Don't Forget To Knit Awesome!

Knitting our collective way out of a paper bag since 2011

Archive for the category “Fiction STITCHES!”

The House That Death Built.

Some of my greatest stories come to me either in my sleep or in the fugue state on either end of it.  Such as this one from the other night….

A man, though just barely in age and experience, walked on his own down a dark road one night.  He had set out from his family’s humble home in order to build a life which would make his parents proud.  The previous winter, his father had passed from the flu and his mother of a broken heart, leaving the house to his elder sister and himself.  He had signed over his portion in exchange for support on his quest.  Days he had walked until he found a road which no one passed him on, and this night he would find a plot of land to claim as his own.  And on this night, he would be watched by a dark figure, hidden amongst the abandoned orchard and overgrown path of an old mansions grounds.

The next morning he woke, and set out into the trees to gather wood.  He fell three trees before the wind shifted and the fourth fell upon him.  He laid in pain for hours, calling uselessly for help, until the dark figured approached.  “I am Death, I am the Reaper.  I have come for you.  Take my hand so I that I may relieve you of all your burdens and weights, and whisk you away unto the afterlife.”

The man was taken aback, but not afraid.  He looked at Death and asked “Who gave you the right to decide that?  My weights and burdens are mine, for I choose them willingly.  If you want to deliver relief, remove this tree from atop me and mend my wounds.  I will gladly meet you later when I have accomplished what I have set out to do.”

“You are not the first to bargain with me, and you won’t be the last.  I am immutable and unstoppable.  You can come willingly or fight, but you will come with me,” Death replied, in a bored tone. He reached out his hand and waited patiently for the man to make his choice.

“I am not coming at all.  I instead challenge you to a game.  If you win, then you take me, if I win, then I am your master.  I believe that’s how the rules go, correct?”

Again bored, Death replied, “That is how they go.  What game do you wish to play?  Chess?  Poker? Hurling?  Maybe a round of caber tossing?  I have played them all, and won.  No one is my master, save for fate.”

The man replied, “Life.  I challenge you to live a life in which you win, you succeed, and in measure against mine, you are declared a winner.  You and I will judge, and fate will be our third.  Agreed?”

Intrigued, Death agreed.  He knew it was ridiculous, but he relished a new experience.   Death only experienced new things when mankind came up with new ways to kill each other and themselves.  He sat next to the man and discussed the rules with him at length.  If they had not been in a frozen moment, weeks would have passed.  The more they discussed, the less Death understood, and that terrified him.  He wanted to back out, but a forfeit is a loss, and he must not lose.  Finally, the man broached the subject of the tree again.

“So, we’ve discussed the rules and what one must do.  However, I am still under a tree.  Are you going to help me?”

“No, that would be helping you win.”

“But a man, for that is what you are to play as, who will only help others when it helps himself is a man who has lost at life, has lost something more important than life.”

Death nodded, and reluctantly removed the tree from his opponent.  He tended to his wounds, letting him heal in the froze moment before letting time continue.  The world around them resumed, and the man told death of his plans to build himself a farm.  Death laughed and pointed to the dilapidated mansion behind the trees and remarked, “That is where I will live, for it is already built and much larger than anything you can assemble.  I am ahead already!”

With that, Death tried to float through the woods.  He was horrified to find that he was now in possession of a human body and none of his powers.  He had dark black hair, and deep green eyes.  The skin on his body was as pale as his bones had been, but were markedly more squishy. His only attire were his robes, which he held around himself to keep out the early autumn’s chill.  Still assured of his impending victory, he rushed off to the dark mansion to live his life.

The man, however, continued his task, though much more carefully, and had fell half a dozen trees and made himself a lean-to by nightfall.  For the next 5 weeks, the man went about building himself a humble home, one room big, with the necessities.  Death laughed from his dark abode, striding around and the second of three floors.  He would have laughed from the third, but the roof had collapsed and rotted out the majority of the top floor.

The very next day after finishing the house, the man set about tilling the land for his crops.  Upon seeing this, Death came over and demanded to know what the man was doing.  “I am tilling the earth in order to grown crops.  I intend to become self sufficient, and eventually, have extra to barter and sell.  I will then buy some animals, and make myself a living off my land.”

Death was confused, “Why do this when you can go an easier route and work for another?  I will get a job in the village and fix my house up.  Then  I will eat only the most luxurious foods and drink the most decadent liquids.  I will win this yet!”  With that, he ran off to the nearest village.  Weeks went by as he searched for employment, but he found some.  He used his first wages to buy a wardrobe, the next to eat, the next to his mansion, then repeated.

Soon, a year had passed.  The man had two successful crops, and a disappointing third.  For this winter, he was living off his stored foods.  He started offering his services and skills he had from making his life to others in exchange for food, furs, and future assistance.  Death continued to live life lavishly.  His mansion was complete, he was full every night, and he worked a shorter day than his opponent.  Eventually, a large blizzard hit. In the weeks before, the man had gathered food and wood, while Death had continued on as normal.  Late into the hours of the second week,  Death was out of stores.  He strapped on a cloak, and over that put in dark robes, and ventured to the man’s house.

When he knocked upon the door, the man let him in.  He fed him in silence, for Death glared about him with the anger of one with naught but wounded pride.  After he ate, he returned to his mansion in silence.  The next day, he refused himself the act of approaching the man again, choosing instead to hunt.  He tracked a hare, snared it, and brought it home.  Laughing, he ate only the finest part.  Smugly, he bundled up the organs and bones in the pelt, and gifted it to the man.  Dripping with sickly sweet contempt, he told the the man “Thank you for helping me.  I give you these things so we’re even.”  He left and soon the blizzard ended.

Years passed in this, or a similar, manner.  Eventually, the man had a large farm with dozens of animals.  He had food for himself and food to sell. He bartered for utilitarian clothing and quality tools.  He even found a woman to court.  Death mirrored the man’s successes in his field.  He climbed the ladder, soon becoming a vicious middle manager, pushing his underlings as hard as the man pushed himself.  His house had unused rooms in which he kept unused items.  Death kept himself in the highest of fashions.  He even afforded himself three servants.

One day, the man ran into Death in town as he was leaving his job.  The man greeted Death as an old friend, and Death regarded him as unworthy of his attention.  The did converse, however, and the man remarked on his love for another, and Death laughed, telling the man he could have any woman he so choose.  In fact,by the night’s end. Death would steal the man’s interest right out form under him.  The man did not take kindly to this, and warned Death off it.  The parted ways shortly thereafter.

The man returned to his farm for a bit, getting his affairs in order, bathing, and putting on clean clothes.  Death chose to buy a new suit and get professionally groomed in town.  He  hunted for and found the woman and approached her.  He immediately let her know of his intention to possess her, causing her to walk away from him without so much as a syllable uttered on her part.  Offended, he hounded her until the man arrived.  Then, throughout the night, he followed them and insulted the man, pursuing the woman after she was interested.  Eventually, the man had to strike Death, the first time Death had experienced such, in order to get him to leave.  The man laid Death out, and Death was offended.

Weeks later, Death married a woman he deemed to be superior to the woman the man had grown to love, for she appreciated Death’s status and finances.  He threw a lavish wedding and invited everyone in the village and surrounding lands.  The man and woman choose not to attend, instead taking the time to expand the house by three bedrooms and a dining room.  Later that year, the man and woman married in a quiet ceremony.  A year and a half later, the had the first of two children.

The game of life continued like much like this for the next few decades, until both Death and the man were elderly.  Death had his third trophy wife on his arm, and had disregarded any threat of the man winning long ago.  The man eventually cashed in his many favors and bought large lots of land, hiring locals and new arrivals to tend them.  Unbeknownst to Death, the man rivalled his wealth.  The didn’t speak anymore.  They hardly ever saw each other.  The man worked his long hours on his farm, and Death worked his hours, and made his underlings work longer hours, in the village.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Death lost it all.  He fell ill, for he didn’t take pride in his health, but in his lavishness.  He wasn’t able to continue to work, and his wife left with one of his employees.  He was fired, and ran out of money.  He soon sold all his things just to eat.  He forgot of the winter the man had helped him.  He instead focused all his hatred on his old foe.  Everything was the man’s fault, he decided.  He told himself that the woman was instead his true love, and the children should be his.  He spent his days as a miser, his house falling apart around him.

Eventually, he decided the man must die, so this game would stop.  He snuck to the farm one night, intent and murdering the man.  He was happy to kill, for he missed it.  He startled the man’s sheep, causing the man to come check on them.  He attacked him from behind, and the moment froze.  Both Death and the man stood, now facing each other, as fate sat passively off to the side.  In this moment, Death knew that he lost.  He railed against it, citing his achievements and all that he had once owned, blaming the man for all his ill will.  Fate held up a hand and silenced him, turning to the man.

The man spoke.  “I knew I would win the moment I asked for the game, old friend.  For you, you have no humanity.  You weren’t raised or taught.  You fought against empathy when I asked for it.  And because of that, you had only the ambition to win, not to succeed or learn or love.  Not even to live.”

“I cheated, because I knew the deck would be stacked in my favor from day one.  And I don’t regret it.  Because I have lived a great happy life, and left my children more than what was left for me.  I loved my fullest, and improved the lives of those around me.  I stood up for my beliefs.  I had no need for humility or piousness, for I was a good man regardless. I saved your life, though I knew you hated me, and granted you mercy on more than one occasion.  I cheated, yes, but because I worked smarter and harder than you.  I did not violate any rules. But I am glad for your company, for I used you a yardstick to measure my work.  If you worked 8 hours, I would work 16.  The silent competition guided me until love took the reigns.”

“However, know this,  I hated you as you hate me.  You dared to try to take my life from me before it was lived, as you took my parents from me in a single winter.  And I wanted you to suffer that which we, us mere mortals, have to.  And that was the sweetest part.  Because you choose to not only suffer, but to miss the point entirely.  you had to experiences, only possessions.  You had no joy, only addictions.  No love, only trophies.  Go ahead with your duties now.  Resume your calling as the Reaper, knowing that that it’s only a rare few that were at any point more miserable that you are right now.  I have brought upon the world a justice none thought could ever exist, and for that alone, I win at life.”

Fate nodded, then turned to Death.  Death struck out angrily at the man, only to see himself as he was so long ago, a skeleton in a dark cloak, clutching a scythe.  He swung it angrily at the man, but it bounced off.  Fate had bestowed Death his true identity, but he had given the man a new identity as well.  The man now represented Hope.  To his family, he has passed quietly in the night, falling asleep watching over his hearth and home after checking on the sheep.  But he stayed with them.  Hope never truly leaves a person it has touched, not even in Death.  For Hope is clever, devious, relentless, without rival, and hard to beat. It had no use for anything other than what one needs it for.

Death quickly forgot of his emotions from that game.  Because, after everything, Death relieves one of their burdens and weights.  Even those of Death itself.

————-

This was a weird one to have rattling around in my head.  It occurred in land in which technology had existed long ago, but humanity had left it behind.  There just wasn’t a point of telling you that in the story.  This land is ruled over by many deities and their many, various servants.  Death was one of many Reapers, and the man became one of many Hopes.  And he was able to spend the afterlife with his family as well.

Hope you guys enjoyed that.  I have a couple other posts I’m working on, as well as the ever present previously mentioned projects.  Some of those should appear in the next few days, provided nothing derails them.

Have a good time waiting on me,

GL

That last story entry again.

I am reposting the last entry in order to get everyone, including myself, caught up/ reminded of where we’re at.

 

This room, guys.  It had dozens of shelves, some as high as 20 feet tall.  The shelves were as eclectic as the books filling them.  As I walked around, utterly enthralled,  I saw titles in a hundred languages.  The titles I could read dealt with subjects from Anthropology, to theoretical economic implications of Zoltron.  I flipped through various books in languages I couldn’t read, and they had wonderful diagrams.  Diagrams that would look amazing on the wall of an sort of building.  As I reached for my phone to get a picture of a particularly fantastic one, I relaized I had left my phone behind.  Which, in turn, reminded me that I wasn’t chilling in an awesome room.  I remembered that I was, in fact, running for my life.

I rushed back to the door, and hey, there’s no knob.  The door didn’t open from the inside.  And that’s super frightening.  This wasn’t a bedroom, it was a prison.  A really comfy and pretty one, but a prison without windows or a bathroom.  So, naturally, I trapped myself inside it.   And yet, I was drawn back to the books.  I did a kind of emotional shrug, and went back to the shelves.  I browsed for a bit, to find the most interesting English book.  When I found it, I pulled it, sat on the bed, and read.

I read deeply.  I had always done that.  My entire life, I was able to fall deeply into anything with pages.  Before I learned to read, I flip through art and architecture books.  I’d wistfully admire the brushstrokes and brick facades.  Eventually, I learned to read.  Everything.  Pamphlets, catalogs, books, magazines, and comics.  Textbooks, I didn’t do homework, but I’d read the whole damn thing.

Then suddenly, I heard the screech of tires.  And I was 17 again.  And everyone around me was covered in blood.  Why was I at prom again?

Okay. More story.

This room, guys.  It had dozens of shelves, some as high as 20 feet tall.  The shelves were as eclectic as the books filling them.  As I walked around, utterly enthralled,  I saw titles in a hundred languages.  The titles I could read dealt with subjects from Anthropology, to theoretical economic implications of Zoltron.  I flipped through various books in languages I couldn’t read, and they had wonderful diagrams.  Diagrams that would look amazing on the wall of an sort of building.  As I reached for my phone to get a picture of a particularly fantastic one, I relaized I had left my phone behind.  Which, in turn, reminded me that I wasn’t chilling in an awesome room.  I remembered that I was, in fact, running for my life.

I rushed back to the door, and hey, there’s no knob.  The door didn’t open from the inside.  And that’s super frightening.  This wasn’t a bedroom, it was a prison.  A really comfy and pretty one, but a prison without windows or a bathroom.  So, naturally, I trapped myself inside it.   And yet, I was drawn back to the books.  I did a kind of emotional shrug, and went back to the shelves.  I browsed for a bit, to find the most interesting English book.  When I found it, I pulled it, sat on the bed, and read.

I read deeply.  I had always done that.  My entire life, I was able to fall deeply into anything with pages.  Before I learned to read, I flip through art and architecture books.  I’d wistfully admire the brushstrokes and brick facades.  Eventually, I learned to read.  Everything.  Pamphlets, catalogs, books, magazines, and comics.  Textbooks, I didn’t do homework, but I’d read the whole damn thing.

Then suddenly, I heard the screech of tires.  And I was 17 again.  And everyone around me was covered in blood.  Why was I at prom again?

100 rows a day? Isn’t that spelled “Masochism?” Probably

Starting this sweater over. Pretty excited about it.

So, yeah,  I’m setting the goal of a hundred rows a day on every project I start.  From now until the end of time.  Because I’ve noticed that if I count towards a goal, I knit a whole lot faster.  And right now, to keep myself from going insane, I’m going to redo this sweater that I accidentally knitted for a really fat giant (Gauge is so freaking important.)  However, I’m well aware that if every submissions I submit gets accepted, I’m going to be lucky if this is a birthday present to myself. My birthday being in October, as a hint to how long I’m projecting for this to take.

I don’t have so much xmas knitting this year.  However, I literally just remembered two dice bags I have to make…. That just doubles, or triples my project.  Depending on how Ms. Jasmine decides on the thing I pitched at her when she was here.  In those regards, text me you Oregon hording sloth.

Don't I have the most beautiful, soulless blue eyes?

 

That’s the final outcome of a biking mask I made last year.  It’s premiering here before FB,  so feel special.  The black is a OOAK cashmere yarn called “carbon fiber”  so I had to own it.   The red is from a friend, the tiny bit of green at the bottom is from some slippers I made.  The white and bright green are from Australia, from a knitting/comic swap.  It’s really just the best thing for biking at high speeds in cold weather.  I rarely get to use in here in AZ, but when I do, it’s the best thing ever.  Someday, when I move to a super cold and wet place, I”m going to rock this so often.  You don’t even know.

Alrighty, I have to go scan some thing, and then finish up a submission.  I don’t know if this one is going to be accepted, as it’s way more complicated than everything else they have on their site, but it’s certainly worth the try.

Excitedly,

GL Blumenshine

Longer story post because I’ve been shortchanging the story posts.

Wandering further into the old timey cobblestone hallway, I was reminded of the time that I got lost in a cave as a kid.  It was the first of this kind of experience for me.  A journey into a cramped space, my insides feeling like inky, ill darkness is slowly dissolving my organs.  Except for my brain.  My brain tells me to move forward, faster, as if the freedom, were the only real threat.  And, both times, I’ve soldiered on.  Further.

The cave was a small hole in the side of a small mountain.  It went on about six hundred yards, and then forked into a branch that went upward, and a another that led down into the mountain.  The base of the mountain, as they would say in fantasy books.  The upper branch lead through the mountain, then double backed on itself to the same branch.  It was a common hiking spot where I was from.  The outdoorsy soccer moms and business dads would take the kids from the park at the base up and back.  It was a good hike, unless you wanted a challenge.

The bottom path was off limits, due to the frightening amount of sudden holes and the lack light.  There were a dozen deaths every few decades as people hoped the barricade on a dare, or drunk, and fell down a hole, or tumbled down the slope itself.  The barricade got longer and taller each time.  As a child, I heard stories of satanic cults and fae love fests taking place deep in the bowls of the cave.  A kid had disappeared when I was 9 years old, taken by an estranged parent and returned within a month, but the rumors were so pervasive that the police opened the cave up and sent in professionals, only to find dozens of dead animals, yards of graffiti, and no child.  However, they did find a whole new branch.

Two years later, I was running away from, not for the first or last time, and decided to live in the very bottom of the cave.  I was going to live like Gollum, and kill people who wanted my precious.  I got up the mountainside purely on anger.  I had left without shoes, or a coat.  It was a winter night, less than a week before the first snowfall, less than a month from the first blizzard.  I was cold, until I was numb.  Eventually, I reached the cave entrance, and suddenly, I was warm.  Not enough to stop my shivering, but there was definitely heat coming from the cave.

It was at that moment that the feeling, the black sickness and running thoughts took hold.  I ventured far into the cave that night, and I’m still not really able recall how I did it.  I didn’t have a light, but I got all the way to the newer path found by the rescue cave guys, and there I saw a flicker light, as if from a fire.  I just knew that down this path was the secret to me becoming the horrid cave creature I had to be to spite my parents.  That would show them for… whatever it was that they had not let me do.

“Excuse me.  If we could move, we’d probably escape faster.”  Hemingway said in a short clip.  My revere seemed to have pissed him off.  Understandable, as I was standing there staring off into space while this animated granite gargoyle was saving me from a raver priest who roofied me.  This was weird night.  I really hadn’t even begun though.

Story Story Story.

Seriously, a gargoyle from the roof of a abandoned church was beckoning me from across a crowded rave held inside said abandoned church.  And I, now, am completely sure there wasn’t any drugs in my system that caused hallucinations.   At the time though, I assumed giants could juggle with the balls I was tripping.  Covered in the rubbed off paint and with my shirt wrapped around my head lie a balaclava, I made my way across the room.  Suddenly, I was oblivious to the danger I was just in, and very well could have been still in, and slid next to this green granite fellow.

I cleared my throat and had nothing to say.  Panicked, I ran over all my date moves in my mind.  Maybe I could yawn and put my arm around him.  Wait, no, not the goal here.  Actually, what was my goal?  I really had no concept of what to do, so I just turned and looked the gargoyle in the eye.  “Hemingway,” he intoned, “now, be still and silent.  Look wasted.  They’re searching inside for you.”

Nodding,  I bent my knees and swayed.  I clap my hands a beat and a half off whatever we were listening to, and bobbed my head.  As a goon in suit walked by, I spun around with a high pitched giggle, and fell over right behind him.  Laughing hysterically, and made a glitter angel as the goon scoffed at me.  I got up, and followed the giant stone beast apparently I acknowledged as existing through a small door.  Behind which, a hallway lit with candles led to the basement.  I was now going further into this building.  I make the best choices.  Really, I do.

Today, Our Hero Reveals His Plan.

Next installment in the story is VERY YES.

Alright, I told myself, you can do this.  You’ve outrun rivals and hid from authorities before you went legit.  And there’s the time you punched that dude in the bar for that thing that time.  Sure, he punched you back and you bled all over him until someone broke it up and took you to the hospital, but this is a locked room.  And locked rooms are deceptively short when they sit. Because they don’t sit.  And you have a letter opener.  Made of plastic.  You’re screwed.

I’ve never been one to talk myself up very well.  It’s why my art is primarily anonymous.  Even the gallery shows and my for sale pieces are done without me.    So, as a result, I had actually made myself more nervous about the situation. On  the flip side,  I pumped up my adrenaline.  Which was cool, because someone soon walked into the room and I rushed them.  Quickly and surprisingly forcefully.  As I collided with what I would alter find out was a terribly attractive woman, I through up a superman elbow and was able to run into dance floor.

As I pushed through the throng of dancers, I removed my shirt and quickly rubbed against any person or thing will glowing paint or glitter. I effectively vanished into the crowd, and was able to watch a number of frightening looking large people wander around and eventually assume I got away. Which, I guess, technically I did, but I decided to stay and snoop.

Because that from the roof gargoyle now looked me in the eye from across the room and beckoned me to stay. At this point, I knew my life was a while new kind of weird

I Freaking Love October! Also, Story!

Just so everyone knows, I really do love October.  My birthday being in said month is only a small, tiny influence on that.  October is all about getting out and DOING autumnal things.  Like pumpkin patches and haunted houses.  Leaves and trick-or-treating.  All-Hallows-Read.  There’ so much, and Arizona looks like it’s in the middle of freaking summer still.  I recently took a poll on the NatGeo insider page, asking me to check the things I love about autumn, and I checked everything that doesn’t apply to this horrible state.  *Sigh*

Anyway, today is story day.  So, FACE!

I awoke to a dark room, filled with the thumping of techno, and the aching of my ribs.  And my head, my tongue, and all my other assorted parts.  Dizzily, I slowly sat up and promptly threw up in the corner of the room.  I immediately regretted that, because I was a sympathetic puker and there were no windows, and only one door.  The door, by the way, was locked from the outside and a two way mirror.  I could see out, but no one could see me.  I know, I waved at several people dancing and drinking just ten feet from me.

At that point, I looked around my prison chamber.  It was an office.  A sleazy one, with silky shag carpeting, and vomit puddle in the corner.  I was only responsible for half of that.  And, honestly, I was more sickened by the carpeting.  I was again overcome with the blasphemous feeling, and realized that this room was, in fact, a priest’s quarters.  There were murals on the wall, depicting several sins, and not a one of them actually looked any fun.

I rummaged through the drawers to find something to drink, to no success.  I managed to pocket some pens and a letter opener though.  I ran through the items I had in my pockets when I left, and was actually a bit pissed off when I discovered every had been taken from me.  A man’s pockets are sacred.  And private.  I had paint sharpies, and a Spyderco, my wallet, and phone in there.  Thinking these thoughts, I finally came to the full realization that I was being kidnapped, by someone who drugged me.  There are horror stories that begin like this.  Lots of them.  I needed to get out, and fast.

This is about as far as I’m getting today.   I’ve got tons of other things I need to start on, sorry guys.

GL Blumenshine

Extra Story, Less-tra Not Story.

Extra long today, as promised last week.

 

I froze, after my “theoretical” terror scream.  With my heart racing, I glanced at my hand clenched around the handle.  My brain ran through all the options, which weren’t many, and settled on clearing my throat.  It’s a deceptively masterful move, clearing your throat after screaming like a horror movie target.  It projects an aura of sophistication and quick recovery skills, as well as clearing your throat.  My hand released the handle, but instead of my feet pivoting, I replied.

“I’m actually just trying to leave, because this isn’t the place you get… smoothies.  I thought it was, and now the door’s locked.  Which prevents me from leaving.  I really need a smoothie.  Like, you don’t even… Open the door, please.”    At this point, my entire plan hinged on this mystery person sharing my fictitious love of smoothies, and having a key to the door.  Also, no having a blender and being a ax murderer.  I still feel like it wasn’t asking too much.

He chuckled, then replied, in a voice slick like oil paints, “Actually, we do have a smoothie machine, and the storm just got, like, way worse, my friend.  I’ll open the door, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable, like, sending you out into that mayhem.  Why don’t you chill out on one of our power pews, and I’ll get you that smoothie.”  He snickered before each time he said smoothie.  I was very frightened, and turning around to fake a smile made things worse.  He didn’t mention my scream, but upon looking at him, I think it was because he’s used to people being terrified of him.

He was sporting dark red half moon spectacles, which he had low on his nose to stare at me.  Uncomfortably intensely, I should add.  His eyes sported super large pupils, with vividly violet irises.  His hair, which was pitch black, sported a bright blue dread lock roughly 18 inches long. And he smelled like fresh earth, and something else.  I’d vote terror, but I can’t really define that scent.   Other than what this guy smells like.  Anyway, he smiled at me, not without mirth, but without a soul behind it.  His smile, revealing no teeth, seemed to be poorly painted onto a cracked slate.

I simply nodded in reply to his suggestion, and attempted a halfhearted “whatever’s clever” shrug, but it manifested as a shiver.  Wrapping my arms around myself, to pretend I was cold and not shaking in fear, I sat in one of the seats.  Sitting there, the blasphemous feeling all but overtook me.  I got nauseous and confused.  I felt like I was violating some base agreement between man and god, me and my muses.  My ears heard what I thought was teeth chattering like the metal ball inside a spray paint can, but when I reached up to tough them, my teeth were clenched so hard, I became aware of lots of pain in my jaw.  It was a can I had in my pocket, empty save for the ball and some fumes.  My torso alone was shaking, and then things got weird.

The ferret cages and tubes started swirling around my as the room adamantly held firm.   The ferrets chuckled madly in tune with something that sounded like 15 century grunge music.  I tried to speak, but vomited.  The ferrets cackled madly, and the dude returned.  He looked like a bright orange streak, his jump suit and robe (both tacky orange with small gold squiggles scrawled inside and out,) left a trail as he slowly walked to me, humming in tune with the music.  He handed me a couple of gold, sparkling pills, and a glass of cold coffee.  I downed both quickly.

Then I thought to myself, “He said smoothie, and I just ate pills he gave me.  Apparently, I haven’t made enough bad choices tonight.  i hate ferrets.”   Then I blacked out.  Violently, if how I felt when I woke up were any indicator.

More Story! I Don’t Even Mention Hemingway This Time.

As you may recall, last week I started a story.  Today, I continue on with it.  Here it goes…

 

The more I looked around, the more ferrets I realized were kept here.  I began to wonder what ferrets ate.  I mean,  I’d seen 80 distinctly different little guys running about, and more seemed to be resting in the balconies above my head.  That required a lot of food, presumably, and a lot of cash.  Actually, this whole place probably did.  Was this a club?  It was only six miles from my place, so I would probably have heard of it.  Except, I don’t go anywhere that requires me to walk in this direction.  This route leads to the “serious business man” side of town, and I’m not that.  Except I do carry  a satchel, but that’s here nor there.

As I wondered that myriad of ultimately useless thoughts, I began to notice a steady bass beat.  I didn’t spot any speakers initially, and with a quick look around, spotted no more.  I decided to chill in one of the pews at this point, to catch my bearings.   I stepped over and quietly sat down.  As soon as I made contact, I noticed that the “pews” were, in fact, stadium seats retrofitted with velvet padding and what appeared to be candies in the cup holders.  I began to feel very uncomfortable.  I needed out.  The gaudy walls were thumping with a techo beat, and closing in on me.  The music was growing louder, and the air began to smell like cinnamon.  I needed out,I rationalized as I hopped of the  row of seating and made a dash for the door, because this wasn’t my “scene.”  Sure, I’m all about colors,  art, and paint, but this was somehow sacrilege to both my and… whatever religion this used to be.  Catholicism?  Pastafarinism?  Who knows.  It was just wrong.

I made contact with the door, and immediately noticed it was without a handle on the inside.  So, I pushed, hard.  To no avail.  After a few more seconds of panic, I decided I needed to bolt as fast as humanly possible to the doors at the other end of the room.  Because, obviously, those are exits, not doors deeper into the freaky place.  Except the complete opposite of that thought was reality.  Really, I had no concept of what the inside of a church was like, much less remodeled, cinnamon scented, rave factory one.  As I grabbed a door knob, a deep voice, as velvety as the weird stadium seats, asked “You seem to be confused, my friend.  Perhaps I could give you a hand?”

Then, I immediately freaked right out.  I may have screamed in terror.  I did scream in terror.  I’m not proud of that.

 

Good cliff hanger, I think.

GL Blumenshine.

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: