"Blind"

I was just going through old files on my flash drive, seeing if I need to salvage anything from my EVIL laptop when I came across a flash fiction that I wrote last year for Writer's Craft. No, I wasn't high at the time, despite what you may think when you read it, however it was inspired by a freaky dream I had (I have A LOT of those). Lately, I've been having these dreams that have a recurring element in them: Tipper Gore. Or some dude that calls himself Tipper Gore: he's not actually Tipper, in fact he's an actor: James Holt in the Devil Wears Prada and .. erhm, Franco in Rescue Me - I think. And that's probably the most sane elements of some of the wacko dreams I've been having lately - that is, about a week ago, I haven't slept a lot this week - darn exams, anyway, it's below if you want to take a gander at it (enjoy).

“This way!” the perky blonde chirped. She looked back, about 10 or so people were following her. “The mission is to get the sugar jar. We’re going in, and then we’re going out, and all we’re getting is the sugar jar.” The sun beat down on the group. She squinted, raising her hand to shield her eyes and then glared, “That’s all we’re getting.” her voice growled, dropping an octave or two. “I don’t have time for any sticky fingers. If you feel the need to have sticky fingers, I will hurt you. That’s a promise. Let me remind you, I am the leader, if you hesitate to obey my orders, I will kill you. That’s another promise.”
The group looked meekly back at the blonde.
I have power over these people. And they know it.
A timid redhead at the back of the group of the squeaked, “What if we get caught?”
The blonde stared: who dared to question her authority? “We won’t.” After a few seconds of people staring at her uncomfortably, “The guy is friggin blind. We won’t get caught. Don’t worry.”
The group trekked silently through the dense woods that sat next to the small farm house. Each time a stick cracked because it was carelessly stepped on, the blonde turned around and glared.
They need to be quiet. This guy can hear stuff miles away.
They were there. They were at the house. It was a one story, red brick house. It sat directly on top of a hill.
The window was open, the grey lace curtains were blowing in the breeze.
They climbed in. One by one. The blonde was first.
The curtains aren’t grey. That’s just the dust. Disgusting.
The house was chilly. Furniture was scattered sparsely throughout. The kitchen was the barest of all the rooms. One obsolete fridge stood alone in the corner, dust speckling the porcelain white door with dark blotches. The cupboards were also covered with dust.
Don’t sneeze.
The cupboards were closed.
Everyone finally managed to get in the house. The redhead looked around, and noticed a door, right next to the window, open as well. She frowned.
The blonde was oblivious.
“Lets get looking. And remember, no sticky fingers.”
They all began opening and closing the cupboards. The slamming of doors in defeat was deafening. The sugar jar was not there.
Speed was urgent; time was of essence. The sugar jar needed to be found.
“STOP! Shh. Do you hear that?” the blonde asked, her ears prickled up. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Be really quiet and don’t make a single sound.”
The front door swung open with such force, the cupboards rattled, dust began to fall. The man was home.
He stomped across the room, not acknowledging the intruders.
He’s blind. He can’t see us.
The blonde put her finger up to her mouth, indicating the group to be quiet. She then motioned to the window.
The redhead hesitated, for she saw that the door was right there.
The blonde saw this hesitation. The redhead was dead within the instant. Furiously the blonde pointed to the window. They began climbing out. She went first.
The dust was collecting furiously in her nose.
Don’t sneeze.
Behind her, a muffled noise was heard. Someone sneezed.
The man suddenly went to the porch.
As the blonde was climbing out of the window, it began to get harder and harder for her to wiggle all the way through. She gasped. The window was shrinking.
Impossible. I can’t get out.
Somehow though, she got out.
It was at that moment the man entered the kitchen again.
The blonde turned. From what she could see through the window, he looked different.
A smirk was on his face. A shot gun was held in his hands. He raised it. Bullets spat out, piercing the people that she came with deep red holes.
She turned and began to run, heading towards the forest.
Please God, let me live.
All of a sudden she stopped. Her face connected to the ground. Her vision began to cloud with red.
This is why you don’t steal the sugar jar.