bright needle, stitch after pulled-tight stitch.

This was one of the prime thrills of Douglas’s eleven-year-old life span.

Altogether, he counted twenty knives in the various squeaking drawers of the magic kitchen table from which Grandma, a kindly, gentle-faced, white-haired old witch, drew paraphernalia for her miracles.

Douglas was to be quiet. He could stand across the table from Grandmama, his freckled nose tucked over the edge, watching, shut any loose boy-talk might interfere with the spell. It was a wonder when Grandma brandished silver shakers over the bird, supposedly sprinkling showers of mummy-dust and pulverized Indian bones, muttering mystical verses under her toothless breath.

“Grammy,” said Douglas at last, breaking the silence. “Am I like that inside?” He pointed at the chicken.

“Yes,” said Grandma. “A little more orderly and presentable, but just about the same… .”

“And more of it!” added Douglas, proud of his guts.

“Yes,” said Grandma. “More of it.”

“Grandpa has lots more'n me. His sticks out in front so he can rest his elbows on it.”

Grandma laughed and shook her head.

Douglas said, “And Lucie Williams, down the street, she …”

“Hush, child!” cried Grandma.

“But she’s got…”

“Never you mind what she’s got! That’s different.”

“But why is she different?”

“A darning-needle dragon-fly is coming by some day and sew up your mouth,” said Grandma firmly.

Douglas waited, then asked, “How do you know I’ve got insides like that, Grandma?”

“Oh, go ‘way, now!”

The front doorbell rang.

Through the front-door glass as he ran down the hall, Douglas saw a straw hat. The bell jangled again and again. Douglas opened the door.

“Good morning, child, is the landlady at home?”

Cold gray eyes in a long, smooth, walnut-colored face gazed upon Douglas. The man was tall, thin, and carried a suitcase, a briefcase, an umbrella under one bent arm, gloves rich and thick and gray on his thin fingers, and wore a horribly new straw hat.

Douglas backed up. “She’s busy.”

“I wish to rent her upstairs room, as advertised.”

“We’ve got ten boarders, and it’s already rented; go away!”

“Douglas!” Grandma was behind him suddenly. “How do you do?” she said to the stranger. “Never mind this child.”

Unsmiling, the man stepped stiffly in. Douglas watched them ascend out of sight up the stairs, heard Grandma detailing the conveniences of the upstairs room. Soon she hurried down to pile linens from the linen closet on Douglas and send him scooting up with them.

Douglas paused at the room’s threshold. The room was changed oddly, simply because the stranger had been in it a moment. The straw hat lay brittle and terrible upon the bed, the umbrella leaned stiff against one wall like a dead bat with dark wings folded.

Douglas blinked at the umbrella.

The stranger stood in the center of the changed room, tall, tall.

“Here!” Douglas littered the bed with supplies. “We eat at noon sharp, and if you’re late coming down the soup’ll get cold. Grandma fixes it so it will, every time!”

The tall strange man counted out ten new copper pennies and tinkled them in Douglas’ blouse pocket. “We shall be friends,” he said, grimly.

It was funny, the man having nothing but pennies. Lots of them. No silver at all, no dimes, no quarters. Just new copper pennies.

Douglas thanked him glumly. “I’ll drop these in my dime bank when I get them changed into a dime. I got six dollars and fifty cents in dimes all ready for my camp trip in August.”

“I must wash now,” said the tall strange man.

Once, at midnight, Douglas had wakened to hear a storm rumbling outside–the cold hard wind shaking the house, the rain driving against the window. And then a lightning bolt had landed outside the window with a silent, terrific concussion. He remembered that fear of looking about at his room, seeing it strange and awful in the instantaneous light.

So it was, now, in this room. He stood looking up at the stranger. This room was no longer the same, but changed indefinably because this man, quick as a lightning bolt, had shed his light about it. Douglas backed up slowly as the stranger advanced.

The door closed in his face.

The wooden fork went up with mashed potatoes, came down empty. Mr. Koberman, for that was his name, had brought the wooden fork and wooden knife and spoon with him when Grandma called lunch.

“Mrs. Spaulding,” he said, quietly, “my own cutlery; please use it. I will have lunch today, but from tomorrow on, only breakfast and supper.”

Grandma bustled in and out, bearing steaming tureens of soup and beans and mashed potatoes to impress her new boarder, while Douglas sat rattling his silverware on his plate, because he had discovered it irritated Mr. Koberman.

“I know a trick,” said Douglas. “Watch.” He picked a fork-tine with his fingernail. He pointed at various sectors of the table, like a magician. Wherever he pointed, the sound of the vibrating forktine emerged, like a metal elfin voice. Simply done, of course. He pressed the fork handle on the table-top, secretly. The vibration came from the wood like a sounding board. It looked quite magical. “There, there, and there!” exclaimed Douglas, happily plucking the fork again. He pointed at Mr. Koberman’s soup and the noise came from it.

Mr. Koberman’s walnut-colored face became hard and firm and awful. He pushed the soup bowl away violently, his lips twisting. He fell back in his chair.

Grandma appeared. “Why, what’s wrong, Mr. Koberman?”

“I cannot eat this soup.”

“Why?”

“Because I am full and can eat no more. Thank you.”

Mr. Koberman left the room, glaring.

“What did you do, just then?” asked Grandma at Douglas, sharply.

“Nothing. Grandma, why does he eat with wooden spoons?”

“Yours not to question! When do you go back to school, anyway?”

“Seven weeks.”

“Oh, my land!” said Grandma.

Mr. Koberman worked nights. Each morning at eight he arrived mysteriously home, devoured a very small breakfast, and then slept soundlessly in his room all through the dreaming hot daytime, until the huge supper with all the other boarders at night.

Mr. Koberman’s sleeping habits made it necessary for Douglas to be quiet. This was unbearable. So, whenever Grandma visited down the street, Douglas stomped up and down stairs beating a drum, bouncing golf balls, or just screaming for three minutes outside Mr. Koberman’s door, or flushing the toilet seven times in succession.

Mr. Koberman never moved. His room was silent, dark. He did not complain. There was no sound. He slept on and on. It was very strange.

Douglas felt a pure white flame of hatred burn inside himself with a steady, unflickering beauty. Now that room was Koberman Land. Once it had been flowery bright when Miss Sadlowe lived there. Now it was stark, bare, cold, clean, everything in its place, alien and brittle.

Douglas climbed upstairs on the fourth morning.

Halfway to the second floor was a large sun-filled window, framed by six-inch panes of orange, purple, blue, red and burgundy glass. In the enchanted early mornings when the sun fell through to strike the landing and slide down the stair banister, Douglas stood entranced at this window peering at the world through the multicolored windows.

Now a blue world, a blue sky, blue people, blue streetcars and blue trotting dogs.

He shifted panes. Now–an amber world! Two lemonish women glided by, resembling the daughters of Fu Manchu! Douglas giggled. This pane made even the sunlight more purely golden.

It was eight A.M. Mr. Koberman strolled by below, on the sidewalk, returning from his night’s work, his cane looped over his elbow, straw hat glued to his head with patent oil.

Douglas shifted panes again. Mr. Koberman was a red man walking through a red world with red trees and red flowers and– something else.

Something about–Mr. Koberman.

Douglas squinted.

The red glass did things to Mr. Koberman. His face, his suit, his hands. The clothes seemed to melt away. Douglas almost believed, for one terrible instant, that he could see inside Mr. Koberman. And what he saw made him lean wildly against the small red pane, blinking.

Mr. Koberman glanced up just then, saw Douglas, and raised his cane-umbrella angrily, as if to strike. He ran swiftly across the red lawn to the front door.

“Young man!” he cried, running up the stairs. “What were you doing?”

“Just looking,” said Douglas, numbly.

“That’s all, is it?” cried Mr. Koberman.

“Yes, sir. I look through all the glasses. All kinds of worlds. Blue ones, red ones, yellow ones. All different.”

“All kinds of worlds, is it!” Mr. Koberman glanced at the little panes of glass, his face pale. He got hold of himself. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and pretended to laugh. “Yes. All kinds of worlds. All different.” He walked to the door of his room. “Go right ahead; play,” he said.

The door closed. The hall was empty. Mr. Koberman had gone in.

Douglas shrugged and found a new pane.

“Oh, everything’s violet!”

Half an hour later, while playing in his sandbox behind the house, Douglas heard the crash and the shattering tinkle. He leaped up.

A moment later, Grandma appeared on the back porch, the old razor strop trembling in her hand.

“Douglas! I told you time and again never fling your basketball against the house! Oh, I could just cry!”

“I been sitting right here,” he protested.

“Come see what you’ve done, you nasty boy!”

The great colored window panes lay shattered in a rainbow chaos on the upstairs landing. His basketball lay in the ruins.

Before he could even begin telling his innocence, Douglas was struck a dozen stinging blows upon his rump. Wherever he landed, screaming, the razor strop struck again.

Later, hiding his mind in the sandpile like an ostrich, Douglas nursed his dreadful pains. He knew who’d thrown that basketball. A man with a straw hat and a stiff umbrella and a cold, gray room. Yeah, yeah, yeah. He dribbled tears. Just wait. Just wait.

He heard Grandma sweeping up the broken glass. She brought it out and threw it in the trash bin. Blue, pink, yellow meteors of glass dropped brightly down.

When she was gone, Douglas dragged himself, whimpering, over to save out three pieces of the incredible glass. Mr. Koberman disliked the colored windows. These–he clinked them in his fingers– would be worth saving.

Grandfather arrived from his newspaper office each night, shortly ahead of the other boarders, at five o'clock. When a slow, heavy tread filled the hall, and a thick, mahogany cane thumped in the cane-rack, Douglas ran to embrace the large stomach and sit on Grandpa’s knee while he read the evening paper.

“Hi, Grampa!”

“Hello, down there!”

“Grandma cut chickens again today. It’s fun watching,” said Douglas.

Grandpa kept reading. “That’s twice this week, chickens. She’s the chickenist woman. You like to watch her cut ‘em, eh? Coldblooded little pepper! Ha!”

“I’m just curious.”

“You are,” rumbled Grandpa, scowling. “Remember that day when that young lady was killed at the rail station? You just walked over and looked at her, blood and all.” He laughed. “Queer duck. Stay that way. Fear nothing, ever in your life. I guess you get it from your father, him being a military man and all, and you so close to him before you came here to live last year.” Grandpa returned to his paper.

A long pause. “Gramps?”

“Yes?”

“What if a man didn’t have a heart or lungs or stomach but still walked around, alive?”

“That,” rumbled Gramps, “would be a miracle.”

“I don’t mean a–a miracle. I mean, what if he was all different inside? Not like me.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be quite human then, would he, boy?”

“Guess not, Gramps. Gramps, you got a heart and lungs?”

Gramps chuckled. “Well, tell the truth, I don’t know. Never seen them. Never had an X-ray, never been to a doctor. Might as well be potato-solid for all I know.”

“Have I got a stomach?”

“You certainly have!” cried Grandma from the parlor entry. “'Cause I feed it! And you’ve lungs, you scream loud enough to wake the crumblees. And you’ve dirty hands, go wash them! Dinner’s ready. Grandpa, come on. Douglas, git!”

In the rush of boarders streaming downstairs, Grandpa, if he intended questioning Douglas further about the weird conversation, lost his opportunity. If dinner delayed an instant more, Grandma and the potatoes would develop simultaneous lumps.

The boarders, laughing and talking at the table–Mr. Koberman silent and sullen among them–were silenced when Grandfather cleared his throat. He talked politics a few minutes and then shifted over into the intriguing topic of the recent peculiar deaths in the town.

“It’s enough to make an old newspaper editor prick up his ears,” he said, eying them all. “That young Miss Larson, lived across the ravine, now. Found her dead three days ago for no reason, just funny kinds of tattoos all over her, and a facial expression that would make Dante cringe. And that other young lady, what was her name? Whitely? She disappeared and never did come back.”

“Them things happen alla time,” said Mr. Britz, the garage mechanic, chewing. “Ever peek inna Missing Peoples Bureau file? It’s that long.” He illustrated. “Can’t tell what happens to most of 'em.”

“Anyone want more dressing?” Grandma ladled liberal portions from the chicken’s interior. Douglas watched, thinking about how that chicken had had two kinds of guts–God-made and Manmade.

Well, how about three kinds of guts?

Eh?

Why not?

Conversation continued about the mysterious death of so-and-so, and, oh, yes, remember a week ago, Marion Barsumian died of heart failure, but maybe that didn’t connect up? or did it? you’re crazy! forget it, why talk about it at the dinner table? So.

“Never can tell,” said Mr. Britz. “Maybe we got a vampire in town.”

Mr. Koberman stopped eating.

“In the year 1927?” said Grandma. “A vampire? Oh go on, now.”

“Sure,” said Mr. Britz. “Kill 'em with silver bullets. Anything silver for that matter. Vampires hate silver. I read it in a book somewhere, once. Sure, I did.”

Douglas looked at Mr. Koberman who ate with wooden knives and forks and carried only new copper pennies in his pocket.

“It’s poor judgment,” said Grandpa, “to call anything by a name. We don’t know what a hobgoblin or a vampire or a troll is. Could be lots of things. You can’t heave them into categories with labels and say they’ll act one way or another. That’d be silly. They’re people. People who do things. Yes, that’s the way to put it: people who do things.”

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Koberman, who got up and went out for his evening walk to work.

The stars, the moon, the wind, the clock ticking, and the chiming of the hours into dawn, the sun rising, and here it was another morning, another day, and Mr. Koberman coming along the sidewalk from his night’s work. Douglas stood off like a small mechanism whirring and watching with carefully microscopic eyes.

At noon, Grandma went to the store to buy groceries.

As was his custom every day when Grandma was gone, Douglas yelled outside Mr. Koberman’s door for a full three minutes. As usual, there was no response. The silence was horrible.

He ran downstairs, got the pass-key, a silver fork, and the three pieces of colored glass he had saved from the shattered window. He fitted the key to the lock and swung the door slowly open.

The room was in half light, the shades drawn. Mr. Koberman lay atop his bedcovers, in slumber clothes, breathing gently, up and down. He didn’t move. His face was motionless.

“Hello, Mr. Koberman!”

The colorless walls echoed the man’s regular breathing.

“Mr. Koberman, hello!”

Bouncing a golf ball, Douglas advanced. He yelled. Still no answer. “Mr. Koberman!”

Bending over Mr. Koberman, Douglas picked the tines of the silver fork in the sleeping man’s face.

Mr. Koberman winced. He twisted. He groaned bitterly.

Response. Good. Swell.

Douglas drew a piece of blue glass from his pocket. Looking through the blue glass fragment he found himself in a blue room, in a blue world different from the world he knew. As different as was the red world. Blue furniture, blue bed, blue ceiling and walls, blue wooden eating utensils atop the blue bureau, and the sullen dark blue of Mr. Koberman’s face and arms and his blue chest rising, falling. Also…

Mr. Koherman’s eyes were wide, staring at him with a hungry darkness.

Douglas felt back, pulled the blue glass from his eyes.

Mr. Koberman’s eyes were shut.

Blue glass again–open. Blue glass away–shut. Blue glass again–open. Away–shut. Funny. Douglas experimented, trembling. Through the glass the eyes seemed to peer hungrily, avidly through Mr. Koberman’s closed lids. Without the blue glass they seemed tightly shut.

But it was the rest of Mr. Koberman’s body.

Mr. Koberman’s bedclothes dissolved off him. The blue glass had something to do with it. Or perhaps it was the clothes themselves, just being on Mr. Koberman. Douglas cried out.

He was looking through the wall of Mr. Koberman’s stomach, right inside him!

Mr. Koberman was solid.

Or, nearly so, anyway.

There were strange shapes and sizes within him.

Douglas must have stood amazed for five minutes, thinking about the blue worlds, the red worlds, the yellow worlds side by side, living together like glass panes around the big white stair window. Side by side, the colored panes, the different worlds; Mr. Koberman had said so himself.

So this was why the colored window had been broken.

“Mr. Koberman, wake up!”

No answer.

“Mr. Koberman, where do you work at night? Mr. Koberman, where do you work?”

A little breeze stirred the blue window shade.

“In a red world or a green world or a yellow one, Mr. Koberman?”

Over everything was a blue glass silence.

“Wait there,” said Douglas.

He walked down to the kitchen, pulled open the great squeaking drawer and picked out the sharpest, biggest knife.

Very calmly he walked into the hall, climbed back up the stairs again, opened the door to Mr. Koberman’s room, went in, and closed it, holding the sharp knife in one hand.

Grandma was busy fingering a piecrust into a pan when Douglas entered the kitchen to place something on the table.

“Grandma, what’s this?”

She glanced up briefly, over her glasses. “I don’t know.”

It was square, like a box, and elastic. It was bright orange in color. It had four square tubes, colored blue, attached to it. It smelled funny.

“Ever see anything like it, Grandma?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Douglas left it there, went from the kitchen. Five minutes later he returned with something else. “How about this?”

He laid down a bright pink linked chain with a purple triangle at one end.

“Don’t bother me,” said Grandma. “It’s only a chain.”

Next time he returned with two hands full. A ring, a square, a triangle, a pyramid, a rectangle, and–other shapes. All of them were pliable, resilient, and looked as if they were made of gelatin. “This isn’t all,” said Douglas, putting them down. “There’s more where this came from.”

Grandma said, “Yes, yes,” in a far-off tone, very busy.

“You were wrong, Grandma.”

“About what?”

“About all people being the same inside.”

“Stop talking nonsense.”

“Where’s my piggy-bank?”

“On the mantel, where you left it.”

“Thanks.”

He tromped into the parlor, reached up for his piggy-bank.

Grandpa came home from the office at five.

“Grandpa, come upstairs.”

“Sure, son. Why?”

“Something to show you. It’s not nice; but it’s interesting.”

Grandpa chuckled, following his grandson’s feet up to Mr. Koberman’s room.

“Grandma mustn’t know about this; she wouldn’t like it,” said Douglas. He pushed the door wide open. “There.”

Grandfather gasped.

Douglas remembered the next few hours all the rest of his life. Standing over Mr. Koberman’s naked body, the coroner and his assistants. Grandma, downstairs, asking somebody, “What’s going on up there?” and Grandpa saying, shakily, “I’ll take Douglas away on a long vacation so he can forget this whole ghastly affair. Ghastly, ghastly affair!”

Douglas said, “Why should it be bad? I don’t see anything bad. I don’t feel bad.”

The coroner shivered and said, “Koberman’s dead, all right.”

His assistant sweated. “Did you see those things in the pans of water and in the wrapping paper?”

“Oh, my God, my God, yes, I saw them.”

“Christ.”

The coroner bent over Mr. Koberman’s body again. “This better be kept secret, boys. It wasn’t murder. It was a mercy the boy acted. God knows what might have happened if he hadn’t.”

“What was Koberman? A vampire? A monster?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Something–not human.” The coroner moved his hands deftly over the suture.

Douglas was proud of his work. He’d gone to much trouble. He had watched Grandmother carefully and remembered. Needle and thread and all. All in all, Mr. Koberman was as neat a job as any chicken ever popped into hell by Grandma.

“I heard the boy say that Koberman lived even after all those things were taken out of him.” The coroner looked at the triangles and chains and pyramids floating in the pans of water. “Kept on living. God.”

“Did the boy say that?”

“He did.”

“Then, what did kill Koberman?”

The coroner drew a few strands of sewing thread from their bedding.

“This… .” he said.

Sunlight blinked coldly off a half-revealed treasure trove; six dollars and seventy cents’ worth of silver dimes inside Mr. Koberman’s chest.

“I think Douglas made a wise investment,” said the coroner, sewing the flesh back up over the “dressing” quickly.

Work Cited

Brabury, Ray. October Country. New York: Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 2011. Print

ENG 21

Hight

STUDY GUIDE FOR “THE MAN UPSTAIRS” BY RAY BRADBURY

Please answer the questions below on a separate piece of paper, and please keep in mind that I am stupid.  Therefore, I don’t understand short and vague answers.

Douglas seems to instantly dislike Mr. Koberman before he even discovers the man’s secret.  Why?  How can he sense that Mr. Koberman is different or unnatural?

What do you think Douglas sees when he watches Mr. Koberman through the stained glass window?

Has Mr. Koberman actually killed those women that the other boarders talk about?  Is there any objective evidence that proves he is the killer?

What has Douglas done to Mr. Koberman?  What has inspired him to do what he did?  Why?

What was inside Mr. Koberman?  Please describe the inside of his body.

Is Douglas a hero?  Is he a cold-blooded killer?  Is he both?  What do you think and why?

[lhight-eng68-monweds-645to850]

Please read the story, “The Man Upstairs,” by Ray Bradbury posted below and answer the questions on this story (also posted below).

THE MAN UPSTAIRS

By Ray Bradbury

He remembered how carefully and expertly Grandmother would fondle the cold cut guts of the chicken and withdraw the marvels therein; the wet shining loops of meat- smelling intestine, the muscled lump of heart, the gizzard with the collection of seeds in it. How neatly and nicely Grandma would slit the chicken and push her fat little hand in to deprive it of its medals. These would be segregated, some in pans of water, others in paper to be thrown to the dog later, perhaps. And then the ritual of taxidermy, stuffing the bird with watered, seasoned bread, and performing surgery with a swift, bright needle, stitch after pulled-tight stitch.

This was one of the prime thrills of Douglas’s eleven-year-old life span.

Altogether, he counted twenty knives in the various squeaking drawers of the magic kitchen table from which Grandma, a kindly, gentle-faced, white-haired old witch, drew paraphernalia for her miracles.

Douglas was to be quiet. He could stand across the table from Grandmama, his freckled nose tucked over the edge, watching, shut any loose boy-talk might interfere with the spell. It was a wonder when Grandma brandished silver shakers over the bird, supposedly sprinkling showers of mummy-dust and pulverized Indian bones, muttering mystical verses under her toothless breath.

“Grammy,” said Douglas at last, breaking the silence. “Am I like that inside?” He pointed at the chicken.

“Yes,” said Grandma. “A little more orderly and presentable, but just about the same… .”

“And more of it!” added Douglas, proud of his guts.

“Yes,” said Grandma. “More of it.”

“Grandpa has lots more'n me. His sticks out in front so he can rest his elbows on it.”

Grandma laughed and shook her head.

Douglas said, “And Lucie Williams, down the street, she …”

“Hush, child!” cried Grandma.

“But she’s got…”

“Never you mind what she’s got! That’s different.”

“But why is she different?”

“A darning-needle dragon-fly is coming by some day and sew up your mouth,” said Grandma firmly.

Douglas waited, then asked, “How do you know I’ve got insides like that, Grandma?”

“Oh, go ‘way, now!”

The front doorbell rang.

Through the front-door glass as he ran down the hall, Douglas saw a straw hat. The bell jangled again and again. Douglas opened the door.

“Good morning, child, is the landlady at home?”

Cold gray eyes in a long, smooth, walnut-colored face gazed upon Douglas. The man was tall, thin, and carried a suitcase, a briefcase, an umbrella under one bent arm, gloves rich and thick and gray on his thin fingers, and wore a horribly new straw hat.

Douglas backed up. “She’s busy.”

“I wish to rent her upstairs room, as advertised.”

“We’ve got ten boarders, and it’s already rented; go away!”

“Douglas!” Grandma was behind him suddenly. “How do you do?” she said to the stranger. “Never mind this child.”

Unsmiling, the man stepped stiffly in. Douglas watched them ascend out of sight up the stairs, heard Grandma detailing the conveniences of the upstairs room. Soon she hurried down to pile linens from the linen closet on Douglas and send him scooting up with them.

Douglas paused at the room’s threshold. The room was changed oddly, simply because the stranger had been in it a moment. The straw hat lay brittle and terrible upon the bed, the umbrella leaned stiff against one wall like a dead bat with dark wings folded.

Douglas blinked at the umbrella.

The stranger stood in the center of the changed room, tall, tall.

“Here!” Douglas littered the bed with supplies. “We eat at noon sharp, and if you’re late coming down the soup’ll get cold. Grandma fixes it so it will, every time!”

The tall strange man counted out ten new copper pennies and tinkled them in Douglas’ blouse pocket. “We shall be friends,” he said, grimly.

It was funny, the man having nothing but pennies. Lots of them. No silver at all, no dimes, no quarters. Just new copper pennies.

Douglas thanked him glumly. “I’ll drop these in my dime bank when I get them changed into a dime. I got six dollars and fifty cents in dimes all ready for my camp trip in August.”

“I must wash now,” said the tall strange man.

Once, at midnight, Douglas had wakened to hear a storm rumbling outside–the cold hard wind shaking the house, the rain driving against the window. And then a lightning bolt had landed outside the window with a silent, terrific concussion. He remembered that fear of looking about at his room, seeing it strange and awful in the instantaneous light.

So it was, now, in this room. He stood looking up at the stranger. This room was no longer the same, but changed indefinably because this man, quick as a lightning bolt, had shed his light about it. Douglas backed up slowly as the stranger advanced.

The door closed in his face.

The wooden fork went up with mashed potatoes, came down empty. Mr. Koberman, for that was his name, had brought the wooden fork and wooden knife and spoon with him when Grandma called lunch.

“Mrs. Spaulding,” he said, quietly, “my own cutlery; please use it. I will have lunch today, but from tomorrow on, only breakfast and supper.”

Grandma bustled in and out, bearing steaming tureens of soup and beans and mashed potatoes to impress her new boarder, while Douglas sat rattling his silverware on his plate, because he had discovered it irritated Mr. Koberman.

“I know a trick,” said Douglas. “Watch.” He picked a fork-tine with his fingernail. He pointed at various sectors of the table, like a magician. Wherever he pointed, the sound of the vibrating forktine emerged, like a metal elfin voice. Simply done, of course. He pressed the fork handle on the table-top, secretly. The vibration came from the wood like a sounding board. It looked quite magical. “There, there, and there!” exclaimed Douglas, happily plucking the fork again. He pointed at Mr. Koberman’s soup and the noise came from it.

Mr. Koberman’s walnut-colored face became hard and firm and awful. He pushed the soup bowl away violently, his lips twisting. He fell back in his chair.

Grandma appeared. “Why, what’s wrong, Mr. Koberman?”

“I cannot eat this soup.”

“Why?”

“Because I am full and can eat no more. Thank you.”

Mr. Koberman left the room, glaring.

“What did you do, just then?” asked Grandma at Douglas, sharply.

“Nothing. Grandma, why does he eat with wooden spoons?”

“Yours not to question! When do you go back to school, anyway?”

“Seven weeks.”

“Oh, my land!” said Grandma.

Mr. Koberman worked nights. Each morning at eight he arrived mysteriously home, devoured a very small breakfast, and then slept soundlessly in his room all through the dreaming hot daytime, until the huge supper with all the other boarders at night.

Mr. Koberman’s sleeping habits made it necessary for Douglas to be quiet. This was unbearable. So, whenever Grandma visited down the street, Douglas stomped up and down stairs beating a drum, bouncing golf balls, or just screaming for three minutes outside Mr. Koberman’s door, or flushing the toilet seven times in succession.

Mr. Koberman never moved. His room was silent, dark. He did not complain. There was no sound. He slept on and on. It was very strange.

Douglas felt a pure white flame of hatred burn inside himself with a steady, unflickering beauty. Now that room was Koberman Land. Once it had been flowery bright when Miss Sadlowe lived there. Now it was stark, bare, cold, clean, everything in its place, alien and brittle.

Douglas climbed upstairs on the fourth morning.

Halfway to the second floor was a large sun-filled window, framed by six-inch panes of orange, purple, blue, red and burgundy glass. In the enchanted early mornings when the sun fell through to strike the landing and slide down the stair banister, Douglas stood entranced at this window peering at the world through the multicolored windows.

Now a blue world, a blue sky, blue people, blue streetcars and blue trotting dogs.

He shifted panes. Now–an amber world! Two lemonish women glided by, resembling the daughters of Fu Manchu! Douglas giggled. This pane made even the sunlight more purely golden.

It was eight A.M. Mr. Koberman strolled by below, on the sidewalk, returning from his night’s work, his cane looped over his elbow, straw hat glued to his head with patent oil.

Douglas shifted panes again. Mr. Koberman was a red man walking through a red world with red trees and red flowers and– something else.

Something about–Mr. Koberman.

Douglas squinted.

The red glass did things to Mr. Koberman. His face, his suit, his hands. The clothes seemed to melt away. Douglas almost believed, for one terrible instant, that he could see inside Mr. Koberman. And what he saw made him lean wildly against the small red pane, blinking.

Mr. Koberman glanced up just then, saw Douglas, and raised his cane-umbrella angrily, as if to strike. He ran swiftly across the red lawn to the front door.

“Young man!” he cried, running up the stairs. “What were you doing?”

“Just looking,” said Douglas, numbly.

“That’s all, is it?” cried Mr. Koberman.

“Yes, sir. I look through all the glasses. All kinds of worlds. Blue ones, red ones, yellow ones. All different.”

“All kinds of worlds, is it!” Mr. Koberman glanced at the little panes of glass, his face pale. He got hold of himself. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and pretended to laugh. “Yes. All kinds of worlds. All different.” He walked to the door of his room. “Go right ahead; play,” he said.

The door closed. The hall was empty. Mr. Koberman had gone in.

Douglas shrugged and found a new pane.

“Oh, everything’s violet!”

Half an hour later, while playing in his sandbox behind the house, Douglas heard the crash and the shattering tinkle. He leaped up.

A moment later, Grandma appeared on the back porch, the old razor strop trembling in her hand.

“Douglas! I told you time and again never fling your basketball against the house! Oh, I could just cry!”

“I been sitting right here,” he protested.

“Come see what you’ve done, you nasty boy!”

The great colored window panes lay shattered in a rainbow chaos on the upstairs landing. His basketball lay in the ruins.

Before he could even begin telling his innocence, Douglas was struck a dozen stinging blows upon his rump. Wherever he landed, screaming, the razor strop struck again.

Later, hiding his mind in the sandpile like an ostrich, Douglas nursed his dreadful pains. He knew who’d thrown that basketball. A man with a straw hat and a stiff umbrella and a cold, gray room. Yeah, yeah, yeah. He dribbled tears. Just wait. Just wait.

He heard Grandma sweeping up the broken glass. She brought it out and threw it in the trash bin. Blue, pink, yellow meteors of glass dropped brightly down.

When she was gone, Douglas dragged himself, whimpering, over to save out three pieces of the incredible glass. Mr. Koberman disliked the colored windows. These–he clinked them in his fingers– would be worth saving.

Grandfather arrived from his newspaper office each night, shortly ahead of the other boarders, at five o'clock. When a slow, heavy tread filled the hall, and a thick, mahogany cane thumped in the cane-rack, Douglas ran to embrace the large stomach and sit on Grandpa’s knee while he read the evening paper.

“Hi, Grampa!”

“Hello, down there!”

“Grandma cut chickens again today. It’s fun watching,” said Douglas.

Grandpa kept reading. “That’s twice this week, chickens. She’s the chickenist woman. You like to watch her cut ‘em, eh? Coldblooded little pepper! Ha!”

“I’m just curious.”

“You are,” rumbled Grandpa, scowling. “Remember that day when that young lady was killed at the rail station? You just walked over and looked at her, blood and all.” He laughed. “Queer duck. Stay that way. Fear nothing, ever in your life. I guess you get it from your father, him being a military man and all, and you so close to him before you came here to live last year.” Grandpa returned to his paper.

A long pause. “Gramps?”

“Yes?”

“What if a man didn’t have a heart or lungs or stomach but still walked around, alive?”

“That,” rumbled Gramps, “would be a miracle.”

“I don’t mean a–a miracle. I mean, what if he was all different inside? Not like me.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be quite human then, would he, boy?”

“Guess not, Gramps. Gramps, you got a heart and lungs?”

Gramps chuckled. “Well, tell the truth, I don’t know. Never seen them. Never had an X-ray, never been to a doctor. Might as well be potato-solid for all I know.”

“Have I got a stomach?”

“You certainly have!” cried Grandma from the parlor entry. “'Cause I feed it! And you’ve lungs, you scream loud enough to wake the crumblees. And you’ve dirty hands, go wash them! Dinner’s ready. Grandpa, come on. Douglas, git!”

In the rush of boarders streaming downstairs, Grandpa, if he intended questioning Douglas further about the weird conversation, lost his opportunity. If dinner delayed an instant more, Grandma and the potatoes would develop simultaneous lumps.

The boarders, laughing and talking at the table–Mr. Koberman silent and sullen among them–were silenced when Grandfather cleared his throat. He talked politics a few minutes and then shifted over into the intriguing topic of the recent peculiar deaths in the town.

“It’s enough to make an old newspaper editor prick up his ears,” he said, eying them all. “That young Miss Larson, lived across the ravine, now. Found her dead three days ago for no reason, just funny kinds of tattoos all over her, and a facial expression that would make Dante cringe. And that other young lady, what was her name? Whitely? She disappeared and never did come back.”

“Them things happen alla time,” said Mr. Britz, the garage mechanic, chewing. “Ever peek inna Missing Peoples Bureau file? It’s that long.” He illustrated. “Can’t tell what happens to most of 'em.”

“Anyone want more dressing?” Grandma ladled liberal portions from the chicken’s interior. Douglas watched, thinking about how that chicken had had two kinds of guts–God-made and Manmade.

Well, how about three kinds of guts?

Eh?

Why not?

Conversation continued about the mysterious death of so-and-so, and, oh, yes, remember a week ago, Marion Barsumian died of heart failure, but maybe that didn’t connect up? or did it? you’re crazy! forget it, why talk about it at the dinner table? So.

“Never can tell,” said Mr. Britz. “Maybe we got a vampire in town.”

Mr. Koberman stopped eating.

“In the year 1927?” said Grandma. “A vampire? Oh go on, now.”

“Sure,” said Mr. Britz. “Kill 'em with silver bullets. Anything silver for that matter. Vampires hate silver. I read it in a book somewhere, once. Sure, I did.”

Douglas looked at Mr. Koberman who ate with wooden knives and forks and carried only new copper pennies in his pocket.

“It’s poor judgment,” said Grandpa, “to call anything by a name. We don’t know what a hobgoblin or a vampire or a troll is. Could be lots of things. You can’t heave them into categories with labels and say they’ll act one way or another. That’d be silly. They’re people. People who do things. Yes, that’s the way to put it: people who do things.”

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Koberman, who got up and went out for his evening walk to work.

The stars, the moon, the wind, the clock ticking, and the chiming of the hours into dawn, the sun rising, and here it was another morning, another day, and Mr. Koberman coming along the sidewalk from his night’s work. Douglas stood off like a small mechanism whirring and watching with carefully microscopic eyes.

At noon, Grandma went to the store to buy groceries.

As was his custom every day when Grandma was gone, Douglas yelled outside Mr. Koberman’s door for a full three minutes. As usual, there was no response. The silence was horrible.

He ran downstairs, got the pass-key, a silver fork, and the three pieces of colored glass he had saved from the shattered window. He fitted the key to the lock and swung the door slowly open.

The room was in half light, the shades drawn. Mr. Koberman lay atop his bedcovers, in slumber clothes, breathing gently, up and down. He didn’t move. His face was motionless.

“Hello, Mr. Koberman!”

The colorless walls echoed the man’s regular breathing.

“Mr. Koberman, hello!”

Bouncing a golf ball, Douglas advanced. He yelled. Still no answer. “Mr. Koberman!”

Bending over Mr. Koberman, Douglas picked the tines of the silver fork in the sleeping man’s face.

Mr. Koberman winced. He twisted. He groaned bitterly.

Response. Good. Swell.

Douglas drew a piece of blue glass from his pocket. Looking through the blue glass fragment he found himself in a blue room, in a blue world different from the world he knew. As different as was the red world. Blue furniture, blue bed, blue ceiling and walls, blue wooden eating utensils atop the blue bureau, and the sullen dark blue of Mr. Koberman’s face and arms and his blue chest rising, falling. Also…

Mr. Koherman’s eyes were wide, staring at him with a hungry darkness.

Douglas felt back, pulled the blue glass from his eyes.

Mr. Koberman’s eyes were shut.

Blue glass again–open. Blue glass away–shut. Blue glass again–open. Away–shut. Funny. Douglas experimented, trembling. Through the glass the eyes seemed to peer hungrily, avidly through Mr. Koberman’s closed lids. Without the blue glass they seemed tightly shut.

But it was the rest of Mr. Koberman’s body.

Mr. Koberman’s bedclothes dissolved off him. The blue glass had something to do with it. Or perhaps it was the clothes themselves, just being on Mr. Koberman. Douglas cried out.

He was looking through the wall of Mr. Koberman’s stomach, right inside him!

Mr. Koberman was solid.

Or, nearly so, anyway.

There were strange shapes and sizes within him.

Douglas must have stood amazed for five minutes, thinking about the blue worlds, the red worlds, the yellow worlds side by side, living together like glass panes around the big white stair window. Side by side, the colored panes, the different worlds; Mr. Koberman had said so himself.

So this was why the colored window had been broken.

“Mr. Koberman, wake up!”

No answer.

“Mr. Koberman, where do you work at night? Mr. Koberman, where do you work?”

A little breeze stirred the blue window shade.

“In a red world or a green world or a yellow one, Mr. Koberman?”

Over everything was a blue glass silence.

“Wait there,” said Douglas.

He walked down to the kitchen, pulled open the great squeaking drawer and picked out the sharpest, biggest knife.

Very calmly he walked into the hall, climbed back up the stairs again, opened the door to Mr. Koberman’s room, went in, and closed it, holding the sharp knife in one hand.

Grandma was busy fingering a piecrust into a pan when Douglas entered the kitchen to place something on the table.

“Grandma, what’s this?”

She glanced up briefly, over her glasses. “I don’t know.”

It was square, like a box, and elastic. It was bright orange in color. It had four square tubes, colored blue, attached to it. It smelled funny.

“Ever see anything like it, Grandma?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Douglas left it there, went from the kitchen. Five minutes later he returned with something else. “How about this?”

He laid down a bright pink linked chain with a purple triangle at one end.

“Don’t bother me,” said Grandma. “It’s only a chain.”

Next time he returned with two hands full. A ring, a square, a triangle, a pyramid, a rectangle, and–other shapes. All of them were pliable, resilient, and looked as if they were made of gelatin. “This isn’t all,” said Douglas, putting them down. “There’s more where this came from.”

Grandma said, “Yes, yes,” in a far-off tone, very busy.

“You were wrong, Grandma.”

“About what?”

“About all people being the same inside.”

“Stop talking nonsense.”

“Where’s my piggy-bank?”

“On the mantel, where you left it.”

“Thanks.”

He tromped into the parlor, reached up for his piggy-bank.

Grandpa came home from the office at five.

“Grandpa, come upstairs.”

“Sure, son. Why?”

“Something to show you. It’s not nice; but it’s interesting.”

Grandpa chuckled, following his grandson’s feet up to Mr. Koberman’s room.

“Grandma mustn’t know about this; she wouldn’t like it,” said Douglas. He pushed the door wide open. “There.”

Grandfather gasped.

Douglas remembered the next few hours all the rest of his life. Standing over Mr. Koberman’s naked body, the coroner and his assistants. Grandma, downstairs, asking somebody, “What’s going on up there?” and Grandpa saying, shakily, “I’ll take Douglas away on a long vacation so he can forget this whole ghastly affair. Ghastly, ghastly affair!”

Douglas said, “Why should it be bad? I don’t see anything bad. I don’t feel bad.”

The coroner shivered and said, “Koberman’s dead, all right.”

His assistant sweated. “Did you see those things in the pans of water and in the wrapping paper?”

“Oh, my God, my God, yes, I saw them.”

“Christ.”

The coroner bent over Mr. Koberman’s body again. “This better be kept secret, boys. It wasn’t murder. It was a mercy the boy acted. God knows what might have happened if he hadn’t.”

“What was Koberman? A vampire? A monster?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Something–not human.” The coroner moved his hands deftly over the suture.

Douglas was proud of his work. He’d gone to much trouble. He had watched Grandmother carefully and remembered. Needle and thread and all. All in all, Mr. Koberman was as neat a job as any chicken ever popped into hell by Grandma.

“I heard the boy say that Koberman lived even after all those things were taken out of him.” The coroner looked at the triangles and chains and pyramids floating in the pans of water. “Kept on living. God.”

“Did the boy say that?”

“He did.”

“Then, what did kill Koberman?”

The coroner drew a few strands of sewing thread from their bedding.

“This… .” he said.

Sunlight blinked coldly off a half-revealed treasure trove; six dollars and seventy cents’ worth of silver dimes inside Mr. Koberman’s chest.

“I think Douglas made a wise investment,” said the coroner, sewing the flesh back up over the “dressing” quickly.

Work Cited

Brabury, Ray. October Country. New York: Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 2011. Print

ENG 68

Hight

STUDY GUIDE FOR “THE MAN UPSTAIRS” BY RAY BRADBURY

Please answer the questions below on a separate piece of paper, and please keep in mind that I am stupid.  Therefore, I don’t understand short and vague answers.

Douglas seems to instantly dislike Mr. Koberman before he even discovers the man’s secret.  Why?  How can he sense that Mr. Koberman is different or unnatural?

What do you think Douglas sees when he watches Mr. Koberman through the stained glass window?

Has Mr. Koberman actually killed those women that the other boarders talk about?  Is there any objective evidence that proves he is the killer?

What has Douglas done to Mr. Koberman?  What has inspired him to do what he did?  Why?

What was inside Mr. Koberman?  Please describe the inside of his body.

Is Douglas a hero?  Is he a cold-blooded killer?  Is he both?  What do you think and why?