Don't Forget To Knit Awesome!

Knitting our collective way out of a paper bag since 2011

Archive for the tag “Gargoyle story”

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?

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.

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.

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