October 29th, 2009 §
He looked directly at me, well as best as I could tell he was. “I’m not selling watches, knocked off or otherwise. I am offering you time, time to experience life, time to enjoy the curves of a naked lady in your bed, time to be dancing to the rhythm of your favourite band or time to be reading that book of yours.” I stared at him, now quite confused, thinking is he a time share salesman wanting me to buy a bit of house on an island now too full of British tourists? “What is that you reading anyway?” He lent over and fingers adorned with gothic silver jewellery grabbed the book from my hands and pulled it over to him. He closed the book, losing my page and began to read the front. “The Wanderings of Alha…, Alhazzz, Alhazzz red?” he gave up trying to pronounce the title and offered the book back to me. As he lent over, the short sleeve of his shirt lifted up his arm and revealed a tattoo, which seemed to be a stylised octopus, tentacles reaching out from the cotton material that masked most of the head. “Well,” I remarked as I took the book back with annoyance at him losing my page, “I did have time to read my book until you showed up.”
“OK, lets begin again. I’ll tell you what, I’ll get us a couple of drinks and then we can have a proper chat.” As he stopped speaking he pulled a ten pound note out from his jeans pocket and put in on the table. I looked at him blankly, wondering if he was about to ask me to go get the drinks? “Look, you’re a regular and the bar is three deep with students who have all the time in the world. You and me, well, you are not so fortunate after all this time. You’re a regular, you’ll get served quicker than me.” I could not disagree with his reasoning that I would get served quicker, but his remarks about my time left me curiously unnerved. Partly for the free drink and partly for the chance to get some time away from this man, I grabbed the tenner and was about to ask what he was having when he spoke: “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Pint of Shoggoth it is then,” I remarked as I walked away and began to work my way to that one point at the bar where regulars get served and others get told to move out of the way of the glass collector. Well, in truth, regulars get asked to move as well, but we have learned to move first or expect an insult before being asked to move. The punk barmaid, dressed in tartan, black, green, pink, red and numerous other colours, hair to match and advertising a zombie film from the days when horror still shocked and got banned on her ripped t-shirt, served my requested two pints of Shoggoth with a bubbly smile before moving on to serve the ever increasing numbers of students wanting to drink booze, who themselves had elements of a zombie mob about them. Grabbing the two pints and with a skill only years of pub life can hone I made my way back to my seat, avoiding drunken youths dressed in golfing outfits, without spilling a drop.
He looked directly at me, well as best as I could tell he was. “I’m not selling watches, knocked off or otherwise. I am offering you time, time to experience life, time to enjoy the curves of a naked lady in your bed, time to be dancing to the rhythm of your favourite band or time to be reading that book of yours.” I stared at him, now quite confused, thinking is he a time share salesman wanting me to buy a bit of house on an island now too full of British tourists? “What is that you reading anyway?” He lent over and fingers adorned with gothic silver jewellery grabbed the book from my hands and pulled it over to him. He closed the book, losing my page and began to read the front. “The Wanderings of Alha…, Alhazzz, Alhazzz red?” he gave up trying to pronounce the title and offered the book back to me. As he lent over, the short sleeve of his shirt lifted up his arm and revealed a tattoo, which seemed to be a stylised octopus, tentacles reaching out from the cotton material that masked most of the head. “Well,” I remarked as I took the book back with annoyance at him losing my page, “I did have time to read my book until you showed up.”
“OK, lets begin again. I’ll tell you what, I’ll get us a couple of drinks and then we can have a proper chat.” As he stopped speaking he pulled a ten pound note out from his jeans pocket and put in on the table. I looked at him blankly, wondering if he was about to ask me to go get the drinks? “Look, you’re a regular and the bar is three deep with students who have all the time in the world. You and me, well, you are not so fortunate after all this time. You’re a regular, you’ll get served quicker than me.” I could not disagree with his reasoning that I would get served quicker, but his remarks about my time left me curiously unnerved. Partly for the free drink and partly for the chance to get some time away from this man, I grabbed the tenner and was about to ask what he was having when he spoke: “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Pint of Shoggoth it is then,” I remarked as I walked away and began to work my way to that one point at the bar where regulars get served and others get told to move out of the way of the glass collector. Well, in truth, regulars get asked to move as well, but we have learned to move first or expect an insult before being asked to move. The punk barmaid, dressed in tartan, black, green, pink, red and numerous other colours, hair to match and advertising a zombie film from the days when horror still shocked and got banned on her ripped t-shirt, served my requested two pints of Shoggoth with a bubbly smile before moving on to serve the ever increasing numbers of students wanting to drink booze, who themselves had elements of a zombie mob about them. Grabbing the two pints and with a skill only years of pub life can hone I made my way back to my seat, avoiding drunken youths dressed in golfing outfits, without spilling a drop.
*Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar – Hops grown by HP Lovecraft and brewed by Neil Gaiman
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
October 20th, 2009 §
“…time?” the voice said as it drifted into the arena of my attention whilst I tried to read my book, siting in the corner of my favourite pub. Normally, I could ignore the background noise when I wanted to read a good book over a pint of ‘Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar’*, imported from Newport on the island just over the water from here. The pub, whilst rustic, was not trendy, and proudly owned an eclectic jukebox that currently was singing at you to run to the hills, and attracted swarms of the local students to drink a pint of alcoholic sugar and food colouring before descending upon the next student-friendly bar down the hill. So you get used to the noise and know when is a good time to leave, before the crowds at the bar become more than five students deep. But this voice disrupted my concentration and I realised the voice was actually aimed at me and said something about time. I looked at my mobile phone and the grimy green display doing its best to illuminate, I began to speak “It’s just gone seven…”
“Sorry mate, you must of misheard me,” the voice that had a slight roughness interrupted. I looked up and finally saw the source of the voice that had pulled me from a tale of old gods and books of the dead. They say never judge a book by its cover and they also say first impressions count. I like to acknowledge either depending on my mood. So very much in a ‘first impressions count, you have interrupted my escapism’ kind of mood, I took in the presence before me. He was an average size man, shaved head, dressed in jeans and a casual shirt with oriental script arranged in random places. I always wondered what those symbols meant, was it something deep or the East having a laugh as the Westerners wondered around with ‘fungal foot disease’ emblazoned across their person. His eyes seemed barely open and it was difficult at first to see if he was actually looking at me. “I said, you want some time, you know, buy some time?” He spoke with a shifty aspect as if he was doing something he was not meant to. “Me, time?” I decided to reply, still unsure that I was his intended potential customer. “Yes, time.” he answered back. “Do I want to buy some time?” my internal dialogue asked with more of a question of ‘what’ than ‘do I’. I continued to look at him with a befuddled expression as suddenly it dawned on me. “Oh! Do I want to buy some watches of you?” I spoke hastily as my distrust of this man grew. “Sorry, mate if you wanting to punt knocked off watches round here, then you better be leaving. If the landlady or those guys…” I stopped speaking as I looked round to the two doormen leaning against the wall at the entrance to the pub, looking casually big and persuasive. Turning back to look at guy selling his wares, I continued “…catch you, then you will be asked to leave.” I emphasised the ‘leave’ for a sense of ‘you’re not welcome round here, now sling your hook before the doormen sling you onto pavement outside’ in it. He looked at me, understanding the tone. I could almost hear the heavy sounds of his thoughts and an unsettling power as he stood just staring at me. Suddenly he shrugged his shoulders announced: “You got me all wrong, mate.” and sat down on the pew the other side of the table from me, like he had known me years and I was a good friend.
“…time?” the voice said as it drifted into the arena of my attention whilst I tried to read my book, siting in the corner of my favourite pub. Normally, I could ignore the background noise when I wanted to read a good book over a pint of ‘Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar’*, imported from Newport on the island just over the water from here. The pub, whilst rustic, was not trendy, and proudly owned an eclectic jukebox that currently was singing at you to run to the hills, and attracted swarms of the local students to drink a pint of alcoholic sugar and food colouring before descending upon the next student-friendly bar down the hill. So you get used to the noise and know when is a good time to leave, before the crowds at the bar become more than five students deep. But this voice disrupted my concentration and I realised the voice was actually aimed at me and said something about time. I looked at my mobile phone and the grimy green display doing its best to illuminate, I began to speak “It’s just gone seven…”
“Sorry mate, you must of misheard me,” the voice that had a slight roughness interrupted. I looked up and finally saw the source of the voice that had pulled me from a tale of old gods and books of the dead. They say never judge a book by its cover and they also say first impressions count. I like to acknowledge either depending on my mood. So very much in a ‘first impressions count, you have interrupted my escapism’ kind of mood, I took in the presence before me. He was an average size man, shaved head, dressed in jeans and a casual shirt with oriental script arranged in random places. I always wondered what those symbols meant, was it something deep or the East having a laugh as the Westerners wondered around with ‘fungal foot disease’ emblazoned across their person. His eyes seemed barely open and it was difficult at first to see if he was actually looking at me. “I said, you want some time, you know, buy some time?” He spoke with a shifty aspect as if he was doing something he was not meant to. “Me, time?” I decided to reply, still unsure that I was his intended potential customer. “Yes, time.” he answered back. “Do I want to buy some time?” my internal dialogue asked with more of a question of ‘what’ than ‘do I’. I continued to look at him with a befuddled expression as suddenly it dawned on me. “Oh! Do I want to buy some watches off you?” I spoke hastily as my distrust of this man grew. “Sorry, mate if your wanting to punt knocked off watches round here, then you better be leaving. If the landlady or those guys…” I stopped speaking as I looked round to the two doormen leaning against the wall at the entrance to the pub, looking casually big and persuasive. Turning back to look at guy selling his wares, I continued “…catch you, then you will be asked to leave.” I emphasised the ‘leave’ for a sense of ‘you’re not welcome round here, now sling your hook before the doormen sling you onto pavement outside’ in it. He looked at me, understanding the tone. I could almost hear the heavy sounds of his thoughts and an unsettling power as he stood just staring at me. Suddenly he shrugged his shoulders announced: “You got me all wrong, mate.” and sat down on the pew the other side of the table from me, like he had known me years and I was a good friend.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
*Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar – Hops grown by HP Lovecraft and brewed by Neil Gaiman
October 10th, 2009 §
His scream was muffled as an abrasive hand clasped across his mouth, toxic hairs like needles dug into his skin and lips, irritating, piercing flesh and gums. Pin pricks in his flesh let blood flow into the bath water as the pressure of the hand increased. He involuntarily inhaled, breathing hundreds of tiny irritant hairs into his throat, nose and lungs. His internal organs reacted in ferocious defence against the foreign elements that had entered their domain. The increasing pain began to overwhelm him, his breaths became panicked as his body tried to gag on his own bile, mucus and blood. The face of the monster moved closer to Darren’s own face, which still struggled with its fight against the paralysis that sat in his muscles like black glutinous tar beneath his skin. Darren rasped in desperation, his eyes staring at the looming face that drew closer and closer to him. Eye sockets that had been grown over by the dishevelled skin of the demon seemed to peer deep in Darren’s eyes. Whilst it had no eyes to see, Darren could feel the penetrating presence burrow deep into his own eyes and ripping his soul in an organised but savage search for his past, as random events of his life rose and fell in his mind. Fetid breath exhaled from the monster’s repulsive mouth. The cavity was long and drawn out vertically, the bottom of the rough lips flowing out into separate limbs each with a single curved claw glistening as they moved around the cavity, cleaning and preparing. The reminiscence of his past increased in momentum. Unable to cope with the bedlam, his mind began to adulterate the memories and the vision that towered before him. The monster no longer stood over him, his mother was holding him down, her mouth opening in a sickening movement and clawed limbs ripped out tearing her face into a deformed manic grin. Blood fell like a waterfall from the coarse wounds, pouring over Darren’s chest and spilling into the already pink water, turning it a deep red. Black congealed lumps fell from his mothers face, each linked by umbilical-like cords. The lumps that hit his bare chest exploded, releasing dark clotted fluids that burned into his flesh. Skin fell away from his ribcage, sliding into the bathwater. Muscle followed and bone began to dissolve, the residue dripping onto his lungs and heart. Darren fought for breath as his lungs deflated and dissolved into the flesh soup bathwater. Finally this butchered vision of his mother pushed him in, down into the vile substance and a final resolve.
Darren looked at the tinfoil that his friend offered him along with the make-shift pipe to inhale the smoke with. He had never tried heroin before and was unsure of it now. Part of him wanted to find out the hit, another part told him where it would lead. As he stared at the tinfoil, he caught a reflection in part of the foil of a dark figure in a brimmed hat. He turned around only to see nothing there, breathing heavily with paranoia of potential actions.
“You want it or what?” said a voice.
The End
His scream was muffled as an abrasive hand clasped across his mouth, toxic hairs like needles dug into his skin and lips, irritating, piercing flesh and gums. Pin pricks in his flesh let blood flow into the bath water as the pressure of the hand increased. He involuntarily inhaled, breathing hundreds of tiny irritant hairs into his throat, nose and lungs. His internal organs reacted in ferocious defence against the foreign elements that had entered their domain. The increasing pain began to overwhelm him, his breaths became panicked as his body tried to gag on his own bile, mucus and blood. The face of the monster moved closer to Darren’s own face, which still struggled with its fight against the paralysis that sat in his muscles like black glutinous tar beneath his skin. Darren rasped in desperation, his eyes staring at the looming face that drew closer and closer to him. Eye sockets that had been grown over by the dishevelled skin of the demon seemed to peer deep in Darren’s eyes. Whilst it had no eyes to see, Darren could feel the penetrating presence burrow deep into his own eyes and ripping his soul in an organised but savage search for his past, as random events of his life rose and fell in his mind. Fetid breath exhaled from the monster’s repulsive mouth. The cavity was long and drawn out vertically, the bottom of the rough lips flowing out into separate limbs each with a single curved claw glistening as they moved around the cavity, cleaning and preparing. The reminiscence of his past increased in momentum. Unable to cope with the bedlam, his mind began to adulterate the memories and the vision that towered before him. The monster no longer stood over him, his mother was holding him down, her mouth opening in a sickening movement and clawed limbs ripped out tearing her face into a deformed manic grin. Blood fell like a waterfall from the coarse wounds, pouring over Darren’s chest and spilling into the already pink water, turning it a deep red. Black congealed lumps fell from his mothers face, each linked by umbilical-like cords. The lumps that hit his bare chest exploded, releasing dark clotted fluids that burned into his flesh. Skin fell away from his ribcage, sliding into the bathwater. Muscle followed and bone began to dissolve, the residue dripping onto his lungs and heart. Darren fought for breath as his lungs deflated and dissolved into the flesh soup bathwater. Finally this butchered vision of his mother pushed him in, down into the vile substance and a final resolve.
Darren looked at the tinfoil that his friend offered him along with the make-shift pipe to inhale the smoke with. He had never tried heroin before and was unsure of it now. Part of him wanted to find out the hit, another part told him where it would lead. As he stared at the tinfoil, he caught a reflection in part of the foil of a dark figure in a brimmed hat. He turned around only to see nothing there, breathing heavily with paranoia of potential actions.
“You want it or what?” said a voice.
The End
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
