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The Waterfarmer



Estimated reading time — 7 minutes

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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31 thoughts on “The Waterfarmer”

  1. I thoroughly enjoyed this pasta. I always do when reading a piece from StupidDialUp. Your work is always a pleasure! I really enjoyed this story, the descriptions were beautiful. I enjoyed the idea of the lost souls on the sea. The lost souls remind of the fog that rolls across the ocean waves. The idea was intriguing and was executed perfectly. As always, I adore your work, and I pray your father is doing well.

  2. admittedly, I skimmed through at times…
    …Doctor Who…? that reminds me of a nightmare I had……
    ……………………………………

  3. Well. I know what I am gonna dream about tonight :/
    But seriously, good pasta and I don’t usually enjoy the detailed ones but I could totally see this Q-Q
    IT IS BEAUTIFUL!!!!

  4. I came here to see if the one you posted on Creepypasta Index wss a case of you ripping someone else of. I wouldn’t have read this otherwise.

    But I must say, I do not care much for this pasta. 7/10.

    1. Just so I’m clear, you don’t know me but you took it upon yourself to see if I was a thief, you say this is the only reason why you would read the story (no other reason given as to why you wouldn’t), and that since you felt put off that you were self-compelled to read the story, you might as well give your half cent on it?

      You are a special person LeV-Lee! Keep up the awesome sleuth detective work there buddy! I will always value your opinion on such matters from here on out.

  5. I liked this story quite a bit. I got lost, (I have a headache) and had to re-read it to reinforce what was going on. I have to agree about the over share of details, but they were necessary details, so it wasn’t a bad thing. All in all, it was creepy, and I enjoyed it a lot. Excellent story!

  6. This was really fun to read! Initially, I was getting frustrated because I didn’t understand what was going on, but as the story progressed, this not knowing helped me understand and see through the eyes of the Patient. With the twist at the end, this not knowing was perfect. I loved the descriptions of the souls and the dark and the sea. All of those were really beautiful and described just enough, in my opinion. At times, the descriptions did become somewhat overwhelming, but it was also great at times. It became really creepy to me because there was this sense of dread and confusion. It was subtle creepy, but I tend to like that. The main flaw I saw were a few sentences and sections that were overwrought, relied too heavily on passive voice, or got too caught up in the description, which made them feel out of place and messy. (“Out to sea he realizes he must go and in the horizon…” is one example of this, in my opinion). But I thought it was great! Such a different, cool story!

  7. I’m not really sure how I feel about this. It was beautifully written, but as mentioned before, a bit too descriptive. I myself became distracted and couldn’t do more than skim through it towards the end.

  8. StupidDialUp, I’ve read this and also read the several stories of yours posted on the Crappypasta firing squad. I’m not exactly sure if for some reason this story was just exceptionally better written because you had a bigger passion for it, or this was your story being groomed for the main site while the others were simply spin-offs you spent considerably less time on yet hoping they’d receive the same recognition.

    From a writer-to-writer standpoint, I find your biggest writing flaw is making a complete coherent story come together. This one succeeded because it was several in one, while the ones in Crappypasta seemed like vignettes you abandoned or scrapped that might have been included in this larger collection. It’s almost as if you grow bored with the effort it takes for a complete continuity and simply move on to the next story. It’s fine if you enjoy the abstract and making “mosaics” of separate tales, but you seem to lack a vision of the larger picture.

    I don’t mean to insult you in any way or nitpick your flaws, I just want you to know from the point of view of a fellow writer – and an amateur one at best – that your passion in the process of writing these stories seems to fade overtime and you’re impatient in moving on to the next one without proper transition or callback to the predecessor. Maybe I’m wrong, but that’s all I have to say. You’re a good writer, but it’s these things you need to break away from. If you have a certain writing style, good, but you need to stay consistent with proper writing overall.

    1. Appreciate this POV Lye. The shorter stories resting on crappy (besides “The Beach House”) were actually built for a subreddit called r/shortscarystories. There you have to draft a story with a 3-paragraph or under limit. I thoroughly enjoy writing those mostly because I like the difficulty of saying a lot in a little. I submitted them knowing that they are unorthodox from 95% of the stories posted here but I felt they fit the genre, just in a microfiction style.

      Would love to see a “micropasta” section for creepypasta.com (have to add this to the suggestion page).

      All that being said, the three sections of this story were all the same story, the timeline was just manipulated.

      Thx again for taking the time!

  9. Hey!

    First and foremost I thought that this pasta was ambitious. IMO it attempted to describe its world in a series of vignettes, where widely different shots are shown with the hope that the reader will be able to piece together the narrative thread.

    I thought this turned out mixed, to say the least. The plot details of the Faustian bargain and locations were original, which I thought exploited one of the stylistic advantages of the vignette style, namely short tantalizing pieces. There were a lot of interesting settings and plot threads which could’ve been developed further. Maybe it’s just me, but the first vignette with the waterfarmer didn’t gel very well with the other parts.

    IMO what made me stumble in this pasta was the prose. The prose seems to place a priority on descriptions and as such there are a lot of long, drawn out scenes. There were some good ones (such as the description of the throne), but I thought a lot of them dragged on and interrupted the flow of the plot.

    The descriptions themselves seem a tad hit and miss. While it offered very tantalizing glimpses of the world (I liked the waterfarmer’s reaping of souls), I thought it was belabored at parts, drawing forced analogies. The dialogue was also a bit forced, maybe aiming for grandeur but coming up short. I felt that the characters could’ve been developed further – the titular waterfarmer especially, but the patient’s predicament to me was quite well-described.

    Overall, an interesting, description heavy pasta that was weighed down a bit. 6.8/10

    1. Great critique Sepia. Most appreciated. Went description heavy purposefully as an attempt to use it to drive the plot (as you pointed out by the comment about the “forced analogies”). Like you said, it was AMBITIOUS…and a heavy read :) Appreciate your time.

      1. It was rather descriptionheavy but that’s not a fault at all ^_^ Just try to find the parts you want to accentuate the most.

        I agree with the people who said that it got a bit exhausting at times, IMO because you didn’t seem to know which bits to focus on description-wise and it sort of became full of things that had to be sifted through in order to get to the plot (which, as you mentioned, was also in the descriptions).

        Also I’d have to agree with Len Lye. Your vignettes need smoother and clearer transitions.

        Other than that, I really think it’s worth developing your own style like this, since it’s pretty unique. Good luck!

        PS My fav vignette: ‘The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door…’ (short, sharp and ambiguously creepy)

  10. Not bad. It was very descriptive….almost too descriptive and that became somewhat exhausting to read (for me)

  11. Look forward to the honest critiques out there by the ole creepypasta.com faithful! After a handful of my shorter submissions landing on crappypasta, I’m excited to finally tickled derpbutt’s fancy! Thanks for the opportunity.

    A little background on the story: the concept originated from a dream my father had while he was going through chemo for bladder cancer (he’s in remission, so that rocks). I found that his imagery of the hospital and much of the imagery of the ship/souls/throne scenes really was his minds way of dealing with the insecurities that come with treatment and cancer. From those elements I just went “dream interpreter” on it and I felt it made a pretty surreal and honest piece.

    Hope you all enjoy and even if you don’t, thanks for reading!

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