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Post by QueenFoxy on Aug 31, 2017 13:17:27 GMT -6
I love fairy tales and fantasy because of their haunting beauty and magical strangeness. They are set in worlds where anything can happen. Frogs can be kings, a thicket of brambles can hide a castle where a royal court has lain asleep for a hundred years, a boy can outwit a giant, and a girl can break a curse with nothing but her courage and steadfastness. ~Kate Forsyth Yes!! I do love fantasy.
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 12, 2020 15:35:29 GMT -6
This story is fantastic! I will stay tuned Rooster |
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 13, 2020 14:22:16 GMT -6
“You’ve done a great job.” Raphael said gently, while they sat on the top of a crumbling skyscraper, watching the twilight that floated behind the acidic clouds. Spores were fluttering in the grey air, each a child looking for something to grow on. Several hundred feet beneath them, yards of fungi and shrubs had flourished in communities, dappling the ruined city with shades of green. “I’m sure the planet will be full of Life again within ten millennia.” “I should be happy to hear that.” Dionysus yawned. Taking a side glimpse at Raphael’s hourglass, he knew he’d finished his duties this time: only a handful of grains were left in the top. “… But for me, it’s about time to enter sleep mode.” “I suppose so. Forty-eight minutes and twenty-four seconds left.” It’s another sixty millions years of solitude for Dionysus. Dionysus brooded. Because the only purpose of his existence is to revive the planet every time civilizations kill it. He yawned again. Sleepily, he leant against Raphael. Raphael only smiled, and let the boy rest. “… me.” Dionysus jumped and looked up. Raphael caught his movement. “What’s happened?” “I heard someone talking.” Dionysus eyed their surroundings. “Can you hear it?” “Yes, you can talk to plants, but I can’t.” “No, that wasn’t plants. It’s something else, I can tell.” “Impossible.” Raphael dismissed. “You wake only when every last shred of former lives on the planet has perished. This is the way you work, like flowers blossom only when spring comes and snow melts.” “… me!” “It’s somewhere!” Dionysus slipped off from where he sat. “Wait!” Raphael grabbed the boy’s arm. “Where’re you going?” “Let go!” Dionysus yelled, trying to shake the man’s hand off. “Stay!” Raphael told him. “You’re about to enter sleep mode…!” Anger flared inside Dionysus. “I’m not!” from his hand, he shot seeds at Raphael. They quickly burst thorny vines that snaked around the man, and made him grunt in pain and let go of the boy. “DIONYSUS!” And then Dionysus was speeding through the thick air, leaving Raphael behind him. “… me…” He shot his gaze around, then hurtled towards where the voice came from. Somebody’s talking. Dionysus thought. With a spurt of speed, he was off, diving at the ruined city looking for the source of that voice. Could this be it? The first time he met someone other than scared seedlings and Raphael? Dionysus stopped dead in mid-air before a window. It was a room seventy feet above the ground, one of the chambers of the hive-like skyscraper. The glass was grey with dust, but he could hear a faint voice, coming from behind it. “remem…” burning with curiosity, Dionysus reached out to touch the glass, only for it to shatter at a mere poke. After a leap of surprise, he swallowed hard, and crawled inside. His first reaction was a slight disgust: a terrible stench clung to the dark chamber. It was a scene of devastation. Metal and glass lay splintered at his feet. The wreckage of boxes made of plastic further down. In the middle of the room was a person laying face down over a table. That person was still, his hair gone and his skin a dry, dead shade of brown-grey – a mummy. And the voice came not from the corpse, but from a tablet he was holding. Dionysus drew closer. That tablet was connected, via a wire, to a hole on the wall of the chamber. And it had a moving picture on it. “… rem…” a woman was speaking on the screen. She should’ve been pretty, with blonde hair and grey eyes. But at that moment, there wasn’t anything pleasant about her: far behind her, a volcano was erupting, filling the air with black smoke and fire. She was screaming out of the screen. “… me…” Tears were flowing down her face as she said it. It was a foreign tongue Dionysus didn’t know, but he could tell it from the look on the woman’s face: she was frightened; she was about to die; and the volcanic ash was about to cascade upon her… The screen blinked into blackness. A few moments later, the scene began to replay. Dionysus found himself crying. “… Dionysus…” someone sighed. Dionysus turned around to see Raphael, in a blue robe now tattered from the vines. With a downcast look, the man floated into the room, and glanced at the tablet. “… That is called a ‘video’. The planet’s former inhabitants used it to record events.” Watching the woman consumed by the volcanic ash again, Dionysus whimpered, “Were they like this? … When they died?” Raphael nodded grimly. “… It was terrible.” “… me…” Dionysus sank to the floor and wept. “I never knew…” Raphael moved forward, and gave the frightened boy a hug. “It’s alright.” “… I awoke only after they’d totally perished…” Dionysus mumbled. “I never knew it’s that terrible when they…” “It’s alright.” Raphael comforted him. “They must be with Creator now.” There was a long while of weeping and shivering as Dionysus stayed there, consoled by Raphael, watching the video again and again, listening to the woman’s last words… And the last grain of sand in Raphael’s hourglass dropped. Lotuses made of golden light blossomed around Dionysus, each singing a lullaby as if to lure him into sleep. Raphael stood back. Then the light transformed into leaves and petals that whirled around Dionysus. You’ve served your duty faithfully. They said. It’s time to rest. Raphael ruffled the boy’s hair gently. “Good night, Reviver. Hope to see you again soon. Perhaps ten millions years later?” Sniffing, Dionysus glimpsed at the video once more, and said, in his last moment awake, “… maybe I should never wake up this time.” 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 14, 2020 6:45:27 GMT -6
I had a feeling Dionysus was going to wake up to a disaster like this; potent story writing.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 14, 2020 14:37:07 GMT -6
It was a wonderful story with an interesting ending.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 14, 2020 15:08:05 GMT -6
The Great Pretender by D. A. Cairns “You really should have had that second fitting done, honey. Closer to the day.” “It doesn’t matter now, Mum,” said Corinne, shifting uneasily in her seat. Carefully sipping her water as if each mouthful might burst her seams, she lamented the fact her beautiful dress was already much fuller than its maker had intended. “Are you feeling any better? Can you make it to the end?” “I’ll last as long as I can but it doesn’t matter anyway.” Susan was horrified and grabbed her daughter’s hand. “How can you say that?” “Look at him,” said Corinne waving her hand dismissively in the direction of her new husband, Andrew. “He doesn’t care. He’s oblivious.” “He’s a little drunk, and enjoying this special day.” “Rubbish,” scoffed Corinne. “He’s almost legless and he’s drinking to take away the pain of the realization he’s married now.” “Corinne,” said Susan, but that was all she could think to say under the circumstances. Gently patting her daughter’s thigh, she eventually added, “I’ll let Andrew know you aren’t well and I’m sure he’ll come to you.” “Don’t bother mum. He doesn’t care. He just wants this day to be over.” Susan smiled weakly and squeezed Corinne’s hand before standing and walking over to Andrew who was staggering about on the dance floor. Watching as her mother tapped Andrew on the shoulder to get his attention and began to talk to him while gesturing in her direction, Corinne sipped her water again and winced at a sharp pain in her stomach. Has to be cramp she thought to herself, I need to try to get up and walk around a bit. Struggling to her feet, she listened hard for the sound of splitting seams but heard only the groan of the chair as she launched herself upright. Brushing a stray lock of blond hair from her watery red eyes she looked around the reception hall and noticed that everyone seemed to be having a great time, quite apart from her. Perhaps she was just a convenient excuse for a family and friends booze up. What a terrible mistake it all was. Three mistakes compounding each other actually. The first, to get involved with Andrew romantically in the first place, and sleep with him. The second to fall pregnant, and finally to marry him when she knew it was only for respectability’s sake. What a quaint concept. Respectability. Before Corinne could get far enough away, Susan returned with Andrew trailing behind her. “Here he is,” said Susan hopefully. “Are you sick?” asked Andrew. Corinne was suddenly disgusted by him. “As if you care,” she said. “So you’re all right then?” “You see Mum? See what I mean?” Again all could Susan could muster was a faint smile. “He’s here now honey. Why don’t you just tell him what’s wrong.” Corinne looked at Andrew and saw he was looking over his shoulder back to the dance floor where a long-haired, long-legged vixen in a slinky red come-and-get-me-boys dress was smiling at him. Susan noticed this as well and quickly nudged Andrew in the ribs. “You’re pathetic,” said Corinne spitting the words out. “I came to see if you were all right,” said Andrew. “Your mum said you weren’t feeling well. Tell me what’s wrong?” “I feel hot and faint and I have bad stomach cramps.” “Period pain,” said Andrew flatly before laughing at his own joke. “I’m pregnant you moron. With your child. Remember?” “A joke, babe, that’s all. A joke.” Corinne’s mouth dropped open as she squinted at Andrew and shook her head. “That’s a great look babe, should I call the photographer?” Susan had been searching for a way into the conversation so she could defuse the escalation in vitriol. She told Andrew that Corinne’s dress was too tight and that was why she felt faint and had cramps. Andrew’s childish laughter caused Corinne’s hands to tremble, then clench into white knuckled fists. As she lifted her right hand to strike, Susan stepped forward and grabbed her daughter’s wrist. After a few moments of staring at each other, during which Andrew kept smiling and Corinne fought back tears, he walked away. Corinne collapsed into her chair sobbing. “You see Mum? He doesn’t love me. Has any woman been treated like dirt by her husband on their wedding day, like this?” Susan vainly continued with the lie. “He does love you, he married you didn’t he?” “He married me because Dad threatened him. It’s obligation, mum, not love. This is a mistake.” Catching the eye of Terry who was holding up the bar as usual, Susan motioned for him to come over. “Look Dad’s coming over and he’ll talk to you. He’ll tell you there were no threats made against Andrew. Andrew’s just a bit drunk at the moment. He’s happy. Celebrating.” Corinne recovered her emotions and became angry. “Stop defending him Mum! Andrew has been lying and pretending to all of us for a long time now. He lied to get me in bed with him by telling me he loved me and he lied today in the church. Made promises to me before God, Mum, before God and all our loved ones. Promises he never intended to keep. I can’t marry him.” “It’s too late for that honey.” “Too late for what?” asked Terry arriving with warm kisses for his two favourite girls. Then noticing Corinne had been crying and Susan was wearing her this-is-the-end-of-the-world face, he said, “What’s going on, sweetheart?” “Daddy, this is a mistake. Andrew doesn’t love me. He doesn’t even care about me.” “Nonsense,” replied Terry firmly. “He married you didn’t he?” Corinne could only shake her head. Susan said, “Corinne thinks Andrew only married her today because you told him he had to.” Half a dozen beers in quick succession had washed away Terry’s resolve, and he realized a lie would only hurt his little girl more. “It was the right thing for him to do. To take responsibility for his actions, to be a man. All I did was point that out to him, in case he didn’t know it.” “We thought given time and the arrival of your baby that Andrew would settle down and mature into the role of husband and father,” added Susan. Corinne felt sick. This fairy tale was never going to reach a happy ending. It would have to be terminated. She knew it would not work and she did not want to make it work. Well intentioned though they were, her parents had brought her to an intolerable situation. No, that wasn’t totally true; she really needed to accept responsibility for herself. It was about time she grew up. “Please get the minister back in here. I want a divorce!” Terry swore so loudly that he instantly caught everyone’s attention while Susan was too stunned to speak. They called Andrew over and argued amongst themselves for ten minutes, only stopping when the master of ceremonies approached to ask if they wanted to start the speeches now. “There’s only going to be one speech,” said Corinne. She looked first at Susan, then Terry. “Please Daddy, just make one speech and then we can all go home.” “Give us a few minutes mate,” said Terry. Pulling his mobile phone out of his pocket, he started to dial the minister’s number, but stopped and asked, “Are you sure, sweetheart?” “I’m sorry to cause all this trouble but it will only get worse if we go on pretending. Yes, I’m sure, Daddy.” Terry thought of what on earth he could say to all these people, then he thought of the embarrassment and the cost-what a waste of money, but he simple could not force his little princess to marry a man she plainly did not love. Holding Corinne’s cheek gently in his hand he dialed the number and smiled. “Sorry to trouble you but we’ve got a bit of a problem. Can you come immediately?...well Corinne wants a divorce...I know, I know but that’s what she wants and she has our support...yes, okay I understand. Yes, thank you. Bye.” Terry held both his daughter’s hands in his and said, “I’ll make the speech but you’ll have to stay married to him for a year before you can apply for a divorce. You can come back home.” Corinne threw her arms around Terry. “Thanks Daddy.” Terry finished the remains of his beer, took a deep breath and marched over to the microphone. After his short speech, shocked silence exploded in the reception room. This was followed by the quick and quiet departure of most of the wedding guests, leaving Andrew and his family and some close friends to grasp what had happened. Corinne had never felt happier or more relieved. ~ 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 15, 2020 5:46:00 GMT -6
A happy ending for Corrine  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 16, 2020 21:28:24 GMT -6
Hail to the Chief by Tomas SustaitaThe inaugural ball of 2028 was the first I had ever attended. Initially, I had wanted to side-step the entire affair, leave off going. By this time everyone had come to the conclusion that I, Mr. Reynaldo Steed, was little more than a modern day Joseph Goebbels. Of course no one had ever said such a thing to me or the President personally. Freedom of speech was a right still allowed by the powers that be, that power being the President of the United States, my employer. Editorials in some of the nation’s leading newspapers and news magazines had expressed what so many Americans had come to fearfully suspect. The United States of America was being led not just by a strange, new dynamic leader who had the power to withstand not only a sniper’s bullet, but also the power to influence the world in ways that had never been considered before. Many attributed some of this peculiarity to the skills of his Personal Speechwriter, me. So my employer allowed the critics to speak. He did not want to give the world the impression that tyranny reigned at home. Every American was allowed their opinion, especially the press. Therefore, the spokesperson could not be permitted to miss such a momentous event. My presence would be required.
Yet the ball was strange and unsettling. To begin with there was the matter of the First Lady, now a paraplegic after having suffered her debilitating stroke. She sat in her wheelchair, barely able to move her head to witness the festivities taking place below the band box. The tube she used to manipulate her movements looked cruel and obscene. My employer’s attentions towards her although indicating his kind and gracious manner, were a ballet of horror to some. She had once been a startlingly beautiful woman. A Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, who seemed the epitome of what it means to be blonde and perfect-looking. After all, she had married the man who would one day be President of the United States. Now she was a hollow, gaunt marionette, the spirit within her imprisoned in its cell of afflicted and slowly decaying flesh. The attendees did their best to show their support with kind gestures and tear-filled smiles, but inwardly her presence made them uncomfortable.
The story of how the First Lady had helped to arrange the attempted assassination of the President was well known to all of the top Washington insiders. They suspected this was his revenge for her treachery. Because of the un-natural power he possessed not even the Justice Department, had the courage to come out and say as much. I suspect that as much as they would have been terrified to learn the truth, they would have been even more scared to understand that any of them could have easily suffered the same fate. The rumors could always be discounted as rumors but loyalty was something tangible and real. If one was disloyal to my employer then one suffered the consequences.
As the ceremony and entertainments continued I watched the crowd’s reaction from my seat in the band box. The President had insisted that I sit with him and his wife for the duration of the event. He smiled and laughed at the entertainers doing their best to honor the Chief Executive’s night of nights. Stars of stage and screen performed flawlessly and there was even a moment of prayer asking for divine guidance for the country, divine guidance for humanity since it now seemed that world peace was at hand. Nuclear weapons had been abolished; Russia and China were now staunch and faithful allies of the United States. The terror of worldwide destruction that had so frightened the world after the Korean debacle had been abated. It all had been due to the leadership of one man, my employer, the President of the United States. He looked at me as if to say, “You were a part of this too. I needed someone with the ability to put my thoughts into words, someone who would be loyal to me no matter what. What shall we strive towards now? There still is much to be done…”
I returned his gesture with a faint glimmer of a smile. “Mr. President,” I said softly leaning towards him. “You have to admit you’re on a roll tonight.” I hesitated as the First Lady blew into her tube in order to turn to look at me, her hollow, haunted-looking eyes searching my face pleadingly. Suppressing a shudder, I ignored her and continued with my thoughts. “What I wanted to say is thank you for allowing me to take part in all of this.”
My employer looked at me with a bemused expression on his face. “I could not have done it without you Mr. Steed.” He said gently.
My thoughts were far from being light-hearted or even optimistic. I was troubled, as I had been from the very beginning, by a feeling of dreadful premonition. A nervous, almost electric-type of feeling filled the air around us. I was familiar with its presence but I had never quite gotten used to it. It made me wonder if the only way to help this charnel-house of horrors that we call Earth was to be comfortable with evil, the lesser evil that would allow good to be done. Was there any other way? Everyone who had ever tried to change things without acknowledging, honoring this dilemma had been frustrated by the ultimate failure of their plans. Non-violent protest only worked because the world, in its hypocritical fashion, was quick to judge, quick to condemn. But take away the adverse publicity and you have a return to the way it has always been: might makes right since justice is in the interest of the strong.
I sat back in my seat watching the pantomime below. It all seemed faintly ridiculous now. Come tomorrow morning these people would all return to their lives and their pre-conceived notions and their degenerate, selfish motivations. Their loyalty could be counted upon so long as they were allowed their desires, their conveniences. None of them really cared if the world was at peace, just so long as peace did not infringe on their lives of entitlement. After all, this was Washington D.C. Only the wealthy and best and the brightest were allowed to work in or associate with, the upper echelons of government. They had earned the right to be here. It made perfect sense that they hated me, an outsider who had been picked out of obscurity to become the spokesman for the man who was destined to eventually become ruler of the world.
What right did they have to suspect that man of being the long awaited and feared Anti-Christ? Was not each one of these people an Anti-Christ themselves? After all many here had devoted their lives to ensuring that America was the only dominant force in the world, come of it what may. Wars, economic sanctions, assassinations, intrigues and machinations both domestic and foreign were the hallmarks of their belief that America should and must be the only nation in the world that matters. Only people who truly do not believe in Christ and his teachings could do such things believing in their hearts that they had done no wrong.
I was no false prophet. Every speech I had ever written had been a matter of telling the truth and that truth was that mankind, even Americans, must honor the fact that the world cannot go on as it had in the past, cooperation and not competition was the only rationale that would save us, the citizens of the world. Yet the irony is that the truth really does not set one free. It only imprisons those who believe in it into basing their lives on what they believe. They can either ignore it or honor it. So I choose to believe in love, compassion, hope for tomorrow.
For tomorrow is promised to no one. 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 17, 2020 7:21:14 GMT -6
Seriously troubling but with a silver lining ending.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 17, 2020 17:46:21 GMT -6
Manhattan Metamorphosis by Daniel Ross Goodman
“It’s zo nice to finally meet you after all theze weeks,” said Stefan, giving Saul a warm, sensuous hug. “And you vere right—on a beautiful day like dees, an outdoor café vas really the perfect choice.”
“It’s so nice to finally meet you, too,” said Saul, smiling bashfully, as they sat down across from each other around a small circular table. “The Skyping and video-chatting with you has been great, but it can’t beat being together in person. I’ve been really looking forward to this.”
“Me too,” said Stefan, his royal-blue eyes glimmering and his thin cheeks dimpling. “Dank you tousand times for die flowers, by the vay. They arrived dees morning. They’re really lovely. They’ll really brighten up my summer apartment.”
“You’re very welcome. I’m glad you like them. I hope Columbia student housing gave you a decent place to stay.”
“Vell,” said Stefan, shrugging his slim shoulders and running his right hand through his wavy black hair, “it vill do. I’m only here for one month. And I’ll be spending mozt of my time in the library, anyvay. My Humboldt U. summer-study-abroad fellowship iz contingent upon me being able to produze at leazt die first chapter of my thesis. Zo I vill have my vork cut hard for me.”
“You mean you will have your work ‘cut out’ for you?”
“Iz dat how you zay it? I am steel not zo good with die idioms.”
“Your English is excellent, Stefan.”
“Dank you, dank you tousend times! I must zay,” said Stefan, leaning forward and grazing his right index finger with his chin, “you are much better looking in perzon den you are on screen.” Saul’s cheeks reddened. “And your match.com profile picture nowhere near makes you justice.”
“’Does you justice.’”
“Yes, dank you, dank you tousend times…”
Saul thought about telling Stefan that he found his English malapropisms charming and his thick German accent strangely seductive, but he decided against it; it would have been the truth, but it would not have helped him convey the other truth that he knew he needed to reveal to Stefan.
“I vould tell you to change the picture, but, den again,” continued Stefan, his eyes lighting up like lamps and his rose-red lips stretching into a broad, beaming smile, “at dees point, I von’t—I vouldn’t vant anyone elze to have you.”
Saul laughed, his cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red. He knew that he should have been profoundly happy—even exuberant—that the meeting that he had for weeks been terribly hoping would go well was going even better than he could have ever imagined. He had done everything he could think of to make sure that it would. He knew that his German was not good, but that morning he had sent Stefan a text in German, trying his best to impress him: “Ich bin sehr glücklich das du kommest zu New York! Ich hoffe das du haben guten Reisen gestern und ich hoffe das du (enjoy) dich Unterhalt bei uns in USA!” He couldn’t remember how to say “enjoy”—“lustig”? “Froh”? “Freude”? None of them sounded right to him, so he simply, and embarrassingly, left the English word in the sentence, hoping that Stefan would at least appreciate the effort he was making to communicate with him in his language. He had put on his best blue dress shirt and his Calvin Klein khakis and his new wingtip shoes. He had even put product in his sandy-blond hair—and he never put product in his hair. But he still felt uneasy; the reality of what he knew he would have to tell Stefan was weighing on him like an entire stack of checked out Butler Library books.
A waiter came over to their table to take their order. Saul was so distracted by his own thoughts that he didn’t even hear what Stefan ordered.
“And for you, sir?” asked the waiter, turning to Saul.
“Oh…uh…just a glass of water.”
“Are you sure?” asked Stefan, a look of concern coming across his olive-skinned face, which was clean-shaven save for a few specks of well-manicured stubble on the bottom and edges of his strong square chin. “I’ll pay for it.”
“Yes, I’m sure…thank you, Stefan, but I really shouldn’t stay for long.”
“Is everything alright?” asked Stefan, the light in his eyes slightly dimming and the luster of his smile somewhat fading. “Yes, everything’s fine, Stefan. It’s just that—Oh, God, I feel so awful about this, but…” He bit his lip.
“It’s ok, Saul,” said Stefan, moving to Saul’s side of the table and pulling up his chair beside his. “You can tell me anything. Anything. Ever zinse vee started skyping zu months ago, I promised I vould only ever be completely honezt with you, and I hope you can be the zame vay with me too. Vee have no reazon zu hide anything from each other.”
Saul curled his lips upwards into a grateful, hesitant smile. He looked at Stefan appreciatively, admiring the stylish, clean-cut way he had dressed for the occasion: black boots, gray slacks, and a superfluous navy-blue sweater over a high-collared white dress shirt that perfectly complemented his tall, slender frame. In his heart, he still wanted to please him, but his head told him he needed to tell Stefan the truth.
“Of course, Stefan,” he began, taking a deep breath, unable to look him in the eyes. “We’ve only ever been absolutely truthful with one another throughout all our conversations, which is what I’ve loved about them—our absolute honesty with one another…and in that spirit, Ich habe un Geständnis zu machen.”
“I zee dat your German iz improving.”
“I don’t know…maybe a little. I apologize for butchering your beautiful language.”
Stefan laughed. “It’s fine, Saul. Don’t vorry about it. But you can zay it in English. Go further.”
“You mean ‘go ahead’?”
“Oh…yez, yez of course, dank you tausend times.”
“Ok…well…I’m so sorry, Stefan, but this afternoon, on the subway, on my way here to meet you, I saw a woman…”
“Yes? Zo what?”
“And…I was moved.”
“Moved? Vat do you mean ‘moved’?”
“Attracted to her.”
Stefan leaned back in his chair and tilted his head to the right; his eyes were expressionless.
“I didn’t think it was possible, Stefan…she got on the train at 181st and got off when I did, at 116th. She had long brown hair and—you know the way people sometimes put their sunglasses on top of their head when they’re not wearing them? I always thought this looked funny, but she was wearing a pair of black sunglasses this way and it looked good on her. She was dressed very simply—a white shirt and black pants. And she was reading a hardcover copy of Amerika.”
“Hmm,” Stefan murmured, licking his lips and looking at Saul inquisitively. “Vere you attracted to her, or to what she vas reading?”
“To her, Stefan. To her. Just because I’m writing my thesis on Kafka doesn’t mean I’m—”
“I’m sorry, Saul. I didn’t mean that. I take it back…”
Saul sighed. The seconds of silence that separated their sentences seemed to Saul to last for minutes.
“I’m the one who’s sorry, Stefan. I really am. I feel terrible about this. It’s just that…Stefan, have you never been moved by a woman before?”
“No, Saul. Never.”
“You were always sure of yourself?”
“Yes, Saul. Of course. Every zince I vas five years old.”
Saul nodded his head, still unable to look Stefan in the eyes.
“Well…the thing is this, Stefan…I have never been sure. My whole life—twenty-five years—I’ve never been sure. Not until today. Not until I saw her.”
“And now you are sure?” asked Stefan, his left cheek resting gently in his left hand.
“Yes…I knew it from the moment I saw her. My body—it responded to the sight of someone in a way it never had before…I’m sorry, Stefan. So sorry. I just—I mean…even through all this time we’ve been video-chatting, I still wasn’t sure…please forgive me.”
Stefan draped his left arm around Saul and looked him the in eyes.
“Of course I forgive you, Saul. But there’s no need zu apologize. Many people take a long time—some even longer den you—to dizcover who they truly are. I’m just glad that you finally have. And I’m glad if I’ve been able zu help you in any vay.”
“I just feel terrible about it, Stefan. I mean, you’ve come all the way here just to meet me, and I—”
“It’s ok, Saul. Really. It’s ok. Don’t vorry about it. I completely understand.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Stefan—this means everything to me. You have no idea.”
Saul leaned toward him and was about to give him a kiss on the cheek—it was the least he could do, Saul thought, to give Stefan some much-deserved satisfaction for reordering his life and arranging for a summer fellowship in the United States just so that he could meet him in person—but he decided against it. He gave Stefan a quick, friendly hug instead. Stefan reciprocated, gently patting him on the back as he did so.
“Let’s still talk, though,” said Saul, “yes?”
“Yez, of course. I’m sure I vill still zee you around. There iz a talk tonight at Deutsches Haus on Der Prozeß and politics, an exchange between Žižek and two of the CU Germanic Languages Department profezzors. I think you vould really enjoy dis.”
“Thanks,” said Saul, breathing easily and smiling warmly. “I think I would indeed…well, I should be going. I’ll see you later tonight at Deutsches Haus. Aus Wiedersehen!”
“’Auf Wiedersehen,’ you mean.”
“Oh, right—verzieh mich. Thanks a million. Auf Wiedersehen.” The End 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 18, 2020 6:46:53 GMT -6
An interesting, quirky story  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 18, 2020 11:50:16 GMT -6
Working Christmas Again Written by Sheila Ash I always draw the short straw to a chorus of ‘Bad luck’. A reiteration of last year and the year before, and the year before that. Throughout the day, my ‘C’est la vie’ chimes on a constant playback loop. My expressionist shrugs repeat themselves as a well-practiced and perfected dance of indifference. My colleagues consolatory slaps on the back reprise their attempts to comfort whilst in their hearts gladness reigns. Already their minds are joyfully foreseeing the day from morning rumpus with its colourful collage of wrapping papers through to the evening chaos of tinsel fall. Their stomachs are no doubt churning in anticipation of indulgent pudding treats and excess chocolates as we head over to the canteen for our customary bland sandwiches. By knocking-off time everyone knows. The last act of solace is complete. By tomorrow everyone will have forgotten again until next year. Except me. 🦄
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 19, 2020 5:39:12 GMT -6
This is really powerful writing.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 19, 2020 13:56:04 GMT -6
Secondhand Santa by Michael Fredrick The late model sedan sputtered, coughed and dutifully careened forward on a cold December evening.
Fred hit the gas pedal & ruminated as he always did, wondering again why life had dealt him this hand? Christmas Eve, foraging for returnable bottles to make ends meet.
The chill was broken by the cry of Fred's daughter, Heather,
6 going on 36 in her own mind, the same age her Mom was when she lost her in the fire.
"Daddy stop!.. It's a Santa.. in the trash!"
Fred had no choice but slide-brake the car into the curb just ahead, He uttered a silent prayer that the road they traversed was free from the nearby Holiday mall traffic.
"Can we take it?.. Pleeze Daddy?.." Her head was outside the window now, the words tinged with frost."Just a minute, let me take a look."
Fred was no stranger to seeking treasure in trash, his home a monument to curbside chic.
A worn out vintage 4-foot Plastic Santa with a few small dents held court between a pile of black plastic cleanup bags and a dilapidated BBQ grill in front of a Cape Cod with no sign of life.
"Daddy, Look, Santa lights up!"..Heather was pointing to the broken light bulb screwed into a rusty socket that was mounted inside the plastic relic,
"Don't touch that, You are going to cut yourself." Heather knowingly backed off,
"OK, OK, Secondhand Santa is coming home with us, but now you really need to be good!"
She beamed in a look that Fred had only seen before in her Mother's eyes back when they actually had a life.
"We are leaving Santa outside tonight, Tomorrow we'll see about patching him up.."
Heather set the plastic relic on the driveway between the car and their door of the rundown duplex they called home. The snow was beginning to fall. The forecast was for a white Christmas...
They both woke up at 4AM, They both felt the light before they saw it.
Secondhand Santa stood in the middle of the snow blanketed front yard, lit up like a holiday
lighthouse. He was now closer to 8 feet tall and glowed with all the spirit of the day.
Sleigh bells rang in the distance and got louder. The snow sang as it fell, Happily.. 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 20, 2020 5:42:29 GMT -6
A most festive happy ending!
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 20, 2020 10:28:15 GMT -6
YES!! Even the poorest among us can enjoy a miracle.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 20, 2020 10:37:50 GMT -6
Pills and Capsules by Rekha Viswanathan I wake up to a crisp, clear and sunny morning. The fresh coffee smell beside my bed tempts me. One long sip of the coffee and my senses kick in! I have a long day ahead. At least that's what the papers at the foot of my bed say. Glancing at the paper I see appointments scheduled. A cardiologist, neurologist, psychiatrist… wow! Is my "Pills and Capsules"pharmaceuticals company doing so well? A knock on the door takes my eyes away from the appointment list and some other gibberish on the paper. “Hi there! Good morning” I turn to see a young girl with a chirpy voice at the door. “How are you today dear?” She seems to be a new helper! I need to speak to the manager about the frequent change in housemaids. “I’m Emily, can I help you with a nice long bath?” I wave her off but she doesn't want to go. I assure her I will call her if I need her. I wear my long flowery gown and she escorts me to the breakfast table. I complain. ‘It is so crowded and noisy. Elena, could I have breakfast inside my room please? I'm already running late for the day.” She looks around, shakes her head in disagreement and insists I have breakfast with everyone. I reach up to the nearest dish. The label reads pasta. I must applaud the cook for trying out new dishes. I drop some while helping myself with a serving. Clumsy me! The maid, what was her name again..yeah Edna...age sure is catching up with me. So Edna ushers me to meet the doctors through the day. At the end of the day I ask Esther “why were the doctors asking questions about me and not the deal we were to make with my company?” She replies. “It's a general protocol to have a full medical examination before signing any important deals.” Sounds convincing? I can't decide. Anyways, I've had a long day and I tuck myself into bed. I wake up to a crisp, clear and sunny morning. The fresh coffee smell beside my bed tempts me. One long sip of the coffee and my senses kick in! I have a long day ahead. At least that's what the papers at the foot of my bed say. Glancing at the paper I see appointments scheduled with doctors….. Somewhere at the far end of my room is a file. Case number 41256AH Name Unknown Date of admission 2.1.2008 History 20 yr old female found unconscious on the highway. Admitted with a severe head injury. Other details Sole survivor of a car accident. No relatives or friends have contacted in 10 years. Medical condition Progressive Alzheimer's Nurse in charge Emily .... 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 21, 2020 6:44:24 GMT -6
This is an eerie tale |
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 21, 2020 11:18:32 GMT -6
And so sad, Rick.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 21, 2020 11:58:22 GMT -6
Forever
by B.J.Neblett
“Segue the next couple of records with a jingle then go into a stop set. I’m gonna get some air.” Hy Lit flashed his agreeable smile, adjusted his trade mark tinted glasses and winked. “You’re a natural, kid.” Then he disappeared out the studio door. The lights from the control console cast a soft yellow glow across the room. I sat at the U shaped counter surrounded by a confection of the latest and best broadcast equipment. At my left elbow a stack of 45 RPM records teetered like the Tower of Pisa. LP albums, open reel tapes, spent Pepsi bottles and the remains of an extra large double cheese and pepperoni pizza lay strewn around the studio floor. Overhead the Cleftones’ classic Heart and Soul spilled from the burley Altec air monitors. It was summer, 1964 and I was living the dream of every young rock n roller. Two or three nights a week I sat in the air studio of WIBG radio pulling records, handling the phones and running errands for one of the country’s top DJs. When the engineer wasn’t around to see I even got to man the control board, mixing records, running commercials and honing a trade that would carry me though adulthood. Mom and dad weren’t happy but tolerated the situation. Then again, what parent wanted their kid to grow up to be a slick talking rock n roll disc jockey? Their take was the usual over simplified parental thinking: let him be, he’ll grow out of it. Little did they know. It all started a few years earlier innocently enough. You might even say it was my father’s fault. One chilly winter morning found a neat little six transistor portable AM radio under the Christmas tree with my name on the tag. It was made of plastic, had built in antenna and speaker; was about the size of a pack of cigarettes, and became my constant companion. Within a short time I was ditching school and hanging out on the front steps of the WIBG studios. That’s where I first met Hy Lit and Joe Niagara. They figured as long as I was going to be there anyway they might as well put me to work. I was invited to become the youngest intern at the popular radio station. Everything was fine until my school took an interest in my lack of attendance. After some fast and fancy talking, I reached a compromise with my concerned parents. I could work weekends and then evenings during the summer as long as my grades didn’t suffer and I didn’t miss any more school. At the time, Philadelphia was ground zero for the burgeoning rock n roll boom. In the late ‘50’s the owners of a religious based radio station took a huge gamble. After experimenting with an evening program of pop hits, the foresighted executives at Storer Broadcasting Company switched WIBG, whose call letters ironically stood for I Believe In God, to a twenty four hour all rock n roll format. It became one of the earliest stations in the country to program non-stop rock n roll. Teens from Philly, the Delaware Valley, and from South Jersey down to the sea shore were delighted. Adults took a different view. Most parents and civic leaders thought rock n roll was just so much noise, with earthy rhythms and a jungle beat that drove young people to perdition. But rock n roll was here to stay, and the gamble paid off. By the early ‘60’s hundreds of stations across the country were rockin’ to the new beat, and WIBG was the number one rocker, with Joe Niagara and Hy Lit the top jocks in the nation. Today, both iconic DJs are rightfully enshrined in Cleveland’s Rock Hall of Fame. Schlepping records and equipment for Hy Lit to hops at places like Little Flower and St. Anne’s high schools was fun and prepared me well for the Disco years yet to come. And the attention from the opposite sex was intoxicating. But there was something about being on the air that captivated me. From the moment I first set foot in a studio I knew where my future lay. Joe and Hy were understanding, patient mentors. I took to radio like a needle in a record groove. It’s hard to explain if you’ve never been inside a radio station. There is something mystical, almost spiritual about an air studio at night. When it’s just you, the music, the listeners, and the sympathetic glow of the meters, dials and indicators, you can feel the energy, taste the alchemy. It is the perfect setting for weird and magical things to happen. Hy Lit returned just as the last commercial was ending. All great DJs have an impeccable inner sense of time and timing. It’s part of what makes them great. I punched up a short personal DJ jingle, potted up microphone ‘A’ and gave Hy a nod. “WIBBAGE… the big 99… and you’re rockin’ with Hy Lit… 8:22 in the night time… in the City of Brotherly Love… with one of Philly’s favorite sons… he’ll be joining us Friday night… out at Holy Cross High School… Mr. Lee Andrews along with his Hearts… for Sam and Sherry in Germantown…” I hit the remote start of the husky QRK turntable. The opening chords of Teardrops filled my headphones just as Hy concluded his patter. “… on the Big 99… WIBG!” He smiled, gave me thumbs up and I cut the mike. “Nice job, any calls?” Hy asked, firing up a Kool. “Just the usual… oh, and a Donna from Chester called. She sounded kinda upset.” I read the note in my hand. “She said, ‘You just have to play the Marvelettes’ Forever.’ I told her you played it already but she insisted that it was desperately important that you get it on.” Hy accepted the paper with the request and grinned. “It always is, Billy, it always is. Pull the record.” “You’re going to play it again?” He snubbed out his half smoked cigarette, downed a slug of cold coffee and took my place at the controls. Ten minutes later Hy read the heartfelt dedication over the air, added some poetic words of advice and encouragement to the distressed young couple, and punched up the touching ballad Forever. “That’s what we do, kid… that’s what it’s all about.” By 10:20 we were walking out the station’s front door. It was a warm night, the air heavy, when a convertible appeared out of the grey mist that kissed the ground, and rolled to a stop. Aside from music and radio, I was a certified car nut and this cherry red ’54 Merc was one cool sled. It was customized with all the goodies: shaved, nosed and decked; carried Frenched in head and taillights; a custom grill, and sported spotlights, lake pipes and spinner hub caps. The name Donna was delicately scrolled just below the passenger window. Hy and I looked at the custom with admiration. “Mr. Lit…” The car’s driver strode over to us with an outstretched hand. Although dressed in peg legged black chinos, desert boots and a white T shirt with a pack of Marlboros rolled in the sleeve, he wasn’t a teen. Despite his greased back jet black hair, I figured him to be in his early thirties. It wasn’t unusual for listeners to come by the station hoping to get a song played or catch a glimpse of their favorite DJ. But in 1964 the average listener to rock n roll was a high school kid. Few past their twenties found the new music anything but annoying. Hy took the man’s hand. “Nice set of wheel you have there.” I can recall his exact words as if were yesterday. “Thanks. I hope I’m not troubling you. I don’t have much time; I’ve got to get back. I just wanted to thank you.” “You’re welcome, but what is it exactly I did?” The stranger looked at me and then back to Hy. “Oh, sorry, a song you played…a dedication… Forever… it’s mine and Donnas’ song. The night you played it, the words you said, it made us realize… well, we stayed together, despite her parents, we didn’t break up. In fact, later we eloped to Maryland. Because of you we’re still together. I always wanted you to know; to say, ‘Thanks’.” His expression, though genuine, was that of someone with other things on his mind. He looked at me. “Hang in there, BJ, keep on rockin’” Then he was gone. I figured he’d mistaken me for someone else. Hy and I stood there watching the Merc’s blue dot taillights fade into the July night. Neither of us equated the visitor with the urgent phone request earlier that evening. A look of contented satisfaction gradually crossed Hy’s tired face. “That’s what we do, kid… that’s what it’s all about.” July, 1977. I had stuck to my commitment to music and radio, despite impassioned chiding from my parents and well meaning school counselors. After returning from the Army in 1972, I attended the American Academy of Broadcasting, a radio school which was run by another Philly DJ legend, Long John Wade. Then I was off to a good start in my chosen career. My first radio gig was doing afternoon drive at WDVL, an FM rocker in Vineland, New Jersey. Another station later, and I took the position as music director at WEEZ in Chester, PA. It was the ‘70’s and disco; rock n roll and oldies were slugging it out on the air waves across the country. WEEZ was a new pop-rock station that played a heavy mix of ‘50’s and ‘60’s rock n roll. I was being heard daily all over the Philly-Delaware Valley area. I also hosted a weekly Oldies but Goodies program in the tradition of Hy Lit’s classic Hall of Fame show back when he held court at the now de-funked WIBG. In fact, thanks to the oldies revolution, Hy, Joe Niagara and other old time rock n roll jocks were enjoying renewed fame. Using the air name of Billy James and sometimes referred to as BJ the DJ, my oldies show aired Sunday nights from 9PM till 2AM. I took requests and dedications, playing the best music ever recorded from the ‘50’s and early ‘60’s, just like in the old days. It was just about air time when the previous DJ came into the studio. “Hey, Billy, someone outside wants to see you.” “Thanks, Tom. Will you punch up the intro and first song? I’ll be back in a minute,” I replied, and headed out the door. In the parking lot sat a gorgeous custom ’54 Merc convert. In cherry red, it was the perfect throwback to classic ‘50’s customs, with spot lights, lake pipes, spinner hub caps and the works. A pretty blonde with a bouffant hair-do waited in the passenger seat. On the door was scrolled the name Donna. “Excuse me…” With greased back jet black hair, he was dressed to match his car: peg legged black chinos, desert boots, and a white T shirt, a pack of Marlboros rolled in the sleeve. He and his lady friend appeared to be in their early thirties. “Can you do me a favor?” He handed me a slip of paper. “Could you play a song for us tonight and mention it on your show?” An eerie feeling of déjà vu struck me as I accepted the paper. “Sure… that’s what we do… that’s what it’s all about,” I heard myself reply. He smiled a familiar smile, “Thanks, BJ, keep rockin’,” and he was gone. As I watched the Merc’s blue dot taillights fade, memories of another warm July night a long time ago came rushing back. I glanced down at the paper in my hand. It read: For Danny and Donna of Chester on our thirteenth wedding anniversary. Please play the Marvelettes’ Forever. 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 22, 2020 7:15:58 GMT -6
Wow ... an amazing story
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 22, 2020 9:07:52 GMT -6
Yes Rick. A beautiful story.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 22, 2020 9:19:23 GMT -6
Chasing Aliens - Maybe by Walter Giersbach Anybody who chases weirdoes is a candidate for the loony bin. That’s why I’m keeping my mouth shut. Wouldn’t be good for business if people knew what I know. But, before you whistle for the guys in white coats, let me tell you it started on a quiet afternoon with me cross-examining Marilyn Monroe in Playboy. Elvis was wailing “I Want You, I Need You, I Love You” on my Philco.
Then the door opened and the babe walked in. I hoped she was a client the way I hoped someday I could afford to kill cockroaches with Flit spray instead of a hammer. Right now, I’d need to borrow the hammer.
She startled me because she was so short I had to lean over the desk to see her. Eyes would’ve reached my belt buckle with my pants hanging off my hips. She was stacked, but in a comic book sort of way. A lot of excess curves drawn by a hop-head artist.
“You are man who find lost people?”
“I’m the man, Miss. Who’ve you lost?” That was the second thing. She talked funny, like one of those war brides from the Far East. Her skin didn’t look tanned like she was from Los Angeles. More like some kind of citrus fruit. Not sun-kissed. Sunkist.
I guess we were all skittish in the ‘50s. Beatniks had come in from the Mojave the week before, claiming they saw flying saucers. Politicians were shouting about Commies disguised as State Department officials. Brain-washed war vets were being shipped back from Pyongyang. All that stuff filled a normal news day.
“Man I want to find is lost,” she said. “Last night. Near … what is name? Pas-a-de-na.”
“Pasadena,” I told her. “Up the freeway a few miles. Tell me the circumstances.”
Her name was – what the hell, I couldn’t understand her, so I began calling her Almond because of the shape of her eyes. Big eyes. White as eggs. Ostrich eggs with little black olives in the middle.
Two things my agency was good for since I was dismissed from the police force over a silly misunderstanding. I could find lost people and I took good photos admissible in divorce court. The way Almond Eyes was built, I debated trying to discover a few more things, like how she stacked up to Marilyn Monroe in three-quarter size. Sex with an un-Sanforized pinup wasn’t far from my mind.
She took 20 minutes to explain she’d come to town with this guy – another unpronounceable name – and they got separated when they were in a bar drinking Champagne.
“Is funny drink,” she mused. “Like joke that tickles nose and brain at same time.”
Somebody’s brain was tickled alright. Bouncer tossed him out on the street and took her in the back room for questioning. Questioning that turned funny.
“So why’d he let you go?”
“I,” she searched for a word the way a lady might excavate her pocket book for loose change. “I disable him, then go to see my friend outside. But he disappear. We go Pas-a-de-na now? I show you where.”
Colorado Boulevard was lit with a fiery red glow from the sun dropping into the Pacific. Street lights were coming on, turning the six lanes of asphalt into a rosy landing strip for derelicts. “This the place?” I asked, pulling onto a side street near the bar
“Last time I see him he tell me he go look around. Be right back.”
Champagne will do it every time. It’s often kidnapped my brain.
We strolled up one block and down the next. I was getting tired, but kept my mind on my 25 buck fee.
“Maybe here,” Almond suggested, pointing to an alley. I tossed her idea around the way a pansy dribbles a basketball. I could use her 25 bucks, but dark alleys mean trouble.
“Okay, Miss,” I told her, making sure my .38 Police Special was loose under my jacket. “You walk behind me,”
We got about 30 yards in when the some ungodly wailing came from behind a pile of empty cartons. Sent chills up my back, me hoping it was only a cat facing down a platoon of rats. Almond Eyes began chattering in the same double talk, sounding like a Polynesian who’d overdosed on fermented pineapple juice.
“This him!” she shouted. “Here. I give you 25, um, 25 bucks.”
This was too easy, I thought. Was the mini-babe unable to hail a taxi to this place, or was she missing a gas station map that had Pasadena on it? But she pushed two sawbucks and a fiver into my hand.
“Hold on, honey. I need to know what’s going on here.” I pointed at the little guy coming at me in a garage mechanic’s suit.
“We are lost. Before. Maybe not now. Must go home now.”
“Not enough detail for me to fill out a report,” I said as threw her tiny arms around my waist. My arms went around her neck by force of habit and my mouth went down to taste those lips before they could say goodbye.
The guy, who was about an inch taller than a short stack of flapjacks, shouted when we clinched. Then, he pulled out a thing that looked like a piece of fruit.
I laughed. “Nice try with the stick-up, pal, but a banana isn’t a good defense against a .38.” That’s when he zapped me. I went cold as a Popsicle, wondering if this was when I shake hands with St. Peter at the booking desk. I could see the two midgets and heard them chattering parrot talk, but I couldn’t move a muscle.
“Goodbye, sir,” Almond Eyes said graciously. “We go now. Thank you for mouth-to-mouth greeting.”
I heard their footsteps go about five feet, and then – nothing. Silence. Even though I couldn’t turn my head, I knew they were gone.
It took me 20 minutes to thaw out, see that the alley was empty, and get back to my Plymouth. Somewhere down the street, the Platters were crooning “My Prayer.” Colorado Boulevard was as empty as a church on Monday.
I got back to the office an hour later as my former partner, O’Malley waltzed in. “Christ, you look like you shook hands with a mummy,” he said.
“You don’t want to know, O’Malley. Tell me, do you believe in little people from outer space?”
His eyes closed down like a bank teller’s window on Sunday. “You back on the sauce again?”
“Nah, I’m joking. I think my last client was just another Commie.” 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 23, 2020 5:51:32 GMT -6
I liked this cool fantasy story.
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Post by QueenFoxy on May 23, 2020 15:51:06 GMT -6
Blood for the Blood God by Dylan Patel "Yes, now and forever" It whispers, followed by incoherent profanity...
The figure approaches the house, through the window it stares.
A grin appears on its face, "The time is near" it murmurs.
It walks to the back door of the house and walks in like it’s at home. Silently it floats up the stairs and enters a bed room. It pulls up its hood and pauses, it listens for a while to the soft breathing. It walks over and leans over the bed. It raises one arm forward, with the other it reaches into his robe and pulls out a cruel shaped ceremonial knife with kill written in blood all over the hilt. It pauses and then suddenly screeches as it slashes its wrist. Blood spurts all over the silhouette, There is no movement in the bed.
"Blood for the Blood God," it screeches.
Blood drips down the figures arm as a dark mist slowly engulfs the room, revolving around the shadowy figure slowly. The gash starts to close up and as the figure examines it’s now healed wound. The body in the bed suddenly sits up and turns its head to the figure robotically, his eyes glowing red.
"The path of destruction" the little boy says in a soft voice as he stands up.
The figure gleefully nods his head and starts to walk. The figure walks out of the room, down the stairs and through the back door of the house. The figure doesn’t look back once and the boy walks silently, lifelessly behind.
The boy listens to the figure as it gleefully mumbles incoherently to its self.
"Blood for the Blood God" it rambles over and over again more and more excitedly each time, sometimes jumping with joy.
Through the dark misty forest they walk together. The blood moon smiling at them as they arrive at an opening with a stone chair in the center, the boy walks over and sits down. The figure excitedly looks at the boy with anticipation. The boy stares off into the distance with a blank expression on his face.
The figure kneels and says "How may I serve you lord" as he removes his hood. Revealing a grotesque disease ridden face.
The boy with eyes glowing crimson red looks the figure in the eyes and utters "In death"
The figure now noticeably alarmed yells, "but, but, no, buu--t.."
He tried to flee, the space around them darkens and the black mist pulls him back and forces the man to kneel.
"Nooooooo!" he sobbingly screams.
A blood red circle surrounds the figure, markings form on its body and they too start to glow red. The figure is stretched out and across the circle without effort, left trapped and unable to move. The mist darkens further and engulfs the figure.
It wails "baahhh" as blood spurts out of the glowing markings in every direction.
It screams whilst its bones are being ripped out through its skin, they all snap and turn to dust, the remaining matter then explodes over and over again dispersing it over the vicinity. The cycle is repeated over and over again, the figure appears, it screams as it fades away only to come back again.
"Just a few more times" the boy says as he smiles and licks his lips.
The area around them is now soaked in blood, the boy snaps his fingers and the circle as well as the figure disappear into the abyss pulled in by long thin shadowy hands.
The boy looks into the abyss, he smiles. Countless eyes open and stare back, a huge toothy grin appears and then disappears. The boy catches movement in the corner of his eye, something dark, and something unexpected. The abyss closes and shadows move towards the boy.
Another red circle has started to form around the boy, the stone chair turns black and starts glowing with red markings. Ominous shadows form all around and cover the boy in a blanket of crimson and blackness. The boy remains seated and a grin begins to fill his face. The blood in the surrounding area starts to float towards the blackness slowly, then quickly. The blood dances with the black mist around the boy, then it dissipates into the blackness.
Slowly the darkness subsides, blowing away in the wind as it picks up. The wind reveals a black silhouette which shatters like glass into dust, leaving the boy sitting there with a grin on his face. The boy stands and a black torso emerges from the top of his back, the shadow leans back and stretches its arms. The boy starts to smile as the surrounding area starts to decay.
"I am complete" they say together at the same time as they walk towards the city, everything around them withering away. The End 🦄 |
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Post by lostineternity99 on May 24, 2020 6:33:01 GMT -6
This was a very dark story but I liked reading it  |
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