Darth Cephalus
Supreme Heresiarch of Inadvisable Saber Techniques
Knight Commander
Force Alignment: -915
Posts: 1567
Who watches the watchmen?
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« on: April 03, 2014, 03:52:21 AM » |
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So I just heard back from the people over at the Lovecraft Film Festival in Portland and *insert drum-roll here* my story was the overall winner of the microfiction contest. They will be publishing me in their program and in a chapbook anthology. My story will also be read aloud at the festival by one of the celebrity guests. Not sure which one but I am hoping for Doug Bradley (the guy who played Pinhead in Hellraiser). Thought I would share the story though it is not SWU related. Enjoy.
My Lucky Day
Bob opened his eyes. He’d been trying to sleep, but the pounding sound on the roof was proving too much for his exhaustion to overcome. It was raining again…but what was it raining? You never knew these days.
Things were supposed to have been different when the Old Ones returned. The end cults said it would be fire and madness and a quick trip down the cosmic drain. Quaint, but far from the truth.
Sure, there was some violence—a city or two lost—but total destruction just wasn’t part of the plan. The Old Ones had set up shop and things got quiet: that is, except for the voices.
First it was little things like Don’t panic and Things will all work out. The voices weren’t coming from anywhere exactly, but everyone heard them, and they were encouraging really. Chin up and Keep on truckin' helped you cope. Pretty soon, though, people started to realize that coping wasn't optional.
The first time Bob tried to kill himself, the voice told him not to. That didn’t stop him from putting the cold barrel of the gun to his head and tightening his finger around the trigger. That was when the voice became more than a voice. It was a command; an impulse that sucker punched him right in the brain. Put down the gun…he did. Go back home and take a nap…he did. Everything will be OK…like hell it will.
After that, he tried to poison himself twice and tried to jump off a building once. Each time, the voice stopped him. Eventually he gave up and moved on. He even found a girlfriend. The voice told him she was good for him. He guessed he agreed.
He wasn’t alone. People didn’t kill themselves anymore—or each other—but they still died. They got up one morning and walked out of their lives and across town, right into the mouth of whatever corpulent, pulsating middle-management beastie was closest, and they smiled while they did it. Everyone else just kept on keepin' on, as instructed.
Bob had watched a lot of people go that way. He’d even seen it happen on his way home from a walk downtown the voice had told him to take. There was no screaming, just a wet chewing sound as a line of people marched into a circular maw in the basement door of an abandoned brewery.
Bob got dressed and went outside. He looked up: rainworms against a red sky. A small swarm descended and sank their abdominal hooks into his face for a quick snack. He winced but let them. You learned to let them. If you tried to pull them off before they finished, it was much worse.
Soon, it wouldn’t matter. He’d won the lottery. Bob smiled—as best he could around the worms, anyway—and wondered if he remembered how to get to that old brewery. He was pretty sure the voice knew the way.
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