Saturday, June 05, 2004

A Nice Bit of Genre Terrorism of a Saturday Evening

Skinning his knees on the gravel as he fell, Iosaiph realised that he had strayed into a horror story. The blood, lying innocuous on the path bore witness. Because of certain events in the past, he had not shed blood for a good while. The only question that now remained was whether he was protagonist or antagonist, for of his monstrosity there was no doubt.

He was not a short man, but neither was he tall. Shaking off the remnants of a folk song that had entangled itself around his left ankle, the scarred man raised himselfto his true, unnatural height, and sniffed the air. There would be difficulties further along, he foresaw, but with a bit of skill it would come to a satisfactory conclusion.
In the bushes, something nameless and hairy breathed subtle-toothed threats of unspeakable degradations, and so the man moved on swiftly. As he was not in the moood just then.
The trees about were the sepia monochrome of twenty-year-old newspaper, and all the branches pointed in the same direction.
This was to be expected.
What was more, at the end of the path, just visible in the distance, squatted a shadowy construction, simultaneously nebulous and disconcertingly solid. It was quite clearly a house, devoid of ambiguity, and probably filled with gibbous, scabious tebleaux devised by a being devoidof restraint, or, indeed, dictionary.

Something followed behind.

Something Else waited ahead.

Everything was going according to plan.

Iosaiph smiled, and teeth sharper than any teeth had a right to be glinted between lips like twin gashes on the back of a voluptuary. His goal was near. Behind his eyes, an inchoate sigil of depravity and violence churned ,and most likely chittered as well. He walked faster now, through the pain and the silent-grey wood. There was a shadow on the path ahead.

The shadow blocked his way.

"You shall not pass", it shrieked from its gibbet, but a with word from the unkempt and magnificent being before it, the thing shattered into wholeness and flapped off to haunt some other beknighted genre.

The man breathed heavily. Things were moving almost too fast for his splintered manipulations. Feigning mortal terror, he glanced over his shouilder occasionally as he jogged from the maw of the forest to the waiting wings and anticipatory arms of the dark house, all the while trying to ignore the blood streaming from the cuts on his knees.

At the door, hunter and prey paused, picked up a half-brick lying in the ruins of the porch, and nonchalently opened the door with a finesse of duress.

When the horror came for him, pseudopodia and jewellery of infant mortality jangling-

-Iosaiph hit it unexpectedly hard with the aforesaid bit of masonry, hurled its oozing, eerie corpse into the shrubbery, and escaped though the door into the house, beyond the story.

It had all gone rather well, considering.


At 10:37 pm, Blogger Sable X. Veins said...

Perhaps next time Iosaiph could wander into a satirical short story?


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