Oh See Dee

June 1, 2013 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.4/10 (216 votes cast)

“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!” I yell out, sweat pouring down my face as I melt away from the stress of the situation. There is my mother, my perfect, caring and understanding mother, lying on the floor semi-conscious after the nasty fall she just had. I turn her over to lay her on her back and I immediately notice the swelling. She must have hit her head on the floor when she face planted under the dining room table. The blood is overwhelming the white tile floor, flowing steadily from a large gash on the left side of her neck. She must have caught the corner of the glass tabletop.

“You know I always stack school books on those tiles over there! That was so stupid and clumsy, Mom!”

I can’t stop looking at the gash in her neck. The swelling has spread across her forehead so it looks to be evenly distributed. But that gash, on the one side of her neck…it just isn’t right. She knows I can’t be put in situations like this, never been able to handle them well at all. I love my mother dearly and I can’t just watch her bleed out of that gash. I have got to do something!

“Mom, listen to me, you have got to stay still! Do you understand? This may hurt a bit but you CANNOT move or it is just going to be worse. I’ll be right back!”

I run to the kitchen, “2, 3, 2” and click the light switch 6 times. As I approach the knife stand, I make sure to rub the green wall counter-clockwise 24 times and clockwise 24 times before I lift every knife in the block until I settle on the one that feels the best, the paring knife. I skip two tiles left, 3 tiles forward and two tiles right until I am even with my mother. As I bend down over her, I make sure that I even up the blade opposite her neck from the existing gash.

“Mom, quit moving, you are going to mess up my line! Once it is perfectly symmetrical, I’ll get you a towel and call the ambulance okay! Stay calm!”

Credit To – StupidDialUp

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.4/10 (216 votes cast)

Modern Monster

May 21, 2013 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.6/10 (233 votes cast)

Hello, my name’s Charlie Ipstien. Dorky, I know. But I’m better known as ‘Chips’ by my familiar. I ain’t a classy guy, a lowlife thug people call me. And I admit it. Can’t really blame myself though. It was where I was damn raised. Messed me up badly. I grew up in the slums, the absolute pits. The school I was taught in was complete and utter shit. The budget was around about the price of a taco. The teachers knew no better than us, and were nearly always pissed off. Let’s just say they had a different idea on ‘Punishments’, back then.
However, it wasn’t just them that caused us to be how we are today. It was a kid, who came to our school during April. You see, this was a cheap, cheap school, so the peasants around here could afford to ‘educate’ their child. So it’s no surpise to anyone that some shady characters got into the school. Like Larry. Although no-one actually called him that. That had a special name for him: Freak.
Larry had the average personality of a kid who just moved to school. Shy and quiet. But how he looked, well that was a whole new story. He had one of those conditions, I’d researched, um, let me see, ah yes: Hypertrichosis. Or as it’s better known ‘Werewolf Syndrome.’ Because who cares about being subtle. He had hazelnut brown hair all over his face, and his body. We found that out when Razor took his shirt off and started kicking him. People like us weren’t so used to the condition, so he was bullied badly.
We’d all call him freak, and ‘Werewolf Kid’ and usually taunt him with wolf howls all day. It weren’t ‘cos we didn’t like ‘em. ‘Cos deep down, we were scared of him. We’d never seen anyone like it, so that was our natural reply to it. You might call me sick, but I wasn’t doing the bullying so much, more just watching. I know, that’s no better but what would the teachers do anyhow? The gang would howl at him, and hit him all lesson long, while the teacher was usually shitfaced on the table.
The more I think about it, the more I feel bad. He was just trying to fit in, and we weren’t making that easy for him. But the others didn’t care, they never stopped having fun with him. Especially Razor. He seemed to take an instant dislike to him, and usually went way too far as we stood back. Razor wasn’t the most healthy-minded kid, as he lived in a house right next to druggies, the fumes getting through, most likely. Not many people knew Razor’s name, we think it was Robert Mayfield or something. But when some poor sucker named Jeff made fun of his name, Razor justified how he’d got that nickname. It was a natural decision to let him be in charge.
One of the incidents were Razor freaked out was P.E, and the teacher, being the lazy bastard he was, just gave us all a ball to bounce. We did the usual stuff, dodge ball, football, while Razor had two balls, and held them to his chest pretending they were his boobs. You know, the normal High School stuff. Then Larry came, presumably from the teachers office, his hair ruffled and messed up, and his eyes red from tears. Despite his large amount of hair, he was pretty weedy. There was a ball each, but since Razor had taken two, there wasn’t one for him.
“Um, could I have a ball, please?” He said, stuttering as usual.
Razor looked at him, then held one of the balls way over his head.
He pointed to the white ball above Larry and said, “Oh look guys! A full moon!” I had to admit, that was funny. We all laughed and Larry sighed.
“What, ain’t I funny enough for ya freak?” Razor said angrily, gaining closer to him.
“Just come back over here man, carry on with the game.” One of us called out.
“I’m not done with hairy and ugly over here.” He snarled back, as he carried on pacing towards Larry. “Well, what’s your problem, huh?”
Larry was walking back quickly, so Razor pelted one of the balls at him as hard as he could. It must have caught him of guard, because he slammed on the ground. The gym teacher just gave a grin through his cigar.
Razor got his second ball, and threw it even harder at him. Larry writhed on the floor in pain. Razor was freaking out, as usual.
“You want a ball, do you? YOU WANT A GODDAMN BALL?” He grabbed a ball of someone else and continued to pummel him, as Larry squirmed on the floor, his face twisted in pain.
“Leave it man, come on!” We all pleaded, this could get real ugly.
I wish, and I’m sure a lot of others wish, that we’d done more then. The display that happened through the next ten minutes or so was too disturbing even for us. Razor continued to pelt him until Larry was just breathing heavily, occasionally jolting with pain. I still regret not doing something to this day.
One day, as we were walking out of school, I saw Larry walk off to the right, where I was pretty sure just led to the woods. The woods were a creepy ass place. It was the birth ground of campfire stories, and many urban legends. Ghosts, bigfoot, some weird tall dude who stole kids. I quickly ran up to him, and he looked mildly surprised, as I guess he thought I was gonna beat him up.
“Please, just let me go…” He said immediately, trying to quicken his pace.
“Where to? The only place you can go is the woods. Where’s your mom or dad?” I asked. He slowed down, and sighed.
“I don’t have a house. The woods are my home. My mom died while I was on the way out.” He continued to walk on. I just stood there. Poor guy. Wait! ‘Stop feeling sorry for Larry!’ I convinced myself, and I ran back to the gang, way ahead now. Still, he had no home, and we weren’t making it easier for him.
The next day I told them about what he said, obviously instead of me talking to him, I was punching him, so they wouldn’t judge me. I was planning on maybe raising a bit of sympathy, but it raised more taunting, and the bullying just grew worse.
The story spread across the lunchroom like a germ, as I saw Larry look into his hands. He looked at me, shaking his head slowly. I felt kinda bad, and the next day, Larry had come up to me, while I was talking to my friends.
“Why, why’d you do it?” Larry asked, so pathetically I almost felt sympathy. The gang looked at me, waiting. I had to do something to please them.
I shoved him to the ground, his eyes wide with shock.
“Sorry Larry, nothing personal.” I joked. The gang laughed heartily, and I felt pretty good. Not for hurting Larry, but for being accepted a bit more.
But the day my childhood really got messed up was the day Larry left school. It was the Monday after a previous week of taunting and slightly more vicious attacks off Razor than usual. The story had mutated to a straight up insulting rumour, and I could tell Larry was losing it. I saw his occasional eye twitch, and his slight vibrations and he sat on his desk, clawing at the table. On Monday, he was walking through the gate, twitching like a mental patient. Razor met him at the gate, me and the gang behind him.
“Hey Larry, Look what I got for ya! Ahem..!” He began.
“St-, stop it.” He spat quietly. Razor was surprised, he wasn’t used to getting spoke back to.
“What, am I getting to ya?” He said in mock empathy.
“Shut up. Just shut up.” Larry countered. His eyebrows were slowly curling down, and the crowd gave an excited murmur. This was action!
“Really? You and what army?” Razor shouted, pushing Larry fiercely.
Larry, instead of backing away, just stumbled back a bit, and shook violently even more. He looked like he was in-between ‘not giving up’ and ‘not snapping.’
“You know what I think freak boy?” Razor said, nose to nose. “I think ya momma just killed herself when she saw what just popped out? Deserved it, if you ask me…”
It all happened so fast. Larry pounced on Razor, sending him to the floor, roaring as he did so. Razor gave a startled cry, shocked at this sudden outburst. We all stopped breathing, as time seemed to stop. We were all dumbfounded by this sudden outrage. Larry continued to beat him furiously, his arms so quick they were just a blur. Blood splattered to the ground by Razor’s head, as we just stood there in horror.
“Hey, let him go freak boy!”
Some kid tried to hold Larry back, and Larry reacted by punching him away with all his force. The kid fell back like a ragdoll. Larry spun his head back to Razor. I saw his eyes, and for the first time I’d seen him, he had a look I’d never seen before. The look of an animal…

******

That all happened in high School, as I said. Left me pretty devastated and disturbed. Took me a long while to get over it, still fully haven’t really. Sometimes the memory comes back, after trying so hard to forget it. I see Razor screaming in agony, as Larry continued to claw and punch him. The teachers had apprehended Larry a couple of minutes later, they held him back with all their strength, as he writhed like a fish caught in a net. He was taken to children’s juvenile centre. We never heard from him again, and the teacher would nervously change the subject when he was mentioned. Razor hardly spoke after that, He was never the cocky airhead I’d known him to be. Larry had left him with some serious scars, mentally and physically.
I’d just finished remembering all that suppressed trauma when I got a phone call. I picked it up, and Razors voice was on the other line. The audio was shaky, as if he was holding it with a broken hand.
“Hey, hey Chips.” He said un-confidently.
“Hey Razor man!” I said happily. I hadn’t heard from him in months. “How you been?”
“Can’t complain, can’t complain…” I could hear the paranoid tone of his voice. “So, hey, I was wondering, if maybe you’d like to…”
There was a long pause. I could have sworn I heard some very high pitched sounds, like whining…
…pleading.
“Yo Razor, you there?”
I heard a low grunt from the other end, a forceful grunt. Deeper than Razors voice by a long shot.
“Okay, 0kay! Sorry man, um, line went dead. Um, so, I was wondering if you wanna get a couple of beers?”
“Sure man, tonight?”
“Yeh, yes tonight. JTK bar at 8:00. See, see you there…”
I swore I heard another grunt, and the line went dead. The phone call had, unnerved me at the least, but he’d went kinda coo-coo after the whole ‘you know what’ incident.
I was walking towards the JTK bar and it was already dark. The gnarled trees from the upcoming forest were bent and twisted, like a spinal cord. The clouds devoured the sky like smoke. Hell, probably is smoke from all the damn chemicals from the factory around here: SIREN INDRUSTIES. Damn bastards, as if this place didn’t smell bad enough.
To get the JTK bar you had to go through the woods, the one were Larry had lived. I wasn’t so scared of it now, you just have to walk through a straight path, and it’ll lead you right to town. Still, the place gave me the creeps. All the legends, and especially knowing now that Larry lived here.
I walked into the entrance of the woods, and jerked slightly. I looked down at my feet, I’d stepped into a big footprint. Not just big, huge. And right by them were smaller footprints. I carried on walking until the smaller ones just suddenly, stopped. No evidence of them turning around or nothing. Weird.
I carried on, the huge trees towering above me, watching me almost in anticipation. Like they knew they were about to get a show. The cold air stung my skin. The owl gave the occasional hoot, and the moon rose above the smoke. Classic cliché horror movie moment. I chucked, but they weren’t real. None of them were.
Snap.
I turned to the sound with a jolt, and there was just 2 particularly large and menacing trees, and some over-grown, swamp green bushes. Instead of the smell of piss and bark, here it smelled even worse. It smelt like raw meat, that’d been left here to cook and rot for a million years. Probably a dead skunk, but I couldn’t get over how bad it was. The odour filled my lungs, as I coughed and spat. I squinted my eyes to see what was behind there. All I could make out was a huge lump. Probably a tent, or a den some kids had made. Probably cooking some bad meat, or cooking something else. I heard slight whimpers, so quiet they could be missed. I wanted to see what was behind there, overlooking the entire meeting with Razor.
I began to try walking through the bushes, and the thick bristles made it tough. Ivy scraped my leg, like they were warning me to leave but I got through them. The smell was stronger now…
There was a narrow gap, and with a squeeze, I got past the tightly packed trees. I looked to where I had seen the shape…
The smell was strongest as it had ever been.
I gasped.
I saw Razor, beaten, bloodied and broken. His face was terrified, agonized, but somehow, self-accepting. His clothes were torn with three long marks. His body was dangling like a puppet. Around his neck was a gigantic fist, squeezing the life out him. The fist was brown, and hairy. The arm followed to the body of an enraged figure, a figure I knew all too well.
Larry.
But this was nothing like the Larry I’d known. The Larry I’d known was small and weak, but this one was built like a bear! He had fists the size of wrecking balls, his body like a tank. His biceps were like giant pumpkins, and just looking as hard as steel. His fur had never been too rough, but his fur looked like it had been dragged to hell and back. When he was a child, you had been able to see his human features, however now he barely looked human at all. His face was angry, but calm. But underneath the miles of fur, his eyes were bloodshot and yellow. His teeth had been filed to a point, and they were stained with red. He had a particular look, I look I’d tried my damned hardest to forget.
The look of an animal.
“P, please….,” Razor said so, so quietly.
Larry raised one hand up to Razor’s head, and gave a sharp twist. A sickening sound followed, a sound like a plate being smashed. Razor fell to the ground lifelessly.
The puppets strings had been cut.
I gagged. My feet were glued to the floor, as the rest of me shook widely. Larry turned to me, his face partly hidden by the shadows. He gave a sick grin, like an animal that had cornered its prey.
“Sorry, Chips.” He, it growled, a voice so deep it sounded it would hurt to talk.
He took a pace towards me, his fist rose to me. He lifted me, his sharp nails, claws digging into my hip. His grip was so tight. I must have weighed nothing to him. I was now face to face with this monster I had once known to a child, a lost child, with no-one to love him, tormented to insanity. He spoke again.
“Nothing personal.”
I heard the plate smashing sound again, and it all went dark.

Credit To – YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE USERNAME! (Thanks to tytiger10 and Joshua Standlee!)

This is the first entry in the Modern Monsters series.

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.6/10 (233 votes cast)

Tight Spaces

April 30, 2013 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.1/10 (132 votes cast)

This is the third installment in the Tower of Sorrow series.
Part One: Yon Black Edifice Hath Called Me
Part Two: First Steps

-

“Hello?” I ask perplexed.

“Who is this?”

The phone is silent and soon begins assaulting my ear with a “busy” signal. I feel my muscles begin to loosen as if the very bones that held them had liquefied. I can see the phone slip from my fingers and begin tumbling to the floor. My coffee cup tilts forward and the hot black liquid begins to spill over its edge. I slowly begin to realize that the blue and white tiles of my kitchen floor are closer than they once were. The realization sinks in that I am falling. I try to put my hands out in front of me but my limbs refuse to respond to my commands. My knees thud to the floor followed by my useless arms. The world around me begins to grow dark. This grand symphony comes to a close as my face meets the floor.

The darkness floods in and enshrouds me in its black garments. It begins to shift in a sickly ebb and flow with crimson and purple running through it. In amazement, I begin to feel my arms and legs coming back to me. I realize that I am no longer lying face down on the ground, but rather on my back. I am staring up at a crimson sky with small wispy purple clouds drifting lazily toward the horizon. There is a tickling sensation against the back of my neck and when I turn my head I see the reason why. I am lying in a field of some form of grass. It is exceptionally long and has small soft hairs running up and down its smooth blue surface. My gaze and reverie are broken by a rustling in the grass just feet from where I lie. As I peer in that direction I begin to see eyes staring back into mine. They are the brightest orange-red with three small black pupils set in a triangular configuration. A small furry creature pokes its head out of the grass. I begin to see that its wide round eyes are set in a small fuzzy face much like that of a lemur. I sit up and it shrinks back.

“It’s ok,” I coo, holding out my hand. The small creature extends its neck, which is nearly a foot long, and begins to sniff my hand with its small pig-like nose. In an instant the sun’s light is blinked out by a massive shadow. A mad screech breaks across the sky and I jump to my feet, throwing my gaze skyward. There it is, or rather, they are. The swooping black demons with their piercing green eyes are covering the sky. My small furry companion tries to disappear, running back into the tall grass, but he is too late. One of them dives down at lightning speed and snatches him up in its jaws. As it flies away it spits out the smoldering skeleton of the poor creature. Their shrieking and screaming are thundering across the open field. I feel a trickle run down my cheek and wipe at it with my fingers. Blood, my own blood, I start to feel dizzy and giddy, as if I had had too much to drink. In a matter of seconds the world has once again faded to black.

This time though, there are no demons. There are no whispering voices, no tower. The only sound is a low steady rumbling and music. The music is low and distant, but it sounds soft and sad. I can tell from the movement of my breath in front of me that I am in a tight enclosed space. I can’t move my arms or legs and if my eyes are open, there is no light to see. A chill runs through me and I wonder, am I dead? Is this small black space my final resting place? Is the slight movement I feel the pallbearers carrying me to my grave? As the fog inside of my head begins to clear I begin to smell a familiar stench. Is that gasoline? Oh dear God, am I going to be cremated?! I start to struggle to move and am met with resistance. I now know all too well that my immobility is not due to death or rigor mortis. My hands and feet are bound and I can feel the ache in my bent legs. They are screaming to be set free to straighten themselves out. The rope is cutting into my wrists and ankles as I fight to get free.

Suddenly I’m jolted to the right as what I now realize is a vehicle, slams to a halt. The distant music fades into silence. I hear a loud creaking sound and the weight of the car shifts. I hear the car door slam closed and the whole vehicle rattles with the force. Now, I can hear footsteps heading towards the rear of the car. There is the shuffling and tinkling of keys just before the trunk lid pops open. In the pale yellow light of the moon I see a dark figure towering over me. In the shadow of the figure’s wide-brimmed fedora, I can only see its mouth. The figure smiles and its teeth are horrible pearly white needles glistening in the moonlight.

In a deep and raspy voice the figure says with a chuckle, “Oh, I see you’re awake.”

Credit to: J. Brown

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.1/10 (132 votes cast)

First Steps

April 28, 2013 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.5/10 (123 votes cast)

As my foot descends, it comes in contact with and crushes something small and brittle. I look down to see that small skeletons litter the ground beneath my feet. They are indiscernible. Some look ever so slightly familiar, approximations of the skeletal configurations of cats or dogs, but most are entirely foreign. The wind sweeps the dust into the air in small clouds that swirl around me. As they swirl they seem to form letters, perhaps even words. I cannot tell what they say. Their meaning is lost to me.

The opening becomes closer; the call more desperate and alluring. I can no longer feel myself walking. My footsteps have become automated and the call sinks its tendrils deeper into my mind. The voices whisper more loudly now. They whisper harsh warnings. They beg and urge me to turn back and return from whence I came. I hear them, but I only vaguely understand. I am consumed by the need to move forward, the need to engulf myself in the anti-light emanating from the monument before me. There is a feeling of calm descending upon me. It enfolds me in its warm velvety wings. My emotions have ceased their struggle, only to become willing spectators watching the present unfold from the theater of my mind.

I take my first step through the threshold and what small amount of light is left in this dismal place fades. Darkness so complete and pure envelops me. It is a darkness that could only be known by those in the very depths of hell. The whispering voices fade and my ears ring in the newfound silence. The calm has sunken into my very soul. I can feel only one other thing, the overwhelming sense that my journey has come to an end, I am home.

I awake to the warmth of the sun shining on my face. The sweet sound of birdsong wafts in on the cool spring breeze. My sheer blue curtains tumble lazily creating dancing shadows on the wall across the room. As I slowly bring myself to a sitting position, I ponder the oddity that was last night’s dream. The remnants of it are curiously strong as they swim through my foggy mind. In fact, I can still see the dark monolith and its swirling demons. I can hear the whispering voices as they echo into nonexistence. I can still feel the call that had pulled me into the eternal darkness. Somehow, I am not chilled by these thoughts. They are comforting and make me feel out of place in the safety of my own bedroom.

As I place my feet on the floor I could swear I feel the crunch of small brittle bones underfoot. I peer down at my beige shag carpeting to ensure myself they aren’t there. I groan and stretch in an attempt to shake away the last vestiges of sleep within my body and mind. They go begrudgingly as I shuffle to my bathroom. The running faucet in the bathtub babbles in a low voice reminiscent of the voices from my dream. As I slide into the warm water I am reminded of the embrace of that dark structure and the sense of coming home.

Slowly I slide into the day’s clothes and make my way to the kitchen. The heavy aroma of freshly brewed coffee greets my nostrils and causes me to salivate. I make my way to the cupboard to retrieve my most beloved coffee mug. As I pour my coffee the swirling black beverage causes a flashing image of the clouds around the tower’s peak. The heat of the coffee warms me to my core and once again I am reminded of the feeling of complete acceptance. My cell phone begins to ring. Within the small LCD display I can see that the number is listed as “Unknown.” I flip it open and place it to my ear to be greeted by a sharp whisper. It is so harsh I could swear I feel a puff of breath against my cheek.

“You must come home. Come home. Come home…come home…”

Credit to: J. Brown

This is a sequel to Yon Black Edifice Hath Called Me., and part of the Tower of Sorrow series.

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.5/10 (123 votes cast)

Yon Black Edifice Hath Called Me.

April 25, 2013 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 5.5/10 (141 votes cast)

The dark black edifice surfacing in my mind is as “The Nothing” from “The Neverending Story.” As it rises to fruition, it eradicates all in its path. Images and memories are stripped away as though they never were. The landscape of my psyche is left barren, scarred, and burnt to its very bones. I can’t remember when this even began anymore. I only know what it is now.

Emotions run wild. Never settling or standing still. They all claw at my mind as they ceaselessly wage war in an attempt to become dominant. The black edifice rises even still; its peak so high that the clouds obscure its very topmost heights. The sky is charred black with streaks of crimson and deep purple showing through cracks in its surface. The angry clouds swirl around this monumental structure, exchanging bright flashes of intense lightning.

Dark winged creatures swarm the structure, swooping and diving at each other. I can hear their shrieks and cries of pain as they attack and devour each other. Many fall and tumble toward the barren wasteland below. I cannot see their faces, only their eyes. They are a bright and brilliant green and they shine like fireflies dancing in an open field. As they fall I can see their lives and their eyes blinking out of existence. This structure is destroying even its own denizens. What hope have I to survive?

The ground shakes as this monument to death and destruction ceases its upward movement and stands still. A ghastly anti-light radiates from its peak, sending the demonic circling creatures caterwauling into the unknown darkness that has settled into this world. A cacophony of whispering voices fills my ears, further clouding my thoughts. I can only latch onto words and phrases that seem to beckon me from a past that feels familiar. Is this me? Are these my thoughts?

An opening begins to form in the base of the structure. A deep and cavernous black void that calls from its depths. Emotions fail to respond, still struggling to gain control. I lack the sense of foreboding and dread that should cause me to balk. I have no will to survive and no want to die. There is simply the call. I place one foot in front of the other. Yon black edifice hath called me.

Credit To: J. Brown

This pasta is the first in the Tower of Sorrow series. This series will not be posted all at once, but gradually over the coming weeks.

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 5.5/10 (141 votes cast)

The Waterfarmer

April 24, 2013 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.6/10 (116 votes cast)

The Waterfarmer

Tonight he had purpose. The number was to be twenty…twenty of the best. Or at least the best he could find. The twenty were to be found in the water; in their place of rest. They will be part of the offering; an offering that must be made.

Out to sea he realizes he must go and in the horizon an aged wooden boat, similar to a small, rotting schooner appears to him as a specter of the sea. His Dark Captain greets him at the peer and waves him aboard as a servant would greet an expected guest. It is known that the Dark Captain, shaped as a shadow of a large pirate, will guide him through to the soon to be chosen, with his oar in hand, steering through the salty, dense, and suffocating fog.

There were others fishing. He could sense it though he could not see them, these competing fishermen. Their presence weighed down the air as though a final plea, a plea for life, was soon to be heard. The pressure mounted as the urgency was palpable. And soon his lottery would be chosen.

And there they were, floating like underwater rows of corn. Souls, the ghost of weathered men and women made of oily liquid and illuminated smoke, familiar yet not. Vast fields of past experiences sprinkled the sea mirroring the starry night above in darkness, silence and spectacle. The harvest was to be made both quickly and with utmost certainty. He, the waterfarmer, the fishermen, must choose his bait wisely and throw back the unworthy catch, for there would be only one offering.

The selections were to be made through the senses, not just of those senses of the physical world, but of the metaphysical as well. He must feel their energy, their being and emotion, their wisdom and sin, what made them who they were and what will make him part of them, part of one. But how would he know? Understanding the task at hand but not the how, he fished, reaching his hand as far as he could toward the water touching soul after soul, each time rejecting yet taking a part of them with him as though he were collecting letters to home from lonely soldiers. Catch after catch is made and thrown back…until he finds one and another…each choice made filled a hole in his spirit, like a mathematically perfected piece of a whole. He now knows that these chosen few represent his past, his present and most importantly, his future.

As each undeniable link is made with these lonely souls, each one manifests itself onto the Dark Captains schooner, slowly floating upside the boat, over the edges and into their place in the pews much like mercury finds itself. Only these souls start taking shape into ghostly men and women with cloudy and hollow eyes, skin of liquefied pearl, and strikingly faceless. They begin to slug into a pool at the bow of the ship. As the souls gather they begin an entangled embrace, one after another, taking a liquescent shape.

At the base of the creation, broad backs and strong chests stack in rows and depth to solidify the structure above six stacks of feet, hands and knees. A backrest of sturdy shoulders begins to form. Armrests made of thighs melt together with the smooth curve of breasts at grips. The heads and bones gather at the top of the nine-foot design creating a complex helixed catacomb revealing the shape of an incomplete but great throne of pearly iridescence. This beautiful architecture will be his offering.

The boat is almost filled with the remaining faceless twenty, each one sitting at the inside edge of the pews when the Dark Captain points to a massive foggy wall slowly approaching. Time is running out to finish the harvest. The Doctor will soon have his gift and his future may be granted.

The Patient

He is lost in a nauseous stare. His fever has peaked now and his energy is seeping through his pours as if it is an August afternoon in the swamps. As they prophesized, the pounds melted away, thirty-seven of them in fact. Food would no longer be a pleasure but a chore. The shivers, fevers and cramps were undersold however. And he still has his flowing silver hair; a miracle by its own standards. Their poison was effective in its side effects but the results are an invasive surgery away. The visitation to his bladder tends to take an unkind path; as though the cancer and its’ treatment were not penance enough. Now he finds himself struggling to make the simplest of movements as he rushes toward the emergency room for time feels as though it is slipping away.

The hospital is unusually quiet today. He notices there are no ambulances under the canopies and the parking lot seems empty. The entrance way is exceptionally bright as well as it leads down a narrow hallway walled with frosted glass. There is a nurse at the end of the path waiting patiently for her patient in front of the triage desk. Strangely there are only three people sitting idly in the large and bright waiting room, each with an expression of angst, uncertainty and desperation. The nurse, dressed in white scrubs and red lipstick simply points toward the waiting room with a smile and a nod. He knows the Doctor must be coming out soon.

Walking with an ethereal gait, the extraordinarily tall and slender Doctor approaches the room wearing a long white and buttoned doctor’s coat and pressed white pants. He greets his patients with a smile and clinched hands.

“We all know why we are here don’t we?” the Doctor asks. “Which ever one of you four brings me the best offering will be healed. Those who fail, do so, for as you know, I only have the time and inclination for one. Tomorrow your presentations will be made here. Go now to the water’s edge, the captains await.”

He, the patient, did not understand. Had he not given enough to the Doctor? His tortured body, broken spirit, and dignity were only the obvious tokens he had bequeathed to this Doctor. Yet the price has not been paid? The other patients did not seem to bother with such tawdry questions. None of it mattered, all that mattered was the prize at hand and that the competition had begun.

The Offering

The elderly schooner breaks through the dense fog and a shore emerges. It is dusk now. To his left and right he can see the other three patients on their boats, each distinctly different from the next. He shares glances of guilt, pity, sadness and hopefulness with each of them; the emotions showing on his face as one would if they locked eyes with someone who had just lost someone. Three will fail. Three must fail.

Having drifted ashore over large rocks and steps, the bow of the boat flattened out making a ramp leading to newly paved asphalt roads. Each boat had its own empty road leading in the same direction. In the distance up the large and wavy hill was no longer the hospital but the Doctor’s office surrounded by a magnificent cityscape sculpted by mismatched sized skyscrapers and crafted as though it could fit in a gigantic snow globe. This is where the offering would be delivered.

In unison, the remaining souls gathered behind the throne and lifted it up onto their shoulders and began to march in a two row procession off the schooner. He quickly noticed that there was a soul missing from the middle of the procession that he now was forced to fill. Had he made a horrible miscalculation? Would the Doctor notice the error? His color, while sickly, was more vibrant than the faint oyster shell iridescence of the ghosts. Surely the Doctor would notice but what other choice did he have? The other patients were marching as well, each carrying something in the front of their procession, yet invisible to him. The scene was that of a New Orleans jazz funeral; intensely sad and heavy though awkwardly festive and beautiful. Yet he was the only patient to not be standing alone at the end of their marching party.

He was confident his offering would still be enough, regardless of ritual.

They soon reach the top of the hill and each march meets at the foot of the steps of the Doctor’s office with their invisible offerings. The office resembles the exterior grandeur of a city museum. While there were no parade goers on the street, the vast buildings were littered with strange figures cramming out of open windows for as tall as the eye could see. Their faces expressionless, yet body language showed a childlike wonder, grappling for a better look at an execution. The Doctor stands at the top of the elevation with a welcoming smile while taking in the spectacle of the event, pleased.

The Doctor motions each patient forward with their offering and gestures them into his office. A shared expression of panic and qualm waxes over the other patients as they climb up the steps, each behind their procession and the last to enter the large arched double doorway entrance. After a few moments, each patient returns outside to the landing and each with an evacuated gaze. The Doctor finally locks eyes with him and calls for him to present his offering sending unease and hope shivering down his spine.

The procession of souls begins to march up the stairs with the incomplete throne at the lead. The throne was not brought inside like the other gifts were. It was placed in the middle of the landing at the top of the steps directly in front of the Doctor and out in the open for his guests to admire. One by one the remaining souls morphed into the throne, each adding a different element and final touches to the masterpiece of his subconscious imagination. Towering over the Doctor, the throne shined with what appeared as glowing and pulsating white marble. It fluttered iridescence with every heartbeat for it was living architecture. At the top of the backrest, the helix hummed with the wisdom of the collective souls as though they would forever be guidance for its owner. It was complete, immaculate and divinely sublime. This throne was him, his shared soul with those chosen, his life experiences and combined energy from the life-forces webbed throughout his life. It was his purpose, revealed and stunning.

The Doctor leaned over and whispered to him, “It’s beautiful.” Taking a lap around the glimmering throne, the Doctor sensually caresses it as thought it were water at his finger tips. He steps forward, arms thrown to the sky to his guests and yells with rebellious and incredulous tone, “IS THIS NOT BEAUTIFUL?!” All of the guests shrilled in excitement and quickly floated out of the windows, twisting up into the overcast sky, into the raised fog still lingering from the morning. The Doctor, clearly pleased, turned back at the patient and gave a wide smile full of large white and perfectly capped teeth.

Drunk from the intoxicating vision of the moment, unease somehow penetrated him at the sight of it all. Then sobriety hit him as he thought to himself, “Why were twenty needed but only nineteen used? Why am I in the procession and the other patients were not? Am I part of my throne or is the throne made for me? What am I truly offering here?” As the last question rolled off his tongue he began to melt away, turning into a puddle much like his collection had done before creating his masterpiece.

“You prayed to be healed did you not? Healed of pain, suffering, embarrassment, burden and uselessness? I am granting you answered prayer. You have brought me the finest of offerings and I warmly accept!”

His head now nearing the floor to top off the puddle of self he has created, angst and dread fill his soul. His thoughts spoke to the Doctor one final time, “Who am I to question Your judgment, Your will? And yet, at my end, I still have questions…” The patients’ puddle flowed purposefully and split toward all six legs of the throne with his final piece, his head, solidifying the base of the left leg; his skull poking out just enough for the Doctor to rest his heel, in comfort.

Credit To – StupidDialUp

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.6/10 (116 votes cast)

This website contains fictional content that may be too scary for younger readers. Please verify that you are either at least 18 years of age or have parental permission before proceeding.