Post by Rojo on Sept 27, 2009 16:06:25 GMT -5
((Well, because I haven't posted anything in a while and I'm sure you've all recovered from your grievous injuries from reading the last thing I wrote, here is a one-shot story I came up with while I was thinking about ANOTHER story I'll be writing which will probably be up soon (with accompanying artwork because I want to harm your eyes even further) so without further adieu, prepare to have to book laser eye surgery!))
There Goes The Neighbourhood
Henry Fourths was a good, gods-fearing man. He said his prayers every night, he went to Church every Tuesday, he always washed his hands after using the toilet, he made sure never to use contraceptives and always thanked the gods for the things he had. So it was on a cold, misty night in Octovre that he found it most alarming when he looked out of the window of the small cottage he lived in to see a figure shambling around in the darkness.
Now, being as gods-fearing as he was, Henry assumed from the guttural moaning emanating from the creature that it was one of the living dead. A wraith, an obstruction of the laws of nature and should not be. He watched it for a while, shambling around the small cobbled path that ran past the house. It seemed to be ambling aimlessly, not moving on nor stopping. The first thought that came to Henry’s head was as to why the creature was all the way out in the middle of nowhere. The cottage was secluded, built in a field in the countryside. The nearest city was on the other side of the mountains. But regardless, this was a test from the gods. He knew what he must do.
Rushing through the little cottage and out into the garden where his wife Mary and children Ted and Roma were sitting on a bench together. Mary was teaching them the names of all the different stars in the sky and it still made Henry’s heart melt to see his loving and tender wife with the two twin boys. But the feeling disappeared as he remembered the lurching thing on the road. Mary looked up as he approached, smiling warmly. The children followed suit, waving despite their close proximity.
“Listen, Mary, take the children and go up to the old church in Hawthorn; wait for me there,” Henry reeled off hurriedly, looking shifty.
“Henry, whatever is the matter?” His wife replied, concern edging into her face.
“Just trust me, my love, there is something out in the road not of this world,” he looked deadly serious. Mary’s gaze lingered on him for a few seconds more before scooping up the two completely confused boys in her arms and making for the back gate. Henry watched his two son’s bemused faces disappear into the mist as the gate that lead onto the hills shut.
Henry stared at the gate for a few moments, hoping some wandering Paladin would charge through it on his mighty steed, ready to destroy the foul thing out on the road. But alas, no such holy saviour appeared and Henry turned back to the cottage, heart in his throat.
He looked out of the front window again to check and sure enough he could still see the dark outline of a person-ish thing out there, but now stood stock still and it appeared to be holding something. Henry rushed to the fireplace where the family’s cat Jaspers slept like a big, overgrown black pile of hair. The cat raised a sleepy head as Henry swept past, hands extending to the heavy sword over the mantelpiece. Henry took the old sword down, staggering at its weight and collapsing into a chair with the blade on his lap. He looked at it, noticing the old chips and nicks along the blade. It was dull and had lost its shine. A taxidermist has little need for such an item. It had belonged to his father, and his father’s father and his father’s father’s father and possibly further back than he could remember. Apparently his great-granddad had been something of a Hero who fought monsters as their sort do.
Personally, Henry couldn’t stand those sorts of people. Big-headed, self-centred fellows who thought the world owed them a medal just because they could swing a sharp piece of metal around and chop big things that go ‘roar’ into small pieces. But Henry was suddenly feeling warmer towards his great-granddad for being one of those Hero-types and leaving him eventually as owner of the sword he now held.
He checked the window again as he flew past and what he saw nearly stopped his heart. Now the figure was moving slowly but surely up the hill towards his house one shambling footstep at a time. There was no time to lose. Henry shot across the small room to the shrine in-between the bed and the boys’ cot. It was to Valer, the god of the sun and keeper of peace. He reached forward and took the stone carving of the god’s avatar (a sun dominated by one large eye) and muttered an apology as he did so.
With heavy feet, Henry moved to the front door. The sword in his left hand felt heavy and cumbersome but the symbol in his right gave him hope and a tiny feeling of safety. He closed his eyes, wishing this was all a dream and he would wake up in two seconds in his bed with the smell of roasting bacon coming from the fireplace. But once again, his hopes were dashed as he opened his eyes to reveal his old, oak front door reinforced with iron.
He was afraid to die. Afraid that he had done something wrong and he would die without the favour of the gods and would be sent to the Underworld forever more to serve the Dark Gods in their sick wishes. What happened next is rather debateable. Henry himself likes to believe it was a Valer himself, guiding his hand, some like to say it was the heroic blood in him while others simply say it’s because he didn’t want to get urine on his floor.
Henry lifted the latch from the door and opened it, stepping into the night.
He was met by a biting cold air, wishing he had asked his wife to take a coat with her. The mist fogged most of the hills and he was suddenly worried of what danger he had sent his family into but the symbol in his hand reassured him once again. Valer would keep his family safe. He turned his attention to the evil creature that was now so close he could almost smell the rotting flesh.
The skin was pale and greening. Its clothes were ragged and torn. It held in one hand a folded piece of paper and in the other something Henry couldn’t see. His heart was racing and his eyes felt as if they were trying to pop out of his skull. He raised the sword.
“BEGONE, FOUL BEAST!” He shrieked in a high voice, waving the symbol of Valer around like his arm was a windmill.
The creature stopped. Henry paused.
“Excuse me?” It said. Something in the back of Henry’s head told him that the living dead were on no terms supposed to talk.
“Erm...” Henry tried “sorry there, I thought you were a...a zombie...” he finished rather lamely.
The figure smiled brightly, chuckling.
“Oh that’s quite alright,” he said, reassuring Henry and lifting an invisible weight from his chest “because I am.” He half turned to show Henry his back from which a knife hilt “I’d pull it out but I can’t seem to reach...”
Henry’s face drained of colour and the invisible weight on his chest returned with immense enthusiasm for its job.
“This is the Fourths Cottage, isn’t it?” The zombie asked, looking around. He unfolded the piece of paper, revealing it to be a map. He looked at it sceptically before folding it up again. Henry nodded numbly. His brain had simply denied any of this was happening. It was so impossible now that his mind had assumed the perspective one has when they realise they are in a dream but decide to play along anyway. “Ah, good. I’m Mr Wellsby,” said the zombie, extending a greening hand.
Henry looked dumbly at the hand as if it were in fact something covered in oil and oozing. Mr Wellsby’s smile faltered but he tried to keep things friendly.
“Well, I’ve just moved into the old tomb in the old forest on the other side of the road,” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder (the nail of said thumb dropped off from the force of the gesticulation and disappeared into the fog) “and I was just baking a cake when I realised I haven’t any sugar!” He tried to perform one of those fake little laughs people engaging in small talk to act like the joke they’ve just heard is funny and instead coughed up three teeth “so I thought I might come over and meet the neighbours and ask for a cup of sugar,” Mr Wellsby held up a the other object in his hand which turned out to be a mug with an illustration of a baby holding onto a washing line above a ravenous-looking zombie with the words ‘HANG IN THERE, BABY’ written in cheesy font underneath. Wellsby smiled awkwardly.
There was a pause.
Then another pause.
Soon enough the pause became so long that the blood in Mr Wellsby’s wound had begone to congeal. He cast around for something to say to his neighbour, who was staring at him as if he had three heads and came from the planet Quog.
“I say there, why are you holding a sword?”
Henry Fourths fainted.
There Goes The Neighbourhood
Henry Fourths was a good, gods-fearing man. He said his prayers every night, he went to Church every Tuesday, he always washed his hands after using the toilet, he made sure never to use contraceptives and always thanked the gods for the things he had. So it was on a cold, misty night in Octovre that he found it most alarming when he looked out of the window of the small cottage he lived in to see a figure shambling around in the darkness.
Now, being as gods-fearing as he was, Henry assumed from the guttural moaning emanating from the creature that it was one of the living dead. A wraith, an obstruction of the laws of nature and should not be. He watched it for a while, shambling around the small cobbled path that ran past the house. It seemed to be ambling aimlessly, not moving on nor stopping. The first thought that came to Henry’s head was as to why the creature was all the way out in the middle of nowhere. The cottage was secluded, built in a field in the countryside. The nearest city was on the other side of the mountains. But regardless, this was a test from the gods. He knew what he must do.
Rushing through the little cottage and out into the garden where his wife Mary and children Ted and Roma were sitting on a bench together. Mary was teaching them the names of all the different stars in the sky and it still made Henry’s heart melt to see his loving and tender wife with the two twin boys. But the feeling disappeared as he remembered the lurching thing on the road. Mary looked up as he approached, smiling warmly. The children followed suit, waving despite their close proximity.
“Listen, Mary, take the children and go up to the old church in Hawthorn; wait for me there,” Henry reeled off hurriedly, looking shifty.
“Henry, whatever is the matter?” His wife replied, concern edging into her face.
“Just trust me, my love, there is something out in the road not of this world,” he looked deadly serious. Mary’s gaze lingered on him for a few seconds more before scooping up the two completely confused boys in her arms and making for the back gate. Henry watched his two son’s bemused faces disappear into the mist as the gate that lead onto the hills shut.
Henry stared at the gate for a few moments, hoping some wandering Paladin would charge through it on his mighty steed, ready to destroy the foul thing out on the road. But alas, no such holy saviour appeared and Henry turned back to the cottage, heart in his throat.
He looked out of the front window again to check and sure enough he could still see the dark outline of a person-ish thing out there, but now stood stock still and it appeared to be holding something. Henry rushed to the fireplace where the family’s cat Jaspers slept like a big, overgrown black pile of hair. The cat raised a sleepy head as Henry swept past, hands extending to the heavy sword over the mantelpiece. Henry took the old sword down, staggering at its weight and collapsing into a chair with the blade on his lap. He looked at it, noticing the old chips and nicks along the blade. It was dull and had lost its shine. A taxidermist has little need for such an item. It had belonged to his father, and his father’s father and his father’s father’s father and possibly further back than he could remember. Apparently his great-granddad had been something of a Hero who fought monsters as their sort do.
Personally, Henry couldn’t stand those sorts of people. Big-headed, self-centred fellows who thought the world owed them a medal just because they could swing a sharp piece of metal around and chop big things that go ‘roar’ into small pieces. But Henry was suddenly feeling warmer towards his great-granddad for being one of those Hero-types and leaving him eventually as owner of the sword he now held.
He checked the window again as he flew past and what he saw nearly stopped his heart. Now the figure was moving slowly but surely up the hill towards his house one shambling footstep at a time. There was no time to lose. Henry shot across the small room to the shrine in-between the bed and the boys’ cot. It was to Valer, the god of the sun and keeper of peace. He reached forward and took the stone carving of the god’s avatar (a sun dominated by one large eye) and muttered an apology as he did so.
With heavy feet, Henry moved to the front door. The sword in his left hand felt heavy and cumbersome but the symbol in his right gave him hope and a tiny feeling of safety. He closed his eyes, wishing this was all a dream and he would wake up in two seconds in his bed with the smell of roasting bacon coming from the fireplace. But once again, his hopes were dashed as he opened his eyes to reveal his old, oak front door reinforced with iron.
He was afraid to die. Afraid that he had done something wrong and he would die without the favour of the gods and would be sent to the Underworld forever more to serve the Dark Gods in their sick wishes. What happened next is rather debateable. Henry himself likes to believe it was a Valer himself, guiding his hand, some like to say it was the heroic blood in him while others simply say it’s because he didn’t want to get urine on his floor.
Henry lifted the latch from the door and opened it, stepping into the night.
He was met by a biting cold air, wishing he had asked his wife to take a coat with her. The mist fogged most of the hills and he was suddenly worried of what danger he had sent his family into but the symbol in his hand reassured him once again. Valer would keep his family safe. He turned his attention to the evil creature that was now so close he could almost smell the rotting flesh.
The skin was pale and greening. Its clothes were ragged and torn. It held in one hand a folded piece of paper and in the other something Henry couldn’t see. His heart was racing and his eyes felt as if they were trying to pop out of his skull. He raised the sword.
“BEGONE, FOUL BEAST!” He shrieked in a high voice, waving the symbol of Valer around like his arm was a windmill.
The creature stopped. Henry paused.
“Excuse me?” It said. Something in the back of Henry’s head told him that the living dead were on no terms supposed to talk.
“Erm...” Henry tried “sorry there, I thought you were a...a zombie...” he finished rather lamely.
The figure smiled brightly, chuckling.
“Oh that’s quite alright,” he said, reassuring Henry and lifting an invisible weight from his chest “because I am.” He half turned to show Henry his back from which a knife hilt “I’d pull it out but I can’t seem to reach...”
Henry’s face drained of colour and the invisible weight on his chest returned with immense enthusiasm for its job.
“This is the Fourths Cottage, isn’t it?” The zombie asked, looking around. He unfolded the piece of paper, revealing it to be a map. He looked at it sceptically before folding it up again. Henry nodded numbly. His brain had simply denied any of this was happening. It was so impossible now that his mind had assumed the perspective one has when they realise they are in a dream but decide to play along anyway. “Ah, good. I’m Mr Wellsby,” said the zombie, extending a greening hand.
Henry looked dumbly at the hand as if it were in fact something covered in oil and oozing. Mr Wellsby’s smile faltered but he tried to keep things friendly.
“Well, I’ve just moved into the old tomb in the old forest on the other side of the road,” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder (the nail of said thumb dropped off from the force of the gesticulation and disappeared into the fog) “and I was just baking a cake when I realised I haven’t any sugar!” He tried to perform one of those fake little laughs people engaging in small talk to act like the joke they’ve just heard is funny and instead coughed up three teeth “so I thought I might come over and meet the neighbours and ask for a cup of sugar,” Mr Wellsby held up a the other object in his hand which turned out to be a mug with an illustration of a baby holding onto a washing line above a ravenous-looking zombie with the words ‘HANG IN THERE, BABY’ written in cheesy font underneath. Wellsby smiled awkwardly.
There was a pause.
Then another pause.
Soon enough the pause became so long that the blood in Mr Wellsby’s wound had begone to congeal. He cast around for something to say to his neighbour, who was staring at him as if he had three heads and came from the planet Quog.
“I say there, why are you holding a sword?”
Henry Fourths fainted.
