The Five Furies: "problem kids" in a group home

I came up with the idea for this in the car...I hope you enjoy it. This is just the first piece. I will write more as soon as I can.

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Fifteen year old Riselda Smith sat up in her bed, lying a hand on her aching forehead. Another clank followed the first which had aroused her.

"Sades!" she growled, brushing strands of dark hair from her eyes.

"Wha-what, Rizz? Rizz? Rizz?" called a high voice from the bathroom.

"I want you to go lie down!" screeched the fatigued teenager.

"But Rizz, Rizz, Rizz, I gotta pee-pee-pee," came the pathetic whine.

"Why do you do this stuff in threes? It's oh, it's about five-fifty-five."

An audible gasp came from the proximity of the toilet.

"Yay-yay-yay!"

"Wash your hands three times and get outta there!" cried Rizz grouchily.

"Fine-fine-fine," repeated the obsessive compulsive ten year old.

Rizz rolled over, lapsing into a state of half-conscious annoyance. It took all her energy at times like this to keep from slapping her roomate.

Now a set of bunny slippers shuffled over the carpet into the room.

"Rizz, Rizz, Rizz! It's five-fifty-five-five-fifty-"

Riselda didn't hear the rest of the girl's chant, for at that moment, she gladly fell to sleep.

The next thing she knew, there was a bright light shining into her face. As soon as she'd gathered the strength and command of words to yell, it went out. Then on, then off, then on...

"Sades! You'll go to Hades if you don't..." Rizz didn't bother finishing her statement because, having said it so many times before, Sadie knew exactly what she wanted.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry, Rizz, Rizz, Rizz," chimed the redhead child.

Irritably, Riselda aimed a pillow at Sadie's face, and launched it through the air. It met the ten year old's face with a satisfying thunk.

This was just like any other torturous night at "On and Off" the Straight and Narrow,, a juvenile group home.

Across the hall at this moment, a lanky looking teenage boy lay practically comatose on the bottom bunk of a bunk-bed. An empty bag of cheesy chips and an off-brand soda were on the blankets beside him. Bailey's fingers were stained the color of his hair by cheese powder. Above him sat a Latino boy, Hurry, his thumbs burning the buttons of a hand-held video game. The thing beeped and chirped, signaling approaching monsters in the labryinth of a digital maze.

On the other wall was a single bed, stripped of all bedding but the base sheet, which belonged to Tim-jay. In the corner was a wad of blankets that seemed to pulsate. Just over the top of a quilt, wiry blond strands of hair were visible as the twelve-year-old boy's chest rose and fell.

The night wore on, and silence fell on the house of seven. In a gable room, a man with slate grey hair lay asleep, his breaths light, filled with ease. His lithe, bony fingers were curled around a magnifying glass, a magazine lying in his lap. The yellow light of a compact bulb made the glossy pages of the magazine appear to glow. On the other side of the hallway, a large blob under a set of sheets curled up in a pink nightgown made of polyester. The woman snored softly, her plump face relaxed as it only could be in sleep.

Soon, the coming light of the now pale blue sky made a sign in the yard visible to early morning passersby. It read in large purple letters: Straight and Narrow: Juvenile Group Home. Not that there were many passersby in Clemson, the town where nothing had happened in the last century that had shocked the great, majestic oaks that formed verdant tunnels over its streets.

An alarm clock began to sing its cacophonic tones, searing a harsh command to the ears of the matronly figure. Slowly, she turned over in bed, slapping the buttons absentmindedly. In the other room, a man sat, pulling on his socks under is pants. He chuckled to himself good-naturedly, whistling a jig as pale rays of the first sunlight slanted through the blinds of his window. Slipping on a pair of chestnut leather loafers, he grabbed a walking stick from the corner of his room and headed out into the hall. He paused in the doorway of the woman’s room, smiling with crow’s feet forming themselves in his sunken eyes.

“Mives!” he called, gentle, playful.

“Dives,” replied a slightly concerned female voice.

“Mives?” Dives tried again.

“Ivelston, I am getting dressed!” she cried in faux exasperation.

“Melissa Cori, I declare, you are a determined woman,” chuckled Dives.

“Now get downstairs and start those eggs. It’s your morning for breakfast, you know,” Mives said lightly.

“Right away, ma’m,” Dives replied, giving a salute.

Melissa Ivelston and her brother, Jack Ivelston, were both widowers. They lived together out of loneliness and understanding for each other. Mives’s husband had died of lung cancer, and Dives’s wife had one day Offed herself. Neither one planned to remarry. Instead they made life easier by bugging each other in the fashion that siblings do, no matter what their age. Dives had a granddaughter in California, but that was quite a distance from his home in the piedmont of North Carolina. Mives and her husband had been unable to have children, and decided it was really for the best. Now both siblings had reunited to, in a sense, live a second childhood. They had tried being ‘retired’ people, but for one reason or another, both hardworking people found idleness distasteful.

Mives also had a drive to bring good into the world, so when a friend of theirs had mentioned a foster care system that needed participants, she became ecstatic. Dives had decided to apply for a long-term group home license, not wanting to have to send children on every few months. So they had created The Straight and Narrow: Juvenile Group Home. Much to their dismay, babies in the system had already been adopted. It was then that they decided to try fostering older children. After a few too many run ins with toddlers that lacked potty training, they decided to go for adolescents. The thing was, most of these kids had emotional problems of some sort. So they just dove in head first, taking in whichever child had been to the most homes—and been soon shuttled on. That was how they ended up with..well, the Five.

A dark head with sparkling brown eyes protruded from a doorway. Groans emanated from the room's interior as the other two occupants stirred.

"Hurry-shut the door!" fussed an auburn haired teen as he pulled a t-shirt over his head.

"Fine, Bailey," sniffed the ten-year-old, making a pathetic pouting face.

"You, two, shh," sang a voice from the corner. Its owner was a lean, tall fellow who wore a shirt that said Autism Awareness drive 2010.

"Oh, alright, Tim-jay. I'll leave Herald in a Hurry to you," said Bailey gloatingly.

Tim-jay shook his head as a hopping Bailey made his way out the door of the boys' room.

On the other side of the hall, Sadie stood over the bathroom sink, splashing water in the basin to rinse away her toothpaste suds. She proceeded to brush again. Rizz was combing her hair, working to pin back her pesky bangs which were already damp with sweat. It was a June morning, with no school. So Rizz had decided to wear her purple tank top, clothing that starkly contrasted their school uniforms composed of button up shirts, sweaters, and plaid skirts or khaki pants.

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Comments welcomed. Cut this thing up, dissect it, I dare you. I want you to... I mean,

feedback is welcomed!

Cheers!

--Voxina