Transientme

Anybody reading this blog should head over to www.transientme.blogspot.com because that's where I've been writing of late ;)

those damn candy bars

it's been days since they came since things went bad and i have been hiding since but I think I may soon have to go out because I have run out of food. I can hear them out there out beyond the door and they kind of no I am here and kind of forget and them remember and come groaning and moaning and scraping their nails down the door and then get bored kind of and wander away and come back. Sometimes I think I could just open the door and run away but then I think where would I run where would I go and wouldn’t they all just be out there in the hallway like stupid grandfather clocks ticking away the time as they wait for me to do just that and come out so they can grab me and bite me and kill me and make me one of them? I need to get out though cause I have now eaten all the granola bars and the candy bars and the packaged hot dogs and I have even tried to eat the popcorn corn but it’s too hard and hurt my teeth. Maybe I could just run to the concession stand and grab some more food and come back but then I think what then maybe I last another few days eating and then I need to go back out and I will get weaker every day because the chocolate is yummy but I feel nauseous after eating so much and I need a steak a big juicy steak cooked medium rare with garlic mashed potatoes and gravy and maybe some peas oh a nice fresh salad with vinegar and olive oil and slices of pear and walnut chunks and grated parmesan cheese right from parma and I’d wolf it down in just a heart beat and god it would taste good and I wouldn’t eat these cheap candy bars ever again I swear it.

THAT'S WHEN WE'LL EXPLODE

"And we become," said the hostess, "silhuettes when our bodies finally go."

Nobody seemed to find this statement strange, everybody being busy as they were milling and talking and admiring the fantastically gross art that adorned her walls.

"I want to walk through the empty streets," she droned, "But all the news reports recommended I stay indoors."

Several people wandered off, moving towards the groaning buffet table where explosions of cheese interpolated with grapes and figs stood in variegated baskets. They began to coo excitedly as they closed in, picking up speed, so that they were virtually sprinting by the time they reached the table's edge. Reaching out with tremulous fingers they hestitated, hands hovering before the succulent food like hummingbirds, moving from side to side as they sought something particularly delightful to eat first, but paralyzed by their indecision so that they ate naught.

"I've got a cupboard with cans of food," said the hostess, reaching up behind her head to begin undoing her magnificent coiffure. It was done with amber and bronze pins, and rose like an ornate beehive towards the vaulted ceilings. Each pin was a foot long, and wickedly curved, seeming to capture the light and mellify it, to absorb and jelly the luminescence that was incandesced out of the lambet light that the candle flames phosphorized with wicked radiance. She held each needle up and then plunged it matador style into passing servants, the length disappearing into buttucks, shoulders, breasts. The servants were quite composed, possessing an almost British mien, and did not complain.

"And it won't be a pretty sight," she admonished the remaining group, who broke out into comradely guffaws, bending over as if suddenly cramped with the worst of Montezuma's curses, faces scrawning up and mouths opening wide to reveal carried teeth and long, lizard tongues that unrolled like Oscar carpets down their jaws and chests and across the floor, interlacing amonst each other and soon the whole group was enmeshed in their own tongue web, a throbbing, pulsing mass of spittle wet red flesh.

"To someone," the hostess said, turning to leave, "Someone I used to know."

Belfast

Evening hour in Northern Ireland, and dusk was quickly settling over the city of Belfast like an ennervating blanket. The past week had been rocked by a series of attacks and beatings, the Protestant English launching raids into the Catholic ghettoes, dragging out victims and potential informants to club and brutalize them in the street, all in a vain effort to get them to betray their own.
At the O'Malleys in the South East, far from such violence, the drinking was beginning in earnest. The bar was crowded, Molly handing out ales as fast as she could pour them, her large son Jack looming over her shoulder and ensuring a modicum of good behaviour. In the back of the inn, away from the bustle and with his boots up on the table sat Sir Lawrence Temple, Viscount of Palmerstone, inverterate gambler and dissipated nobleman. At the bar stood his sometimes accomplice, a courtisan by the name of Stella Watson, paramour of such societal luminaries as the Chief Magistrate, the Bishop of Belfast and various members of the House of Parliament.
Sir Lawrence surveyed the bar casually. Already several drinks into the wind, he was carefully paring dirt out from under his nails. A plate of half eaten roast sat by his elbow, a glass of wine just beyond it. All added onto his prodigous bartab. A slow night, but perhaps later he'd meander down to the docks. Try his hand at some cards, end the losing streak he'd been on. He was going to get lucky tonight. He could feel it.
The front door opened, and sharply dressed gentlemen entered. Wearing clothing of an enviable cut, clean faced and toting a leather brief case, he stood out as an anamoly in the rough crowd. Stella's gaze caught Sir Lawrence's, and a subtle nod was exchanged. The man approached the bar, and with an artful step Stella insinuated herself by his side.
"Good evening," she said with a smile. Confidence she had in spades.
The man, handsome in his way, returned her smile. "Good evening, miss."
The pair began to exchange words, and Stella quickly learnt that he was a barrister, in the area to inspect a recently acquired purchase of a residence for a client, and not perhaps the most of exciting conversationalists. However, she couldn't get a read on him - coward? Easy mark? Too hard to tell. Losing her patience, she signaled for Sir Lawrence to approach and try his hand.
With a sigh, the nobleman lifted his feet off the table and rose unsteadily to his feet. An attempt to drain his glass of wine failed upon his realizing it was more than half full, so goblet in hand he crossed the bar floor and approached the man from behind.
Loudly, he addressed the man. The barrister turned, face civil, and acknowledged Sir Lawrence. In a moment of drunken clarity the nobleman discerned his foe for a weakling, a coward who was already intimidated at being caught with his 'wife', and so decided to press his advantage. In loud and angry tones, he accused him of attempting to cozen up with his wife, and challenged him to a duel.
To his surprise, the man readily accepted. Taken aback, but determined to press him to his breaking point, Sir Lawrence followed the other outside into the dark street. If he but had his sword, he'd no doubt make short work of the man. His confidence remained high, however; the craven would break before real fists were thrown. Watching the barrister remove his coat calmly and prepare to fight, he couldn't help but feel a greater sense of disquiet. The man was remarkably self-possessed.
Seeking an opportunity to back down, not intent on really brawling this early in the night, Sir Lawrence demanded a full apology. The man turned to Stella, ignoring the nobleman, and received a light slap across the face as a result.
His reaction was instantaneous. If Sir Lawrence had hoped to push him over the edge, he had succeeded admirably, but in exactly the wrong manner. With a scowl that barrister leapt at the nobleman, heavy fist swinging towards his temple. In desperation, Sir Lawrence lashed out with a blow at his neck, and connected solidly. The blow knocked the man off balance, and with a heavy thud he fell to the muddy ground.
Turning to Stella, Sir Lawrence flashed her a grin. See that? he seemed to ask, Not bad. Sir Lawrence turned back to his foe, ready to finish the job, and froze in horror. The man had gathered himself, and turned a face wracked by hideous passion and hatred towards him. His lips writhed back from bared fangs, and his eyes slit into an viper's gaze. It was the face of a demon, a devil, a creature of evil, and Sir Lawrence could but croak out an oath and fumble for his pistol as the thing gathered itself to leap at his throat.
Sir Lawrence had but a moment to draw his gun, the alcohol lubricating his movements so that he was able to fire off a shot right at the thing's head before it could reach him. The gunshot was deafening. All sound ceased from with the pub. The barrister's head snapped back. And then slowly righted, the bullet embedded in its forhead. But stopped by the bone. Sir Lawrence gaped. Turning, he spotted Stella moving towards the monster's brief case.
"Stella!" he roared. "Run!"
And then it was on him, bearing him to the ground. Struggling, Sir Lawrence pressed the muzzle of his gun against the demon's temple, and fired twice. The second shot did as little shot as the first, and the third caused his gun to backfire into an explosion of metal and fires, searing his hand and face. And then the creature dug its fangs into his neck, and tore free a hunk of steaming flesh.
Stella needed no further urging. She ducked back into the pub, and was met with the surprised gazes of all those within. The gunshots had been clearly heard. And while Belfast was a town torn by sectarian violence, gunshots were still a rarity in the streets. For a long, frozen second, Stella stared back at all the frozen customers, and then pointed back out the doors and yelled, "Sir Lawrence is in trouble!"
The crowd rose to its feet. One of their own was being attacked. Jack rounded the bar, catching a wicked, spike shilleleagh that his mother tossed him as he went, a half dozen other men at his back. Pushing out the front doors, they paused, shocked: blood had splattered everywhere from Sir Lawrence's hideous wounds, the creature still astride him, ravening and inhuman.
Of all those assembled, only Jack didn't hesitate. Moving forwards, he brought the spiked head of his club down as hard as he could between the monster's shoulderblades. The effect was instantaneous - the demon turned its bloodied visage to the hulking youth, and bared its fangs. Jack took one good look at the Devil's face, and ran.
Pinioned beneath the creature, shocked by blood and terror, Sir Lawrence passed out. The tableau was frozen until Stella stepped forwards, disgusted at the paralyzed men, and picked up the shilleleagh herself. With a cry, she urged them to act like men, and attack the beast. But it was her cry itself which sent it running, and with admiration and increased respect the five men helped her bring Sir Lawrence into the bar.
His neck was a gaping mess. Blood slicked his clothing. A doctor was summoned, and in the hubbub Stella slipped aside to examine the contents of the briefcase. A legal contract. Pages written in Latin, detailing some mystic rite. Over 4,000 pounds stirling in bank notes. Pocketing the money, Stella stuffed the papers back into the briefcase. Sir Lawrence was being moved to the loca hospital. The night was just beginning, and trembling, feeling the after effects of adrenaline and shock, Stella rose to follow. The night was just beginning, and she wanted answers.

some complete and utter DROCK

The fitful light played across the mottled hide of the dungeon beast. It was a lascivious maggot of a thing, spindly spines lining its flanks, its belly bloated and pale, marbled with fine veins that hinted at heinous viscera within. A thousand men had tried their blades against its malice, and all had failed! Their skulls were arranged in rising rows around the beast’s chamber, polished and kept gleaming by the monster’s friends. Only those with sincere death wishes ventured down here, because to come otherwise was to nurture false hopes, and all knew that false hopes were worse, far worse, than a death wish.

This had been proven by the Grand Vizier Al’ Makabar. He had spent two years locked within his ivory tower in the center of the capital city debating the point with endless scores of summoned demons and visiting angles, putting the question to each: was it better to accept whole heartedly an assured death, or suffer a much greater disillusionment in that final moment when one’s hope turned to ashes in one’s mouth as death reared its fulsome head and tore one’s body apart?

The angels and devils had disagreed. Grand Vizier Al’ Makabar had anticipated a long purgatory of scholastic studying till he could emerge victorious with a definite answer, but found instead that he more often than not had to play mediator, referee, judge and host to the yelling throngs that began to gather in his tower. From the lowest levels of Acheron to the Elysian Fields, word got out that an ongoing party was going on in his tower, and each night greater numbers appeared to talk and hang out on what was tacitly agreed neutral ground.

This pissed the hell out of Mrxaaxarat, a connubial devil who had run the Number 1 hot spot until that moment. As a young imp, Mrxaaxarat had had the uncommonly good fortune to discover the abandoned home of a Greater Pit Fiend, one who had displeased Lucifer and been banned to a prison on the seventh level of hell. Mrxaaxy (as his friends called him), had wasted no time – moving in, he’d put word out that free lava and pureed souls were to be had at his joint, and soon a motley crew of devils and demons were gathering at his place.

But Mrxaaxy wasn’t content with a handful of devils – he wanted to score it big, so he began to print a scandalous news sheet that documented the private sexual lives of the most sanctimonious angels. Soon his broadsheets were mandated reading everywhere, and many came to his hell hole to learn the latest gossip straight from his mouth. Bloated, with his black hair slicked back in the latest fashion (which changed daily), he presided over it all.

As much speculation revolved around the source of his information as the information itself.

The french onion soupescade

The last time I saw him drunk was yesterday. He was lolling about in an inflated bed, which was strange because the sun had set three days ago and the pool was drained dry. His head was rolling from side to side as he tried to escape the visions that were assaulting him. I cried out - "Beware the shrimp!" and this seemed to reach him because he rolled off the bed and began to crawl towards the organically curved sides of the pool. I laughed. I laughed a lot. He was drunk, the world had been dark for three days, and there wasn't a single fucking shrimp in sight.
"Sir, it's time," said the butler. He'd been standing there for a long time, and must have said that at least four more times than I could remember. I finally looked at him. He was dressed in a black tuxedo, on which several different playing cards were stapled. I'd stapled them myself. While he had lain on the floor, unconscious. The reason he was knocked out was because I'd knocked him out myself when he'd entered my bedroom unannounced. I had stood on the ladder that was propped up by the door for over three hours, waiting, with a massive Ming vase held above my head. When he'd finally opened the door and peered within, seeking my supposedly comatose form in the gloom, I'd brought the Ming vase down with audible relief. To tell the truth my arms had fairly been on fire, and the vase had begun to tremble wildly in the air. The hippodrome

20070124

The rays of sunlight filtered down through the canopy of the woods, incandescing motes of dust, making them gleam with golden fire like filaments in a lightbulb. It was dark and cool and humid down by the roots, and Timothy walked slowly along the path that led down from the back of his garden to the stream at the bottom of the hill. He swished his fishing rod at the undergrowth, imagining that he was slaying dragons, and then froze when he saw the little old man.
The little man was seated on a particularly large root, perched up on the wrinkled knee of wood, and puffing away contentedly on a long silver pipe. He was, Timothy gauged, perhaps little over one foot tall, had a wonderfully flowing white beard and was dressed in rich, subtle greens and alarming reds.
"Hello," said Timothy. The little man cracked open an eye with a vivid emerald iris in it, and examined Timothy.
"Hello," replied the little man.
"You're very small," said Timothy, and then covered his mouth with his hand.
"Aye," said the little man, nodding in agreement. He closed his eye and returned to puffing his pipe.
Timothy ground the toe of his shoe into the path. It would be polite to keep walking at this point, to mind his own business and not force conversation. He shifted his fishing rod to his other hand, and then frowned, trying to decide what to say. He couldn't come up with anything witty or clever or interesting.
"I mean, you're really really small," said Timothy, deciding to press his point.
The little man cracked open his eye again and looked at Timothy with mild disaproval. Deciding that Timothy's comment was not worth responding to, he took a puff of his pipe, blew out his cheeks, and then exhaled a white stream into the air. The smoke curled about him, grew thick and opaque, and when the wind dispelled it a moment later, the little old man was gone.
Timothy's frown deepened. He quickly looked in all directions, but saw only the old wood spreading in all directions, moss green and dark and still. Perhaps he had been rude? Sighing, trying to figure out whom he could tell amongst his friends that would believe him, Timothy hiked up his rod and continued walking down to the stream.
The woods stopped just at the slippery bank of the narrow little stream, allowing the bright sunlight to cover the water with a dancing sheen of leaping diamond glints. The brook babbled excitedly as it rushed along, undercutting the bank in certain places and splashing itself to pieces on certain large, dark rocks that emerged above its surface. It was quite shallow - Timothy had waded across it and gotten wet only to his knees - but there were some deep parts where it curved to the left or right, and in one such well he had seen an incredibly large trout.
Walking along the bank, shielding his eyes with the blade of his hand, Timothy peered into the water. For the most part it was impossible to look through the crinkling brilliance of the quickly flowing surface, but where the brook curved the depths grew pellucid and clear, the water's surface still and serene. Looking down, Timothy guessed that the stream's bed might be a full meter below, or even more. Humming happily to himself, pole swinging on his shoulder, he walked along the bank, searching for his trout.
He didn't really believe he'd find it again. When he'd told his dad and mum about his plan, they'd indulgently agreed that they would cook up his catch and assured him that they believed in his fishing prowess. Timothy knew that they were just being nice, but that was fine because he didn't expect to catch anything anyway. It was just nice to be out in the warm sunshine, smelling the sharp mineral smell of the stream and the deep, leafy mold smell of the woods. He would probably sit down in the shade soon enough, eat his sandwich and pull out the latest Superman comic he'd bought that morning.
There it was. Timothy stopped stock still. The stream curved away from him quite sharply, and in its elbow the stream's bed dropped away into the darkness. The water's surface was still, completely untouched by the hustle and bustle that churned the surface a mere meter or so away. And hovering in the depths, gleaming a brilliant silvery white, was a trout as long as his arm.
Timothy gaped down at it. The water was so clear the trout seemed to be hovering in the air. Tendrils of river weed rose from the depths like ruined greek columns, burnt into amber by the sun, and Timothy realized that he was holding his breath lest he alert the trout and cause it to dart down and away. Slowly, ever so slowly, he brought the rod off his shoulder, and without pausing, without thinking, cast his hook into the water and watched it sink down towards the fish.
It was only when the hook was a mere foot from the trout that he realized he had completely failed to bait it. His stomach clenched, he groaned aloud, but rather than real the hook in he decided to play it out and see what happened. He'd probably ruined the whole thing. The little hook danced and fluttered down into the water, and then paused before the trout. Timothy watched nervously. Would he go for it?
With a casual lunge, the trout eased forwards and inhaled the hook. Timothy let out a shout, and began to haul the rod up and back, pulling the trout towards the surface even as he frantically reeled the line in. The spine of the rod began to bend, forming a perfect parabola towards the water's surface. God it's heavy, thought Timothy, pulling and stepping back up the bank. Slowly he forced the reel round and round, and then with a splashing flop, the trout leapt out of the water and onto the bank itself.
It gleamed in the sunlight, a brilliant metallic white, easily as long as his arm and as thick as his leg, glittering and seemingly made of silver and ivory. It didn't dance and flop like most fish would, but instead lay still, gills flaring and revealing the delicate pink flesh beneath. Cautiously, Timothy approached the massive fish, unsure as to whether he should bash it in the head like his father did.
It was a beautiful fish. Looking down at it, Timothy was struck by the bright green color of its eyes. They seemed like little chips of emerald pressed into its skull, glowing brightly as they reflected the sunlight. They swivelled and latched onto Timothy, and then the trout spoke.
"Return me to the water, young master, and I shall grant you a wish."
Timothy gaped, rubbed his hand over his face, and then stared down at the fish again. It gazed serenely back up at him.
"You're a fish," said Timothy, unable to believe that he was speaking to it.
"Aye," said the trout, with a trace of annoyance in its otherwise august voice.
Timothy didn't know what to say. The trout was talking to him. Was he dreaming? Nobody would believe him now. He couldn't tell anybody about this at all. If he told his parents he'd been talking to a fish, they'd either laugh or send him to bed.
"I mean, you're really a fish," said Timothy, almost stammering, "A talking fish."
The fish's gaze grew cold. Then it flopped on the back, jackknifing as if trying to find a more comfortable spot to lie on. It spasmed again, and suddenly the trout was gone and the little old man was lying before Timothy on the bank, sopping wet and carefully removing the hook from his mouth.
"By crook and hook you are a damned stupid boy," said the little man crossly. "I've not the patience to treat with you, no matter that you cast an iron hook without bait in the middle of Samhain Day. I'll not follow the rules if it means dealing with a clod like you!"
"You're the little old man!" Exclaimed Timothy in surprise, and then said nothing but gaped as the little man stamped his foot furiously and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
There was complete silence in the woods. Timothy slowly rubbed his face again, and then peered into the water. He looked back into the woods, and scanned the length of the bank. There was nobody there. Scratching his head, he walked over to a patch of grass by the base of a large tree, and sat down. A little old man and a talking silver trout. How strange! Nobody would believe him though. He didn't quite believe it himself. Shrugging, he drew forth his sandwich and his comic book, and lay back into the worn bark of the tree to enjoy the golden sunshine.