Sorry, JD.
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| Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise http://horrorworld.org/msgboards/viewtopic.php?f=58&t=8610 |
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| Author: | KeithMinnion [ Mon Oct 11, 2010 6:15 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
Okay, here are the stories. The only thing I did was put them all into the same font family, at the same point size. The inspiration was a burying board, which was a plank of hardwood folks in northern climes would bind their dead in the Winter to help reserve them until the Spring when proper graves could be dug for them. I notice that in cutting these stories from their Word files to this thread that italics and paragraph indents were lost, and I am not sure why. Anyway, here is the first one. Enjoy! The Burial Board With a start, Turner rapidly raised his chin off his chest. Had his ears caught the tail end of a groan? Struggling to keep his eyes open, Turner swung his head in a wide arc surveying the loft in an attempt to locate the origin of the sound. As the fog in his mind receded he cursed silently, taking himself to task for falling asleep. Did I dream it, he wondered? The sound was slight, distant. The barn could be just settling, or maybe it was a sudden gust. It could have been anything he reasoned. Turner shook his upper body, hoping to chase away the fatigue and the bite of the cold. He sat motionless in his chair and listened. After a moment he was confident the sound was of no consequence and his eyes settled on his wife’s body and the burial board to which she had been bound. As he gazed upon her, his mind wandered. Though Mary rested on it now, it was not the first time it had been employed. He had come by the board just one week shy of Christmas in 1818. They had not celebrated the holidays that year, nor since. Turner had acquired the board when the milk sickness claimed Nancy, his eight-year-old daughter. He recalled his wife’s concern when Nancy began to appear weak and listless. Then the poor girl stopped voiding, resulting in painful stomachaches and the loss of her appetite. Soon after, her breath was so bad it was a struggle just to get close enough to tend to her. At that point Turner went to town and fetched the doctor; the news was devastating. The doctor told them that she had The Slows, a disease that came with drinking milk from tainted cows feeding on white snakeroot. The doctor wondered why Nancy was the only one affected by the disease and Turner explained that he and Mary did not drink cow’s milk; they preferred goat’s milk, but since their daughter enjoyed cow’s milk they would sometimes trade off with the neighbors. The doctor had prescribed Castoris to help Nancy regain some strength and sarsaparilla for her constipation and stomach problems, but he could prescribe no cure. Days later they had learned that their neighbor’s had succumbed to the disease. It was no more than a week after the doctor’s visit when Nancy had passed. Mary took her death hard, as did Turner. Winter that year had come not only early, it came cruelly. The snow was already knee-high, and the air so cold that the lakes and ponds had long frozen over. They would have to wait until spring to bury their daughter. The decision was made to place her in the barn, up in the loft, until the first thaw when they could give her a proper burial. Mary had insisted that Nancy be placed on a Christian burial board. Though he argued against it as their money was tight, he finally let her have her head. Early in the morning, only three days after Nancy’s passing, Turner removed the contents from their coin jar and placed it in his purse. He had no idea how much a burial board would cost, but he suspected that the meager contents of the jar wouldn’t be enough to purchase a proper one. Unsure of what was to come, he saddled his mount and began the long and arduous journey into town. It had taken half a day when he had brought the doctor to his home, so he allowed himself that much time plus a little extra to find a board. Through no fault of his own, he soon discovered that he had miscalculated badly. The storm hit when he was halfway to town. Between the high winds and blinding snow, Turner knew trouble had found him. He had lost his bearings in the whiteout and his horse protested its every step. He thought about turning back, but he had no idea in which direction to turn. He dismounted and grabbed the horse’s reins; he needed to find shelter soon. Though he’d thought about it often over the last two years, he still had no idea how he had found his way to the shack. It had appeared out of nowhere. The simple fact was that he had walked right into it, striking his head against one of its sidewalls. Using his hands to follow the wall, he turned two corners until he came to a door. Turner pushed at it and was surprised at how easily it opened. He led his horse through the doorway and, once inside, he slammed it shut. He fell to the floor with his back sliding against the door and stayed there until he could catch his breath. After a few moments, he realized there was enough dim light coming from two windows on the opposite wall to study his surroundings. Spying a lantern hanging from a peg, he lifted himself up off the floor and removed it. He noticed a box of matches on a shelf beside it so he removed his gloves and set the lantern to burning. What he saw in the shack confused him. Not only was it larger than he imagined, but it looked to be a gathering place of sorts. Near the center of the room, there was a series of chairs placed in a circle, around what Turner took to be a crude altar. The altar was a simple affair consisting of a long, thick, ebony plank set on a pair of stone pillars. Turner placed the lantern directly above the altar and realized a small cross had been carved into the center of the plank. Though Turner was not a religious man he was, however, a practical one. He came to the conclusion quickly that he had found the burial board for his daughter. Outdoors, the storm raged for a few hours longer and then, as abruptly as it had began, it quit, and Turner prepared for his trip back home. After leading his horse out of the shack, he removed the plank from the pillars and secured a rope around its length. He left the contents of his purse on one of the pillars, and then carried the plank outdoors. Turner then tied the end of the rope to his horse’s saddle. Unsure of his location, he took a chance on a direction to travel. His choice served him well. He quickly found some landmarks and made it home with the board dragging behind him just as the sun was setting. That night, they placed their daughter in the loft and strapped her to the board. Later that evening, Mary had the worst nightmares that Turner could ever recall her having. When she woke, all she could remember of her dreams was a groaning. She told him that it sounded like dry wood straining before it broke. Still in a daze and not quite awake, she had insisted on checking the barn and then dashed out of the house. Soon after, Turner heard her screams. He rushed to the loft where he found Mary weeping hysterically over the burial board. Pushing her aside, he saw the board was empty, their daughters body missing. The straps he had used to tie her down were still secured to the board and whole. The loft appeared to be undisturbed and there were no signs of torn clothing or body parts. Checking the outside of the barn, the only tracks in the snow he noticed was theirs. It was as if her body had simply vanished. His wife was never the same after that night. With her mental health declining over the past two years, Turner was not shocked; in fact, he felt relief when he awoke this morning, the second anniversary of their daughter’s death, to find Mary hanging from a beam in front of the fireplace. Now, here he sat in the loft, conducting a vigil over his wife’s body, repeatedly recalling the circumstances that had brought him here. Finally, he wept. When his tears were exhausted, and he thought sleep was warranted, he heard it. The groaning. It was subtle and intermittent, but it was there. It reminded Turner of the sound of a lake in early April when its surface was cracking just before ice out. He knew something powerful was happening out there, warning him away, even if he couldn’t see it. The volume and frequency of the groaning increased. When he realized the sound was coming from the burial board, his spine stiffened. Staring at the board, his eyes grew wide; the board had begun to move. While the center of the board was firmly planted on the floor, its ends were straining to lift themselves up. The groaning was almost deafening now; the pain in his ears was so severe that Turner thought they might be bleeding. Mary’s body began to jerk wildly, mimicking the motions of the board. Her head and feet were struggling to rise, but the straps that had secured her to the plank held tightly. Turner could only stare in disbelief, when, after a series of violent tugs, the middle section of her body was sucked into the board. The sounds of her bones splintering joined the cacophony. Soon, the rest of her followed. Turner’s paralysis broke. He rushed from the chair and stood above the burial board. He saw no trace of his wife’s body. Bewildered and frightened, he trained his eyes on the board, hoping to find some cause as to what had taken her. Shuddering, he let out a whimper when he noticed that the small cross that had been carved into the middle of the board had changed. It had enlarged, grown to the size of Mary’s body. And the cross was so much darker now, even blacker than the ebony of the board. And its depth was unnatural. He went down on one knee, his head merely inches above the board, and he peered into the center of the cross. And when he felt the pull, he didn’t even have enough time to wonder if it would hurt. ********************************** |
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| Author: | KeithMinnion [ Mon Oct 11, 2010 6:16 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
Here is the second story! What Kind of Monster the night before... Chad Bourne has lived all of his sixteen years in this town, this darkness. Its prying citizens offer only nasty glances and terse words, and he's long since stopped wondering why. Small animals cower before him, fear his brilliant mind and devious intent. Classmates haven't crossed him since he set fire to one of them (after which his "way with words" convinced the piggies it was accidental). Echoes of death sound within his blood, and he listens and obeys. His parents are oblivious to his proclivities, bless their ignorant little souls. They're too busy living out their own. Every other day father beats mother senseless. Dear mother sheds no tears, speaks no words that may free her. But Chad knows the way to freedom. He is the leader of his pack, the Conductor of the impending symphony. Tonight he slumps back in his bed, looks over the scoresheet. Everything is planned out succinctly. Bearing a face-splitting grin, he readies the guns. When he sleeps he sleeps soundly, his dreams drenched in red. Matthew Wilson lives in Hell. His parents would shit bricks if he said this out loud, this blasphemy, as they'd call it. After all, Hell is what he's supposed to fear, what he's supposed to circumvent by being a good and noble Christian, a proper child of God. A god that's a sadist, thinks Matthew. Where is your god when your son is tormented daily by his classmates for merely being born into the family of a minister? Where is your god when so many people in this dying little town are struggling just to clothe themselves and put food on the table? Where is your god when your ten year old daughter is taken from the park on her way home from school, is beaten and raped and left alone in the woods to die? Where's your god when they still haven't caught the sick fuck who did this to her? Where's your god now, mom, dad? Where's your fucking god now? Matthew punches a hole in the wall. It's not the first but it will be the last. He slowly calms himself by going over the plans Chad had given them all. The guy's methodical, he thinks. You gotta give him that. Satisfied that he'd be able to do his particular part without question or hesitation, he sets the plans aside and looks forward to tomorrow. The last day of school. Melody Park thinks her name shows a bizarre sense of humor on the part of her parents. She sure as shit doesn't feel like singing now. Why her old man had to move to this little hickburg she'll never know. To get away from mom, maybe. Melody figures it would only be a couple of years before she would have been kicked curbside too. At eighteen no one would consider it abandonment. She's not normal, after all. Dad, well, he's a master of skirting the issue, as if by not giving voice to it he can affirm that it's all just an elaborate ruse. Sure, dad, of course your daughter's not (gasp!) gay. If she were, she wouldn't be your daughter, would she? Not your daughter. As for everyone else, well, they don't hesitate to be as blunt and vocal about it as they damn well please. She's a slut, a dirty dyke, right? A fuckin' muff-muncher. The kicks and the punches hurt but the sneers hurt more and the words, the words hurt the most. She just wants it to end. Is it so much to ask for some peace, some silence? She smiles a little as she thinks of tomorrow. She's alone now, but at least she won't have to die that way. Where is my Esmerelda? Jerry Sinclair wonders. Melody, she's gorgeous, but she's gay. Maybe she'll let me kiss her anyway, before the bullets start to fly. I don't want to die having never kissed a girl, but I can't really blame them all for not wanting to touch me. Just that freak, that hunchback, they must think. What's wrong with your back? You should see a chiropractor. It's not my fucking fault! What does it matter, anyway, what I look like on the outside? But sometimes I wish I'd wake up from all this, like waking from a dream, and be handsome and tall and straight as an arrow. I could kiss whoever I wanted to. At least... At least someone might touch me. God, I feel so alone. So, so alone... But hey, I'm not dreaming, am I? It's okay, though. Tomorrow I'll go to sleep forever, and the others too. I'm glad we have each other, anyway. It's helped a little, this club of ours. The Burying Board. the day of... They move in pairs. Chad and Matthew, Melody and Jerry. The chime of the first morning bell is their signal to begin. Their victims don't comprehend what's happening to them. There's simply no time for shock to become realization. Bright red arterial spray drenches the hallways. The sudden end of human life is writ upon the walls and the blackboards in bone and chunks of brain. Amidst the gunshots: desperate crying, plaintive wails, inhuman screams. The four keep a tight focus on their task. There's no shortage of easy prey. Students and teachers alike run in a frenzy, sit quivering against lockers or under desks. Some are spared. Those who are not are obliterated, erased. Faces and bodies they've known or grown up with explode and collapse. Everywhere, faces and bodies. When each has one bullet left they regroup. They talk a little, compare notes. They're pleased with the outcome. This is the end of their symphony. From here there's no turning back. Each of the four puts the barrel of a gun in their own mouth and squeezes the trigger. Maybe things would've gotten better for them. They'll never know. the morning after... We sit in our homes and we watch on the screen. We are aghast, or purport to be. We think those poor people and what kind of monster could do such a thing. We blame video games. Music. Too many damn horror movies. Within days our thoughts and questions will fade, our threads of willed compassion will grow taut and snap. New stories will batter our minds, bedtime stories, eleven-o-clock downers - a war-torn country, a missing child, a random acid attack, a drunk behind the wheel taking lives he never knew existed. We will speak of atrocity on our cigarette breaks and on the beach, in the clubs, in our sewing circles. We will soon forget. We will go on to betray our friends, cheat our spouses, beat our children and starve our pets. We will invade homes and defile and deceive, hold captive and kill. We will be punished or we will go undiscovered. We will watch, shake our heads and turn away. The burying board lives under our skin. ******************* Note: there was a lot of italics in this one that did not translate in the cut-and-paste. |
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| Author: | KeithMinnion [ Mon Oct 11, 2010 6:17 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
Here is Number 3! October writing exercise: burying boards Joanna and I had been dating roughly three weeks when she told me about the Burying Board. Located in the West Bottoms, the bar was supposedly a haven for the underground cliques, shunning every type of mainstream social cliché that most of the bars downtown appealed to. “No wonder it doesn’t appeal to the masses,” I told her. “It’s in a terrible part of town.” “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’ve been there lots of times, and never had any trouble. Besides, I’ve got you to protect me.” Her lips curled up in a devilish grin, knowing she had me. I don’t know whether it was her long black hair, the fishnet arms and leggings of her outfit, or simply that grin full of perfect white teeth, but I fell hard. Only three weeks in, and I was already at her mercy. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.” To say the Burying Board was in a bad part of town may have been an understatement. The few cars parked on the street were sitting on cinderblocks, all of them missing various parts and pieces. It occurred to me that nobody else going to the bar drove here. They either walked or were dropped off by someone else. Homeless people dressed in tattered rags sat lined against rows of graffiti-stained brick walls. I couldn’t tell the men from the women among them. “Why didn’t you tell me we couldn’t park down here?” I asked. “We can park. It’s just that most people walk.” “Yeah, I can see that.” I shook my head. As we drove by the bar’s entrance, I swung around in a u-turn and parked directly across the street. We got out, making our way across the street. There wasn’t much of a line, and as we reached the door, I pulled out a twenty to give to the bouncer. “Keep an eye on my car, please?” I asked. The guy stared at me like I’d just told him I killed his cat. I quickly pulled out another twenty. “Please?” I repeated. “I heard you,” he growled, snatching the money from my hand. “Get inside.” We did, Joanna nearly pulling my arm out of its socket in her eagerness to get in. We made our way up to the bar, where a young lady in a black leather jumpsuit was pouring shots and shaking drinks with a surprising mix of quickness and grace. “What’ll it be?” she asked. I started to ask for a Rum & Coke, but Joanna stopped me. “We’ll each have a Gender Bender,” she said. “Regular for me, virgin for Jesse here.” “A what?” I asked. “A Gender Bender. Don’t worry, you’re gonna love it. And since you’ve never had one, yours is made special.” She flashed me the devilish grin again. After that, I didn’t care what I was drinking. The lady behind the bar handed us our drinks, and we headed out to the dance floor. Heavy metal blared from the speakers above us, not exactly my type of music, but vastly superior to the techno-pop crap they played everywhere else. The dance floor was full, although the people weren’t exactly dancing, per se. Bodies thrashed and flew around the room in reckless abandon. Almost like a mosh pit, but even less sophisticated. Joanna flung herself into the fray and disappeared. I hung back, sipping my drink along one of the walls. I had no idea what was in the drink, but it tasted damn good. Before long, I was doing more than sipping. I downed the last third in a single swallow, and still not seeing Joanna, went back to order another. “I shouldn’t give you another virgin one,” the bartender said with a wink. “That’s typically only for a patron’s first time. But if you can keep it between us, I’ll let it slide.” I slipped her a five as I took my drink and searched once more for Joanna. A couple minutes later, she came tumbling out of the mob, her body drenched in sweat, the fishnet stocking on her right arm ripped from elbow to wrist. “Where’d you go?” she asked. “I stayed back to enjoy my drink. I see your cup is missing.” I nodded to her empty hands. “Yeah, well, it happens. You’re still drinking that thing?” “Actually, I’ve been back for seconds. And the bartender even gave me another virgin Gender Bender, against company policy apparently.” This time, I gave her the ornery grin. “Oh, you naughty boy,” she said, and burst out laughing. We made our way to a table, most of which were empty. Everyone was too busy dancing to be bothered with sitting down for a chat. “So what’s with the name of this place?” I asked after a few minutes. “What, the Burying Board? You really want to know?” “I guess,” I replied. “Is it really that interesting?” “Well, you know what a burying board is, right? Up north, they used to strap dead people to them in the winter when it was too cold to dig up a grave. They left the corpse someplace cold, bound to the hardwood, until the spring thaw.” “Yeah, I’ve heard about them,” I said. “But what does that have to do with a bar?” “They have some, well, let’s call them private rooms. In the back.” “So?” I was honestly befuddled. “Each private room has a burying board in it. Only if you get strapped to these, you’re at the mercy of whoever bound you to it. Pretty kinky, huh?” I sat there gaping for what seemed like an eternity, when she finally asked, “You want to see one up close?” “What?” I nearly choked on what little drink I had left. Just two Gender Benders, but I was already feeling a strong buzz coming on. “Are you serious?” “Sure, why not. You afraid to see me alone or something?” Joanna and I had certainly engaged in some heavy petting the past couple weeks, but nothing like this. Yet one look at her, one look at that mischievous grin, and my nervousness melted away. “Let’s go,” I told her. I stood up, wavering on my feet. The drinks were really beginning to pack a wallop. Stumbling forward, I allowed Joanna to lead me to the rear of the bar. Behind the dance floor, invisible from the tables, a small hallway stretched back and forked to the right. Six doors lined the hallway, three on each side. Four of them had a strip of red tape across the front. Joanna stopped at the second door on the left, void of tape. “I reserved a room for us,” she said. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.” I nodded, barely able to stand up. I had a terrible intuition that I would pass out before anything interesting happened in here. A dim red glow greeted us as we entered. I saw the burying board, lying on an old metal table in the center of the room. Under the single, dim overhead bulb, it didn’t look kinky. It looked spooky. I told myself that was just the drinks talking. “Joanna, I’m not feeling so hot. I’m not sure I’m, umm, up for anything once you get on there or not.” I nodded at the board, a new wave of nausea washing over me. Joanna laughed. “I’m not getting on there, silly. You are.” Again with that damnable grin, only this time it was different. This time her shiny white teeth were also razor sharp, the top two canines elongated and curved like a rattlesnake. Her left hand lashed out, slashing my forearm as she yanked me close to her. “Oh yes, you’re going to love this.” She slammed my head against the side of the table, and the room swam before my eyes like a mirage. I felt two stinging jolts of pain like flu shots in the back of my neck, near the top of my spinal cord. Then I couldn’t move at all. Joanna’s blurry face appeared in front of mine as she hoisted my paralyzed body onto the burying board. Blood ran down her chin like vomit after a hard night of drinking. Even without the Gender Benders, I couldn’t have fought back as she strapped me to the wood. I saw the leather straps dig into my flesh, ripping skin, but I couldn’t feel any of it. Didn’t feel her teeth as she ripped out a chunk of flesh from my shoulder. I wanted to scream as my own blood dripped from her jaws onto my face, but nothing came out. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s warm enough outside that we can get rid of your body with keeping you on this thing very long.” Her head lowered one last time, her fangs surrounding my adam’s apple. She bit, and now I could feel it, oh god could I feel it, and I prayed I would pass out from the Gender Benders before seeing my throat ripped out of my body. ************************* |
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| Author: | KeithMinnion [ Mon Oct 11, 2010 6:18 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
Number 4! The Black Moths The skinny, pocked faced man walking behind him was a kind of assistant of sorts, always finding drugs and prostitutes that the Preacher needed to exist. He walked with a limp and was known only as Sax. “This fucking road feels like it’s leading us straight to hell,” he said. The Preacher felt the urge to strike him. “Watch your mouth. To those simple bastards back in that town I’m nothing more than a degenerate, but I’ll remind you that I am still a man of God.” Sax fought the overwhelming laughter that threatened to spill out of his mouth. He tolerated the Preacher, the way a battered wife would put up with years of physical abuse. Sax stopped. “Can you at least tell me where the hell we’re headed? We’ve been walking all day. We need rest,” he said. The Preacher didn’t answer. He was busy gazing up at the dark, foreboding clouds that gathered overhead. He wondered if they would accept him as a man of God in the next town, or discover his … weaknesses. Autumn winds swirled, blowing dirt and scraps of garbage about their feet. A storm was brewing, like the one buried deep inside the Preacher’s mind. Then something strange happened: the road disappeared. Instead of going on and on, like most old, dirt roads, it stopped at the beginning of an overgrown piece of wooded land that just didn’t look right-almost as if it had been painted into their journey by some fateful hand. Trees there looked deceiving in the darkness, like ancient arthritic claws. The wind was swaying them back and forth, the deep creaking of the branches sounded like old coffin lids being pried opened in the basement of a vacant funeral home. In the distance, the strobe-like lightning flashed. Sax cowered with his head bent, like an invisible bully was behind him ready to pounce. Sax yelled over the howl of the winds, “We need out of this shit!” The Preacher stared off into the darkness. He raised his right hand to silence Sax. He took out a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, but made no attempt to light it against the wind. “We’ll seek shelter there,” he said, pointing towards the phantom woods. “And don’t argue with me.” As they walked, Sax wondered about the Preacher’s wild fixation with the ominous piece of land. His eyes seemed to regard the land the way a man would look down on a beautiful, naked woman he wanted to consume sexually. They trudged on through thick, dripping wet woodland. The smells of jasmine and roses drifted along the breeze, and up their nostrils. More strangeness. Sax felt something tickle his right cheek, swatted at it, and accidentally poked the Preacher’s shoulder with the tip of his finger. He stopped, waiting for a confrontation. But then, as the Preacher was turning, he froze and reached out to pluck something off Sax’s face. He held it pinched together between fingers, like he had captured something remarkable. A bolt of fear raced through Sax’s body. “What? What the hell is that?” In the darkness the white of Sax’s eyes blazed, and the stink of nervous sweat began to fume off his body. “Shut up,” the Preacher barked. Whatever it was he held, he seemed as fascinated by it as he was when they first came upon the mysterious woods. Sax stepped closer, squinting. The flick of a stainless steel Zippo lighter made a scratching sound, and then a large flame bobbed up and down, illuminating their gaunt faces like witches gathered round a fire. The flame showed two black wings beating to be free, still partially held between thumb and index finger. He smiled, like the devil welcoming new arrivals to hell. Almost to himself, in a whisper, he said, “It’s a black moth …” Sax felt chills shoot down his spine. Some cold wind blew hard through the trees overhead, shaking their branches, and then all was silent again. “A black moth,” the Preacher repeated. “So strange, but it would seem it is inviting us … to something.” Sax was filled with a fear he hadn’t felt since he was a small child; it was a feeling of inner-emptiness, one that he’d never experienced since then, and it chilled him to the bone. “I want out of here, Preacher. You can beat me later,” Sax said, too scared to worry and not caring. The Preacher was silent, still hypnotized by the flutter of the black moth’s wings. He let it go, snapped the lighter shut, and walked on as if he were alone, and someone (or something) was calling to him. Sax looked on, stunned, as the Preacher wandered off in the direction they’d been heading when the moth presented itself. He turned back and followed the demented man of God to the dead heart of the woods. As they walked, another strange occurrence made itself known: the temperature. It had gone from a chilly Autumn night, to one of sticky humidity, and temperatures more suited for July than October. Both became aware of the change, but said nothing. They moved on through wild bushes, piles of twigs, and towering oak trees that seemed to breathe in the darkness. The Preacher stopped, and Sax felt why immediately. A swarm of black moths hovered around them. Although his eyes had adjusted to the night a great deal, Sax couldn’t see clear enough, but thought it looked like possibly over a hundred moths were circling them now. “They’re trying to tell us something,” the Preacher said. His voice was back to a soft, funeral whisper again. “Or … show us something.” Sax was an unwilling witness to whatever was about to occur, and still couldn’t understand what force was keeping him from sprinting out of the woods. “Over there!” The Preacher pointed through the chaos of black wings. Sax couldn’t see what he was pointing at, but watched as he ran twenty-feet ahead of where they stood and then dropped to the ground on his knees, as if in prayer. He went reluctantly to the Preacher’s side. And then he saw what it was that had halted the mad man of God so forcefully: six large boards were sticking up out of the ground in a circle, like Stonehenge, or bizarre tombstones of some kind. Strapped to the boards were what looked like bodies. The riot of moths began to swarm around each head. The Preacher brought out the lighter flame again, holding it out in front of him, his lips drooling at the sight before him. Only the decaying heads of the bodies were visible; the rest of the bodies were wrapped tight to the boards, giving them the appearance of mummies waiting to be unbound. Each head was in a state of bad decomposition, all but the faces, which were still in tact. The stench was not one of human decay, but the earlier smell of jasmine and roses. The Preacher was now on his feet, walking around each body, stroking the wrappings, whispering sick things to them Sax couldn’t hear. Then he stopped, looking directly into Sax‘s eyes. “Do have any idea what these are?” His voice held absolute wonder, like a man who’d just uncovered the lost city of Atlantis. “These are burying boards. In the old days they used to wrap deceased loved ones like this, then stash them someplace cold … so they wouldn’t rot.” He paused after the last word, reached over, and began to stroke one of the rotting heads like it was an ill son. Perhaps this explained the jolt in temperature change, but it was backwards: why would it turn hotter where these bodies are, instead of cold to slow the decomposition? That was when Sax saw the glint of the blade in the Preacher’s right hand. The moonlight peeking through the trees caught it at just the right angle. The Preacher was now slicing strips of rotten flesh from the faces poking out of the bandages. He set the strips of slimy skin on a fallen tree branch, looked at Sax and explained, “So they can dry.” His mind was gone. He fell to the ground, frothing at the mouth and mumbling incoherent words, trying to undo the wrappings. “I must uncover them, don’t you see? It‘s why the moths led me here … to free them!” His eyes trickled blood. Sax waited until he turned back, busy carving away at another corpse, then walked up behind him and opened his throat with a knife he had stashed in his right boot. Blood from the Preacher’s neck sprayed out over the feet of one of the corpses. He looked up into the moonlight, and said through a gargle of blood, “The moths … black … here to show us this … monument to death.” “Yeah,” Sax said, his head bowed, feeling nothing for the life he just took, “the black moths.” The End ******************** |
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| Author: | KeithMinnion [ Mon Oct 11, 2010 6:20 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
And the final story, Number 5! My Side Of The Story I think should really learn to believe rumors every once in a while, Lord knows I heard a lot of them before I started working at Stan’z Kwik Shoppe. I heard the rumors of Indian burial grounds, UFO sightings and all kind of funky stuff that turned out not to be true. The problem was though, that no matter how many rumors turned out to be complete bullshit, there were the few that turned out to be 100% honest to God truth. There was the talk that my boss Mr. Counsman had some strange infatuation for old family burial boards, and that he stored his every growing collection underneath the store in a hidden basement. Sure, I know the story sounds pretty much bogus, but for those of you who haven’t lived under a rock for the past month or so, you know exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve been trying now for months to tell my side of the story, but every time I do I stop, because as you will read, it is a bit unbelievable. Make no mistake though, the following is what went down the night hat most people in Altoona Pennsylvania will never forget. The night started off pretty much as dull and drab as every other night. I can’t say that the 10AM-7PA shift at Stan’z was the most glorious position in the world, but it was exactly the kind of job a student-by-day-clerk-by-night person like me could really dig. It was not a hard job really, I only had about 3 hours of real work to do, and everything else was pretty much keeping the store tidy, ringing on the seven or eight customer a day, and, on the hours of down time I had, catching up with my good friend Neil Gaiman. I was on page 78 on my zillionth time reading though “American Gods” when he walked in, and I will never forget that moment. The time was 3:11AM, there was about 6 inches of snow on the ground, and somehow he had made it into the store without leaving any footprints outside, or even dinging the bell that was attached to the door, His raspy voice started me out of my Gaiman induced trace. “Where are they?” he said in a very smooth tone. Nothing about him was threatening for the most part, but for some reason something was telling me that this man was someone to be terrified of, and that taking him lightly would not end well for me. “What can I help you find?” I said with your standard issue I’m-paid-to-be-nice-to-you friendliness, but he just stood there staring at me with a very hollow looking set of eyes. For s second or two there was silence, I started to repeat myself when he cut me off. “Where are they? Where are they?! WHERE ARE THEY!?” He started to reach for me. Slowly he pulled his arm up and with an open hand; he started reaching directly for my face. I started to panic, I was backing up but his arm seemed impossibly long, and he just continued reaching for me repeating “WHERE ARE THEY!?” Finally I shouted the first thing that came to mind. THEYARE BACK BY THE BATHROOM!” He stopped himself and pulled his arm back. He said nothing, he simply gave me what night have been a smile and walked off towards the restrooms. It didn’t take me long to convince myself that nothing about the guy was amiss, and that he was just some strange guy who snuck in because I was to deep into my book, lord knows it was not the first time it’s happened. I’m not sure how long it was after he walked in that I heard the crash. It instantly woke me up out of a bit of a doze and sent me looking frantically around for the source of the noise. It was not until I went to the back of the store where the storage area was that I noticed that somehow between the time I got to work and now, the door to the basement was not just unlocked, but laying in several broken hunks on the floor. The rational part of my brain told me that this was impossible, that the only way for anyone to get back there was to sneak by the counter, and there was no way I was that involved in the book. I debated to myself weather or not to call the cops, or walk down to the basement to see what was going on. The smart thing to have done would be to have phoned the authorities, so naturally I creped slowly down to the basement. The staircase was huge! TO my knowledge, no one besides Mr. Counsman had ever been down there, but I swear to God that this staircase was the size of a football field. The fear welled up inside me as I descended; it was multiplied tenfold when I realized that I could hear the sound of a man crying down there. Not only that, but I could hear the sound of wood being thrown around, like someone was building something, or destroying something. Step by step, footstep by footstep I descended the impossibly long staircase, the sounds of crying and wood banging around getting louder and louder. Finally, after what may have been three minutes, three hours, or three days, I finally got the door at the bottom of the steps. I opened the door and there he was. The man who had frightened me out in the store was hysterically crying, obviously he was trying to talk but the words were lost in his sobs. My eyes saw past him, and saw the rumored collection of burring boards that Mr. Coundsman had. The more I looked at them the more it became apparent that he collected them to deface them. Some of them were on the floor broken, some had odd symbols carved into them, and some even had childish graffiti spray painted on them. The man from before was frantically going through them, trying to put them back together, trying to wipe off the graffiti, and trying desperately to smooth over the carvings and the odd designs. I had to pull back some tears of my own, the man was frantically crying, almost to the point of insanity. His attempts to repair the boards becoming more and more frantic, sometimes he would even stop to embrace a board, as if he was telling it that he was sorry but there was no hope for it. Faster and faster, more and more frantic he moved, once every few seconds I could make out words through his sobs, I heard “how?” and “why” and “sorry” and, the word that made me a pit uneasy, “pay.” I wanted to tell this hysterical man that things would be OK, but instead I just watched him run from board to board, talking to them, hugging them, and crying. He stopped dead. No more tears flowed, no more running, no more movement. He gave the room one more look and finally started speaking in a language I had never heard before, but was mesmerizing to listen to. He slowly turned and faced me; something in his eyes told me that it was a very very bad idea to stick around much longer. I turned right around and sprinted up the stairs not looking behind me but still hearing him speaking that strange sounding language. I ran as fast as my legs world carry me, I ran out of the store, jumped in my trusty Impala, and drove like hell, not once looking back Anyone who watched TV or reads a newspaper knows the rest of the story, which has been dubbed “The Meteorological Even of Millennia.” Seven simultaneous lightning strikes his the store, all within a 2 square foot area. The fire that resulted burned for 3 days and destroyed most of the Juniata section of Altoona Pennsylvania. Curiously, the fire spared both funeral homes, though the firefighters deny giving them any special treatment. Even more curious was that there was only one casualty, one Robert Counsman, owner of “Stan’z Kwik Shoper.” The event was small enough not to turn the rest of Altoona into a circus, but big enough that I am being hounded by “paranormal investigators” and “ghost hunters” and jokers of that sort trying to get “the real story.” Well what you just read is what happened and is “the real story.” I’m sure in a few weeks people will have added vampires and UFOs and crap like that. As for me, I’m leaving this town and not looking back, I want to find somewhere small that I can just hide out for a while until this fiasco is forgotten about. My dad has an old buddy named Burt who lives in some town in Nevada called “Perfection,” think ill give him a call,,, *********************** Comments and critiques are welcome! |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Mon Oct 11, 2010 6:41 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
First, thanks Keith! I know it took up some of your time and I'm sure everyone of us is extremely grateful. I've got to read these a few more times before commenting. But I will say, I have no idea who wrote what. Tt |
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| Author: | Craig Cook [ Tue Oct 12, 2010 1:48 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
Just finished reading all of these. It's almost one in the morning, though, so I will wait and post more thoughts on this tomorrow. I will say this, though - I enjoyed the school shooting story the most, I think, for two reasons. First, the style was different. Quick vignettes of the four youths, followed by two scenes tying them together. The writing was done in crisp, short sentences that didn't beat around the bush. They got right to the point. And second, because this story was something none of us would be surprised to see on the news, which makes it all the more terrifying. |
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| Author: | Jazminsdaddy [ Tue Oct 12, 2010 10:34 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
I didn't hand a story in. My uncle died on the weekend. He was young and he was the kind of guy everyone loved. We're all still in shock. He was a big gregarious guy who loved to eat and that is what killed him. A heart attack. My story sits unfinished and I just don't feel like working on it. Eat your veggies guys and gals and drop a few pounds if you need to. |
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| Author: | horrordude [ Tue Oct 12, 2010 10:45 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
Sorry, JD.
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| Author: | Ender [ Tue Oct 12, 2010 12:02 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
Sorry to hear that, JD. It's tough, I know.. Hang in there, man. I'll read the stories and give my two - five cents later on today. |
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| Author: | Nanci [ Tue Oct 12, 2010 12:07 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
Sorry for you loss JD
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Tue Oct 12, 2010 12:17 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
I'm also sorry for your loss J.D. Tony |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Tue Oct 12, 2010 12:49 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
Some observations: October Writing Exercise: An enjoyable story with a smart use of dialogue to propel it along. I would have preferred something other than a first person narration though, and I thought the very end was a bit over dramatic rather than scary, but, hey, that's just me. But I thought it had a great premise and I was with it to the very end. What Kind of Monster: The set up for the story was fresh for our group and I did enjoy that. I also enjoyed the direction the author took on the subject. I thought the story was well written and that it made it's point admirably. The Black Moths: While I enjoyed this one, I didn't quite understand what the premise was. I think this story needed much more exposition and would have benefited from a longer length. I really liked the vibe of the story though, it was very dark. And I liked the very last line. The Burial Board: A period piece, and I thought it well done. If Thad had written a story I would have bet that this was his. The story appeared rich to me, full of facts, back story, and emotion. This is one story that should be filled out by the author at a later date, there is quite a lot to explore in this story, but even as it is I thought it was a good tale. My Side Of The Story: This was an unusual take on the subject matter and I liked the premise. I think the author needed to spend a little more time on correcting typo's though as they occasionally took me out of the story. In this story I liked the first person narration. |
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| Author: | Ender [ Tue Oct 12, 2010 2:11 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
The Burial Board I really like the atmosphere of this one. The description of wind and snow do well to complement the chilling events of the story. I like that it leaves the reader to wonder at the nature of the board. Could be fleshed out more but I think it might take away from the ambiguity of it, which I thought suited it well. What Kind of Monster Scary because the things described in it happen all the time. I think it would be better if it focused on fewer characters and had less swearing. Fewer characters = tighter focus, and though there's nothing wrong with swearing, I felt there was more than was necessary, especially in a short short story. burying boards Nasty little story, heh... I like how it slowly builds up to the end, and everything is very well-described. I felt like I was walking alongside the main character, which was more than a little unsettling. I think this is the one I was most enthralled with, for whatever reason. The Black Moths I thought it was a little slow-moving at first and the similes bugged me a bit (personal preference) but then it picked up momentum. And the final parts were awesome. The last two paragraphs were the opposite of what I was expecting. I do agree with Tony about the premise. My Side Of The Story I'm not sure if I'm supposed to put the pieces together and understand what exactly happened and why, but I feel a little stupid because I can't. Aside from that it was a great read. I like mundanity of the setting. It gave the whole thing a sense of surreality. A little hard to follow at times but well-plotted and intriguing. |
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| Author: | TMLCrow [ Tue Oct 12, 2010 3:34 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
My condolences, JD. |
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| Author: | AdamHughes [ Tue Oct 12, 2010 3:56 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
sorry to hear that JD,,, |
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| Author: | AdamHughes [ Tue Oct 12, 2010 4:31 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
Here is my take The Burial Board: Pretty good story overall, and i thought it had a pretty kickass ending. I felt kind of bad though,,,i had a "you should have known better" thing going when he took the board,,,he should have known SOMETHINg was bound to go wrong  the night before...: This one for me was hit and miss. I enjoyed the buildup, and that it was able to do alot of character development in a shot period, but the last part of the story i think could have been done better. The whole "people suck because they are this-way" or "people are numb to evil the most evil acts" has kind of gotten old with me. It has nothing to do with the story,,,more of a personal preference (Number 3): This one i really liked. I was able to lose myself in it quite quickly and it did a good job of keeping me reading. I think it should have been done from another perspective though. Ive always wondered how stories could be written from the first person if he/she dies at the end  The Black Moths: Not quite sure about this one. With a longer word limit, some more explanation would have probably done this story some good. It did have a pretty nice creepiness to it though,,, |
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| Author: | horrordude [ Tue Oct 12, 2010 6:20 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
The Black Moths? What crazy asshole wrote this? Probably some Eva Longoria freak who eats too much pizza ... 
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| Author: | Craig Cook [ Tue Oct 12, 2010 9:11 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
First and foremost, I'm sorry for your loss, JD. *************** Okay, as far as the stories, I've already commented on one, which I'll paste here to have them all together. WHAT KIND OF MONSTER I enjoyed the school shooting story the most, I think, for two reasons. First, the style was different. Quick vignettes of the four youths, followed by two scenes tying them together. The writing was done in crisp, short sentences that didn't beat around the bush. They got right to the point. And second, because this story was something none of us would be surprised to see on the news, which makes it all the more terrifying. THE BURIAL BOARD For the most part, I thought this was a very strong story. The atmosphere, complete with the blizzard, the finding of the board, and the journey was well done. The power of the board was original as well. My only quiblle was I knew what would be happening from the moment we find out about the wife and daughter dying. The tricky part for the author would be to make this less noticeable while still having the main character get spooked by something. OCTOBER WRITING EXERCISE First off, it would be nice to have a title. Just saying. I thought the majority of the story was solid, the dialogue believable, and filled with just enough tension to keep me going to the very end. Not so sure about the vampire, though. I'm not a vampire person, although that's simply my own personal preference. And as Adam mentioned, its hard to have a first person narrator if he/she dies at the end. It might work if written in the present tense, though. THE BLACK MOTHS I'm going to go out on a limb and guess Horrordude wrote this one. I think this started out as the best story idea of the bunch, and I really wanted to know about the Preacher and Sax. However, I think the word count limited the author to explore the motives behind the two characters. While the story felt dark and forboding throughout, I also couldn't sense what I should be scared of. I would be greatly interested in reading an expanded copy, with more details concerning Preacher and Sax, their relationship, journey, and what the black moths are.MY SIDE OF THE STORY Like The Black Moths, I thought the basis of a good story was here. The thing that took me out of it were the typos (there's one in the very first sentence). I was also a bit confused how the store clerk knew the mysterious guy went to the back of the store, but didn't know how someone snuck back and broke the door to the basement. These are relatively easy fixes, though, and once done, I think this could be a very strong story. Also like Moths, an expanded version with a little more backstory concerning the boards and the owner of the store would be a nice touch. |
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| Author: | AdamHughes [ Wed Oct 13, 2010 1:20 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
Note to self:,,, Rushed story due to wedding planning = BAD SPELLING!
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| Author: | horrordude [ Thu Oct 14, 2010 5:19 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
I didn't forget anyone's story. Just trying to finish a different story that's pissing me off. I'll comment on each one before the end of the weekend. I still think the stories get better each time around, and everyone did a great job ... except in the case of The Black Moths, which seems to have been written by a very disturbed mind. It wasn't the word limit. I figured Keith came up with such a creepy topic, that it became just a snapshot of the Preacher's warped mind snapping when the moths lead him to the burying boards. But you guy's were right: it did read like I had so much more to write about the two characters, and was beaten down a bit by the word limit. Thanks to Keith for picking such a cool, creepy topic. |
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| Author: | Craig Cook [ Thu Oct 14, 2010 1:30 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
Mike, do you plan on expanding The Black Moths out at all? It's such a cool premise, I'd love to see you take off and run with it. 
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| Author: | Ender [ Thu Oct 14, 2010 5:36 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
| Author: | horrordude [ Fri Oct 15, 2010 12:30 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
| Author: | Craig Cook [ Fri Oct 15, 2010 12:43 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
| Author: | horrordude [ Fri Oct 15, 2010 1:07 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
| Author: | Craig Cook [ Fri Oct 15, 2010 8:31 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
| Author: | horrordude [ Sun Oct 17, 2010 5:00 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
The Burial Board: Excellent story, I thought. I thought it didn't rush the reader towards the ending, like a lot of stories with this word count can often do. The ending was weird, and left many more strange possibilities of the board roaming around my mind. I like when a story does that. As Craig mentioned with my own story, I think this story would smooth out perfectly if the writer were to explore a bit more with the characters, and make it longer. Great job. The Black Moths: I will not comment on the deranged ramblings of a troubled mind hungry for pizza and sex with Eva Longoria. And I shall comment on the other three later tonight. Right now I'm late for my nude tennis lesson. (You know ... flying balls ...)
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Sun Oct 17, 2010 5:24 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
Thanks H.D and everyone else who commented favorably on The Burial Board. I loved Keith's idea and wanted to write a traditional, period piece about a burial board. The story when I first wrote it was almost twice the length as it appears above. I spent a lot of time chopping it down to get it to the point where you see it now. I really was in a quandary with it, I didn't know what to take out so I wound up just cutting sentences to shorten them as well as a few scenes. And it shows. To my eyes it reads a bit choppy with too many short sentences. It's funny, usually when I write a story I'm all excited and write quickly, but on this one I took my time and was pretty calm the whole time I spent on it. Out of all the experimental style stories I've written for these exercises, this is one that I think I will go back to sometime and flesh out. |
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| Author: | TMLCrow [ Mon Oct 18, 2010 9:45 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: Horrorworld October 2010 Horror Story Exercise |
Okay, I know I don't have a story here, but for some reason someone who shall remain Craig wanted me to comment. The Burial Board--This one was the most polished of the bunch. Nice atmosphere. If I had a quibble with this one, it would be that the main character just happens to find this shack with the altar. I owe that more to the word limit than anything. What Kind Of Monster--The storytelling was excellent. I think there were the right number of shooters. If you were to drop one, who would it be? If this were to be expanded, I'd like a little more on just how these four came together. My only thing was I thought the last section was bordering on being, well, a bit preachy, until that last line. Beautiful. October Writing Exercise--It was good, solid storytelling. I think some discomfort with your antagonist showed a little, though, Craig. I had no problem with it being in first person. The Black Moths--I definitely would like to see what was happening before this scene. This is the type of writing I would expect from Dude, something a little off-kilter. Expand this one. Make it whatever length Preacher and Sax want it to be. Man cannot live on short stories alone. Put them aside and work on this. When you go back to the short stories, you may have a new perspective on them. My Side Of The Story--I definitely think Adam is an idea person. This a nice idea, with the mundane touched by the weird. He has some good images here, but the story is a bit confusing. Time and more writing will help him in developing the details more. I hope you keep up with this, Adam. You've got talent. The one thing I came away with from this month's stories is everyone seemed to take a chance. I've read more work from Tt, Craig and Dude, but it feels like they stepped out of their comfort zones and tried something a little different. And while this is only the second thing from Adam and first from Ender that I've read, I also appreciate the choices they made in how to present their tales. I've said that I would rather read someone experimenting with something different than a safe polished story. All five did that here. My thanks to Keith for his work on this one. |
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