Blood and earth was in the heart of every country man. They sacrificed their body, breaking it until time to join the earth. Some worked the fields, which fed them. Others defended it; they gave all so some may enjoy peace and prosperity. Brian had served. All of the Weber men had joined the military. He had worked the family farm, after serving. One day it would pass on to the next in line.

Brian had his doubt about his son, so had decided it should pass on to Moxie. Nothing remained of his mind, as his body possessed the house, except a confession. "I killed and I killed," he moaned in a rasp, though was almost lost in the buzz that vibrated through the timbers. It rose from every vent, and fell from each ceiling as putrid tears. Hate, it filled each repetition of the words. Contempt burned in the whispers, which lingered in the still air.

Only hate remained in the idiot condemnation. Like a viral cancer, it had eaten the man, until only it remained with a curse on a thousand lips. I killed and I killed. It was sung to every piece of lumber and nail. This confession was prayed to the ugly intelligence, for its desires were also hideous. This flesh, once Brian, hated the sanity of this world, its order. Slobbering idiot malevolence oozed from every repetition of the phrase. It desired entropy. It lusted for pain. These entreaties were oaths, and sworn to an intelligence of riotous flame.

Gage's eyes moved over the walls. His head tilted, but the low words were unintelligible. Dad is no help, he moaned inside, and wiped away another tear. The door knob would not turn, but he tried only once.

"What do I do?" he glanced up, but no one answered.

"I can't tell Moxie. He listened, and heard the front door open then close. She bopped through the living room. Gage sighed, which turned into a sob. Brian had gotten himself into a stupor, he reasoned, and needed time to sober up.

To the living room Gage trudged, where she studied the shield he had made her. On its inside, Moxie had placed stickers of unicorns and rainbow cats. He considered the truth, which lay in the spare bedroom and blushed. Image of his sister's heart wracked wails stung his heart. Onto the couch he sat. His head ached, eyes felt full of girt and puffy. The light tang of his mother's urine clung to him.

"Sir Gage the Brave," Moxie hopped over, eyes tinged red. "My shield has been…uh, reinforced," she showed him the stickers. "Nothing can withstand the power of kittens."

His lips twitched, and under the power of her sincerity, Gage smiled. "I should've thought of that, Moe," he nodded, but tried to be grave and serious.

"You're the writer!" she cocked her hip to one side, and rolled her eyes with a giggle.

The move was Cheri's, when happy, and he felt a slash across his heart. "I'll do better," he smiled, though eyes stung.

Moxie smiled and studied him, "Pain stays with you a long time, Bub." He looked away. "You're great," she added, mouth drew up on one side as eyes searched the nicotine stained ceiling. "I love your stories," she nodded.

"Thanks, Moe," he felt the weight lift, which always felt ready to crush him.

She looked at the carved stick in her belt, "Are you sure that you don't have a story?" Moxie smiled. "It can be a short one," she hastened to add.

"Yeah," he glanced at the wall, beyond his mother sat, with all she cared about clutched in one hand.

"Sucks," she said with a pout, but the smile arose fast as it had failed, "Soon, will you write one soon?"

"Yes, Moe," he wiped his eyes. "I'm not trying to be mean, but I feel bad. Mom and Dad want to be left alone too."

"Alright," she shrugged, and withdrew the hand carved sword in a fluid motion. Moxie bounded across the floor ready to defend justice.

Gage sat back against the couch, head fell back. In stories, he could escape, but it would be a while before he could write. Without Cheri, he and Moxie would carry her share of abuse.

"Hello," she said at other side of the room, "my name is Moxie Weber, you stepped on my kitten: prepare to cry." She held the sword up to pretend ninjas.

He laughed, shook his head, "Get them, Moe."

She blocked, parried, thrust, and slashed. After a smooth role, Moxie leaped forward with a broad stroke. She circled. A bloody stench crawled up from the vent with a flicker of purple. "Yuck," she turned, looked about the kitchen. The room connected to the living room, though no wall separated them. She raised the wooden sword. Gage had read a book, which detailed swordplay, and had taught her. "Your stink has no power here," Moxie declared. "You shall bathe!"

She held up the shield to bash pretend ninja. "The Shogun shall never have control of the Cherry Blossoms. Their beauty belongs to the people." Moxie held up the shield, "Feel the power of KITTENS!"

Imaginary bad guys assailed her, though she was resolute. Again, a puff wafted up from the vent, cast upon a whisper. "No," she coughed "you've used the fart of death!" Moxie coughed and flopped to the kitchen floor.

A tremor ran through the wood. She stilled, brow furrowed. Whispers echoed through the vents, just below intelligibility. Their confession repeated, and Moxie listened. Towards the source she moved, but it came from different places. In the corner, where her mother kept a small trashcan, came a chuffing snort. The plastic trash receptacle shifted, and a low whisper oozed. She crept closer, held up the shield; yet, peeked over it. Gage's sword shook in her hand. "The Shogun has sent assassins," she breathed.

The trashcan shifted, and a low squeal squeezed out of the shadow. Moxie pushed it with the hand carved stick. Eyes rolled up to her, too human in their terrified hate. Bruised purple pin pricks gleamed deep inside them. Molten flesh writhed as if boneless. Its pushed back snout drew in air as it dripped a strange ichor. Upon flabby lips the curse remained, which it spit with venom though incomprehensible. Tusks famed the ruined mouth, which reminded her of Brian. It hissed, clicks inside the squeal like a cicada.