|Eerie, Indiana triple drabble: Sickbed
||[Apr. 20th, 2018|02:25 pm]
Marshall eyed the tall glass dubiously. The liquid inside was the palest green, and as he watched a thick white foam rose to the surface, hissing and fizzing and threatening to spill over the rim.
"What is it?" he croaked.
His grandmother set the tumbler down before answering, positioning it safely between the lamp shaped like an over-sized Giants football helmet and a neatly stacked pile of black and white composition books.
"Lime juice and baking soda," she said. "Mixed with freshly boiled water and then allowed to cool, though you should drink it while it's warm for best effects."
Marshall made a face. Lillian noticed, and made one back.
"It'll do you good," she said, smoothing the rumpled coverlet over her grandson's legs. She made as if to sit on the side of his bed, glanced at the newly-rinsed mixing bowl that still smelled slightly of sick despite repeated dunkings beneath the kitchen tap, and dragged the computer chair over instead.
Marshall shook his head. His hair was dark with sweat, sticking to his face, and his lips were pressed tight together, a thin line against the next incursion of half-digested woodland critters all over his just-washed New York Giants bedspread.
"Honestly," said Lillian. "You'll drink whipped cream and chicken blood to prevent yourself turning into a werewolf, but you kick up a fuss over a simple home brew when it fails and you get an upset stomach from eating something you shouldn't during a full moon."
"I think it was a squirrel," said Marshall, his tone miserable. "There were chunks of tail."
"Oh, sweetheart," said Lillian, locating one of his clammy, furry-palmed hands under the duvet and giving it a squeeze.
Marshall sighed and levered himself a little more upright.
"Lime juice, huh?" he said, reaching for the glass.
"And baking soda," Lillian said, scooting the wheeled desk chair back a little, out of the splash zone.
( Read the rest of the Teller Family History hereCollapse )