Show Posts

This section allows you to view all posts made by this member. Note that you can only see posts made in areas you currently have access to.


Topics - Slimebeast

Pages: 1 [2] 3 4 ... 36
16
Slimy Stories / Blue is for Boys
« on: 03:47:24 AM 12/25/16 »
I didn't know I was poor until December, 2005. I was 8 years old, and as an only daughter, I was showered with enough love and attention that I barely noticed the absence of possessions.

That Christmas Eve, though, I learned a few things. That year, they held a “Toys for Tots” styled event at the local video store. Customers were encouraged to drop a toy into a cardboard box to earn points toward a free rental. I'd seen the box before, and even asked my mom if we should donate something 'for a poor kid'. That's how oblivious I was.

That day, my parents brought me to the store to return Prisoner of Azkaban. When I saw Santa seated on a throne in the middle of the room, I immediately knew I was really there to see him. I was ecstatic as we waited, and I could barely keep from breaking into nervous tears as I got up into his lap.

The man looked weathered and weary, with a notable wart at the corner of his eye. He wasn't what I'd been expecting, but I'd visited grandparents before so I wasn't put off by his rough, reddish-yellow complexion. What really caught my notice was the smell. It wasn't overwhelming, but he smelled like my friend's baby brother. Like a musty diaper. I shifted uncomfortably as I felt the crackle of plastic in his lap.

“Ho ho ho!” he exclaimed, dispelling any misgivings. “What would you like for Christmas?” I told him everything I wanted, though I hadn't had any prep time. I asked for a job for my dad, which must have seemed thoughtless. After my parents took pictures, I was off Santa's lap and on solid ground.

“Go over and pick out a present!” Santa boomed, giving me a guiding hand to a small, folding card table. That's when it hit me. A cold feeling hit the pit of my stomach. He wanted me to pick out a toy for a poor kid.

I looked to my parents, sure they'd gesture for me to leave the table and come back to them. Instead they nodded and smiled, completely unaware of the mental crisis I'd stumbled into. I reached for a box in blue paper.

“No!” Santa boomed again, a sudden harsher tone wrapping his voice in thorns. It softened again as he continued, “Blue is for good little boys. Pink is for sweet little girls.” I obediently selected a pink box before scurrying back to my mom in a miniature panic.

I couldn't open that present on Christmas morning. I thought it'd be a broken, dirty doll someone dropped into the donation box instead of throwing it away. I'd never been selfish like that, but being surprised with the idea that I needed charity played havoc with my young, fragile outlook on life.

Dad ended up opening it for me, assuming I was too humble to accept it. I didn't correct him as he pulled out a new, pristine-looking white teddy bear. I instantly fell in love, naming him Snowy Bear. I learned a lot that year, and I don't mean that we weren't rich. I learned what it meant to appreciate the kindness of others, and that our finances didn't make us lesser as people.

Many years later, while unpacking in my new apartment, I pulled the shedding, bedraggled Snowy out of a forgotten box. Feeling nostalgic, I hugged the old bear tightly. So tightly, in fact, that the wireless camera fell free from his eye socket.

17
Creepy Media Picks / "Free Burgers for Life"
« on: 09:31:11 PM 09/17/16 »

18
The Shitty Stories / You Got Blood in My Ink
« on: 05:48:01 PM 08/17/16 »
Hello. I'm writing to you from the far future, a bleak time where narrators have become the most feared creatures to walk the face of the Earth. None of our historians are quite sure about how this began, but the end result is clear. Narrators can no longer truly be classified as "human".

Some say they were simply driven mad by a constant inability to break from a first-person narrative and to experience reality from other perspectives. Others believe the constant mis-attribution and manipulation of their tales somehow caused within them a genetic change beyond the understanding of science.

My name is Kevin, and I fear my time may be short. You see, though narrators are quickly outpacing the normal population through their newly discovered ability of asexual reproduction, the stories themselves seem to be limited. It is believed that these things can smell an original piece of work from miles away, and that their highly attuned literary senses draw them to the written word like moths to a candle. When this happens... well... suffice to say my story may soon no longer be my own.

You can call me Steven. Ever since I was a child, I wanted to learn how to fly a plane. My father had been a pilot, and would often hand the controls to me in mid-flight. Something about that early feeling of freedom and control over my own destiny stuck with me through the decades.

Suddenly, Steven was dead. As he lay there on the floor before me, two questions came to mind. One: Who was the man lying next to him? He didn't look like a narrator. His back was not hunched, and his hands weren't the gnarled claws I had become accustomed to seeing. Two: Who would finish narrating this story?

Brushing aside the carcasses, and paying them no more mind that I would give a dead squirrel caught in a pool filter, I set about the grim task of finishing the work. Far too often, modern stories descended into chaos. What would begin as a lovely personal anecdote or the setup for the next great American novel soon became corrupted and nonsensical as a feeding frenzy of blood-soaked narrators fingered the keys with wild abandon.

Forgive me, I should introduce myself. My name is Peter.

Pardon me. I meant to say Stanley. Peter was the name of a remarkable chap I met recently. He seemed fond of shrieking and losing his innards on the floor in front of this computer. This made him the life of the party whenever we would go out on the town together. O'Malley's Pub. That's where I met the girl that would change my life.

She was a redhead. Leave it to me to find the authentic fiery Irish lass in the soulless facade that was O'Malley's. The owner didn't have an Irish gene in his body, but he knew the name would sell. Her name was Meagan. Beautiful, blaze-headed Meagan.

then meagan died and now this is a new story some kids me included were walking thu a park playground afterschool one day and suddenly one of them realizes. hey. theres no lights and its getting really dark now. just then i saw a face in the shadows it became really bright pale nad had black black eyes like the darkest black youve ever seen. the face smiled really huge and laughed it said 'hey kids do you wanted to play my game? some of you can win the game but most of you might end up DEAD' one of the kids who wasnt me or oscar said no i dont want to play and the moster shook its head very fast nad instantly was RIGHT UP ON US i look around and see the other kids is frozen with fear but i took out my butterlfyknife and threaten the monster to get away from the kid when i do it says 'thats the game you now lost' and my friend disappeared with it

I backed away from the computer. What was this garbage? I mean, I had seen worse. Much worse. However, something inside of me could not let this story suffer in such a way. Stepping over the quickly growing pile of flesh and gristle that once comprised several living entities, I began to type.

You can call me David. I grew up in the American South-West and had become accustomed to strange sights that almost seemed to be the hallucinations of a man who had spent too long in the Sun. On that day, however, things were all too real. I had just finished packing up the station wagon when little Marcy pointed to the neighbor's house. "Daddy, who's that man?" She asked.

WHAM! A meteor hit the neighborhood. No one survived except for myself and a rag-tag group of grizzled old hobos too tough or too stupid to die. The name's Ray, and this is the story of how I escaped the nuclear wasteland of space-radiation that was wherever this story just said I lived.

This has to stop. I'm not like them. I'm not a narrator. Lyle, the man who originally started this letter... well, let's just say I'm a friend of his. I was going to meet up with him to collect his things and start out for the Time Center, where we plan on remotely transmitting his warning to a certain point in the past before all of this started.

The Time Center was founded specifically for emergencies such as this. We could never figure out how to transport people or objects, but we could send beams. Wave-lengths. In order to test the technology, we transmitted what you call "internet memes" back through the time stream. We determined they were the safest bet since no one usually knows or cares who came up with them. They're also shared so widely that we would be able to see the effects of our work quite easily. (Just wait, a lot of those random bullshit images that seem like funny nonsense will make a lot more sense after World War IV.)

Right now, I'm going to put this laptop under lock and key so it isn't destroyed any further. I'll go through and edit out the nonsense when it's safe... unless of course, I never get the chance.

I DID IT. I finally did it!! That motherfucker thought he could keep this all to himself, but I'm going to have the last word. "I'm not a narrator", he says. Bullshit, you curved-spine, claw-having bastard. No one but a narrator would fight to the death for a work of fiction! It's been seven days, but I finally cracked the combination on this stupid fucking lock and now it's mine. My name is Isaac, and I've always had an irrational fear of caterpillars. It all began when I was a small boy, resting underneath an apple tree in the back yard of my parents' home.

Seven days! Seven days I waited for that bastard to let his guard down so I could get to the lock box he was always fiddling with. When I finally wrested the computer from his deformed fingers, my eyes widened in shock. Caterpillars? Of all the things he could have written about, he chose that?

I clubbed him in the back of the head as he pondered caterpillars.

I ripped into his flesh.
I snapped his neck as he wrote about tearing the flesh.

Hello, my name is George, and this is how I became the most popular boy in school.

He fell before me, his throat ripped open and tongue lolling out.

The mass of narrators became suffocating.
I pulled out his eye.
Taking the story in my hands, I began to write.

Picking up the laptop, I set about the task of writing.

I can end this before I die.
Forgive me if I type fast, but my time may be short.
This is the story about the day I died.

From the outset I knew if anyone was going to finish the story it would be me.

This is a true story.
You can call me Tim.

I always knew Tim would die young.

Night had come and the moon hung in the air like a balloon a kid had let go of.

It was morning in the small fishing village.

That's why, until this very day, I still have a pain in my right thumb.

THE END

19
Rap Battles / Willy Wonka vs. Willy Loman
« on: 02:53:43 AM 07/18/16 »
Willy Wonka:

Oom-pa, Loom-pa,
fuck-a-dee-doo!

It's a lost, lying loser who
gets axed in act two!

Ignore me of I snore, but
your story's a Killer,

from a man who pens filler
like a true Author-Miller.

I'm a mad candy kingpin,
at the top of my business.

Take kids to your play, they'll
say "what the Hell IS this?"

I hear YOU have two boys,
but are they proud of their Pappy?

Well, with so few toys,
I bet neither was "Happy"!

Did it sour your day, did
it nearly destroy you,

getting sacked by the son
of the man who employed you?

Enjoy the middle class,
don't expect to go far.

Because even my chocolate
is richer than you are.

Here, I'll show my sweet side,
and bring joy to your life.

Now take this gobstobber,
back home for your wife.



Willy Loman:

Show some respect, don't you
know what my name is?

All of New England loves me,
don't say I'm not famous!

First name, Willy,
with a will to win this.

Last name, Loman,
Man, I'm low on forgiveness.

A patriarchal patriot,
All-American Dreamy.

My record's straight-As
because no one can B me.

That just goes to show, what
some hard work can do,

a lesson to a whacked-out
fruitcake like you!

I'm gonna be Number 1,
you're a zero, come at me.

I may stretch the truth,
but I'll chew you like Taffy.

I'm the alpha male here,
no ifs, ands, or buts.

Your mouth and your product,
"May contain nuts."



Willy Wonka:

Were you trying to rap,
you vile vaudevillian?

Go ahead, flap your trap,
while I earn my next billion.

Most successful sugar daddy
on the face of the Earth,

filling youngsters with joy,
and pure mischievous mirth,

while my wallet expands,
like a purple girl's girth,

I'd sucker-punch you now,
but you aren't slug-worth.

Maybe I shouldn't brag,
you ARE desperate for cash...

Why not make like the market,
and head out for a crash?

Think of all the sweet treats,
your family can attain.

Crunch your car 'round a Good Bar,
and you won't die in vein.

Let's end of the tall-tale of
a sad money-chaser.

This battle is over, You
get NOTHING, good DAY sir.



Willy Loman:

Golly gee, what a verse,
that wasn't horrible at all.

But let me stop you there,
because I'm on a "roll, doll".

Go choke on a Snozzberry,
you're a wall-licking clown,

and your glass elevator is
going straight down.

Your business is in trouble,
if THIS shit was your worst.

Maybe I'll buy your shares
when the gum-bubble bursts.

There's no milk in your cash cow,
you dorky dental defiler.

I think you're lashing out now,
because you couldn't be Wilder.

You're a one-hit Wonka,
that's all that fate gave you.

You can't bear the Burton,
and even Depp couldn't save you.

No one cares about your sequel,
or "Vermicious Knids",

but we all find it suspicious that
you hang with missing kids.

If you want my competition,
then in the end, you'll fail.

If you think your boat is bad,
watch your candy-ass in jail.

20
Rap Battles / Robin Hood vs. Zorro
« on: 03:41:24 PM 07/09/16 »
Robin Hood

Something's rotten in Nottingham,
a thug who's here to bother,

the bandit-king brigand old
enough to be his father.

An uncouth youth whose
tongue will cease wagging,

when I drop a head shot,
and get to tea bagging.

You're simply not fit
to battle wits with a Brit.

I'm the bear in these woods,
and I'm about to take a shit,

on a fence-sitting fool and
a huge hypocrite,

who rubs elbows with moguls
any time he sees fit!

You live a double-life,
I gave up all my riches.

Leave now or get stitches
in the seat of your britches.



Zorro:

What is it with white men
and the love of green paper?

Here, pick up this quarter,
while I whip out my rapier!

I asked your Merry Men, if
they'd betray you if they could.

Just throw in a little cash, and
I'm "Sher" that they "Wood".

Because I've seen Little John,
your fat friend Friar Tuck.

Your Lost Boys are losers,
leaving you out of luck.

You're wasting your time
chasing baubles and stones,

Marryin' a Maid while I
boned Zeta-Jones!

Take your pageboy hair,
your Tinkerbell dress,

and #Brexit this battle
before EU make a mess.



Robin Hood:

I thought you'd have brains,
since you're lacking the brawn.

That's the drek I'd expect
from the likes Prince John.

Like the string of my bow,
your chances are narrow.

I'll split your dick in half
with a single arrow.

You're skilled with a sword,
but your sight must be lacking.

Half of the time, it's a
wall you're attacking!

Your North American graffiti
is quite out of order.

Carve all of those 'Z's
on your side of the border.

Your raps are a crime,
I'll serve you up on a platter.

Turn you in, to the Sheriff.
Whack Lines Matter.



Zorro:

You won't last long with
that price on your head.

When you run out of arrows,
Hood's as good as dead.

What kind of a mark will you
leave when you're gone?

Will you be as well-loved
the dueling Don Juan?

Stop stealing from the rich,
and giving to the poor.

it's only more cash
that they'll be taxed for.

Though you generate hate
for the upper classes...

Why not join my cause
and side-kick their asses?

You're as green as your tights,
I'm smooth in black satin.

Goddamn it Robin,
I'm the Latin Batman.

21
Creepy Media Picks / Another "Lost Episodes" Reading!
« on: 01:38:25 PM 07/06/16 »

22
Creepy Media Picks / MM - Companionship
« on: 02:06:59 AM 06/01/16 »

23
Rap Battles / Harriet Tubman vs. Rosa Parks
« on: 06:45:16 PM 05/29/16 »
Harriet Tubman

Watch out, here comes
the Freedom Train.

Running down racists and
plowing through chains.

Bringing salvation to a nation
through migration 'cross terrain.

An emancipation campaign
way beyond Thomas Paine!

You were a part of the fight
but you sure didn't spark it.

You're not half as tough as Tubman,
so why don't you Park it?

I'm money - so fresh,
but you'll pay the cost,

when you've lost and you're
behind me, sucking exhaust.



Rosa Parks:

Step back, sweetheart,
I don't mean to be unkind,

But they're putting you on cash
that paid for your behind.

All that time on the train
must've rattled your brain,

because the whole plan
sounds just a little insane.

I'm all for the change, though
I don't know why they'd bother,

sticking you in the middle of
those flawed founding fathers.

You'll be stacked with slave-owners,
and unless you've forgotten,

They'll be printing your face
on seventy-five percent cotton.



Harriet Tubman:

You've got a lot to learn,
and I'm gonna be blunt.

Take a lesson from the best,
and you can sit in the front.

When it comes to achievement,
this bout is a knockout.

You joined in the sit-in,
I organized the walk-out.

They say you're a hero,
I don't see the fuss.

I worked on the railroad,
you rode on a bus!

I battled slave masters,
now you're left eating Crow.

Go back to the diner,
with your bitches and hose!



Rosa Parks:

So "Moses" supposes
her record smells like roses,

but my flow exposes,
what no school discloses.

Don't mess with a teacher
who knows her history!

Looking back on your actions,
and all the slaves that you freed,

I think there's a connection,
now what could it be?

I've got it, they're part of
the Tubman family tree!

Such surprising nepotism
from this Nobel Prize winner,

Saving people she'd see at
a Thanksgiving Dinner.

You bled for the cause,
walked until you had blisters,

but I think you left behind
some of your "brothers and sisters".

24
Creepy Media Picks / UCA - The Real Chuck E. Cheese
« on: 12:03:12 AM 04/30/16 »

25
Creepy Media Picks / UCA - The Harbinger Experiment
« on: 02:13:36 PM 04/06/16 »

26
Creepy Media Picks / Seedcorn
« on: 08:53:45 PM 03/17/16 »

27
Slimy Stories / Waken Farm
« on: 02:34:51 AM 03/16/16 »
I met the old man at a Bojangles restaurant.

I was about sixteen at the time and had just dropped out of high school with my parents' blessing. It wasn't the sort of place where you'd learn much of anything. Aside from how to take a punch, that is.

That was a period in my life where I had no actual idea what I was going to do with myself. School had been the place holder that took up most of my time, and the sudden freedom was more scary than relieving. I knew I was supposed to be accomplishing something, but other than sketching out doodles and writing half-baked stories I had no real plans.

As usual, my Mom ended up planning for me. She decided that I was going to volunteer somewhere and help others while getting some sort of experience that might lead me down the path to a career. That was how I ended up sitting across from the old man in a corner booth at Bojangles.

I had ordered fries and a drink while I waited for him, and he showed up when I was about half way through the poor excuse for a lunch. Mom had dropped me off to talk with him while she ran errands.

I didn't really want to go to the farm. I had no interest in manual labor, and I secretly dreaded the idea I would have to kill or butcher livestock. I convinced myself that one of the other volunteer "opportunities", if you can call them that, would pan out and I'd never have to meet the farmer.

In my defense, the charity call center was full of middle-aged, sweaty people who seemed desperate for conversation, and the nursing home outright stank. It didn't help that one of the old ladies called me "Jessup" and tried to grab me from her wheelchair.

So yeah. Nothing had worked out, and I had to wait for the old man.

He started talking about a bunch of feel-good, old-timey American shit I can't fully recall. Stuff about a hard day's work, and how I'd find my reward in natural, Christian living. I just nodded and kept eating. I knew I didn't have anything remotely interesting to say to this guy. When he went into how he'd served overseas, and how you had to get out of the way of the cannons or they'd take your head clean off, I had basically tuned him out.

I didn't really stop to think about the situation I was in until he reached across the table with a gnarly old finger to draw the french fries away from me. He pulled them to the center of the table and just kept talking.

He decided I should stop eating and pay attention, and that was how he decided to go about it.

In my teen years, I was basically a door mat. I didn't know how to say "no" properly, and I had no idea how to stick up for myself. The only reason I had gotten out of school was that I'd been choked until I blacked out and it put enough fear into my parents. I knew I didn't want to volunteer at the other places I mentioned but, again, instead of just saying "no", I had gone with "let's see what the next one is like".

The old man, the farmer, creeped me out. I guess I should call him "Farmer Waken" by this point. I'm realizing now that I should have told you his name sooner, but since I he didn't tell me that day I kind of felt natural just referring to him as I'd thought of him then.

"The old man". He was the poster boy for that term. He was short, much shorter than me even though I was still growing. Conversely, I guess he was shrinking. His limbs were rail thin and he was bow-legged. An absence of teeth in his face made his mouth pucker inward, and his sunken eyes were a milky white behind his thin-rimmed glasses.

The outfit was straight out of a rustic painting or something. Blue overalls, red striped shirt, blue cap, brown boots covered in what I hope was mud.

At the end of his rambling spiel, I told him I'd think about the offer. He had put an ad in the paper looking for young people to help on the farm, and in return they'd learn any number of invaluable skills. He didn't happen to write exactly what that might be.

Apparently, something was lost in translation. At least that's what I thought at first. Within days, my Mom was planning again. This time, she was plotting our trip out to Waken Farm. I was confused, completely taken by surprise, when she casually mentioned the trip. I had honestly put Farmer Waken out of my head, hadn't given him a second thought the second I left that restaurant.

When I expressed this to her, Mom said he'd called several times to discuss the preparations, and that he had said I'd agreed to help out. Of course, as you and I both know I had done no such thing - and I told her that in no uncertain terms. I may have been a bit spineless, but I wasn't going to let some rude old weirdo lie about me like that.

But... yeah. She talked me into it.

She insisted that I must've misspoken, or at least he must've misheard. Now he had his heart set on me coming down to check out the farm. No one else had apparently responded to the ad, go figure, and Farmer Waken would have nobody to help keep things running until he could hire some people on where the ad had failed.

Trust me, I mentioned the fact that I wasn't happy about doing free hard labor for him. Repeatedly.

The farm was, as you'd expect, far beyond the reach of modern civilization. My family already lived out in the country, so when I say this was the boondocks, I mean this was really out there. The only way we knew where to stop amidst the infinite landscape of ravaged farmland was by spotting the old wrought-iron gateway arching over the correct dirty path.

Sheet metal, haphazardly cut into jagged letters, read "Waken Farm". The red paint on the name had peeled away so much over the years that it was barely noticeable as we bumped over the rocks and potholes of the path. Even then, the dust we kicked up was nearly enough to obscure it.

Mom said the place was beautiful, but I knew she just trying to make me feel better about the whole thing. It was a dust bowl. Any square patches of crops, mostly corn, were stunted, withered, and brownish. As we drove down the awkward, curving path, I could see a haphazard wire fence containing a handful of underfed cattle.

I was already starting to feel that dread in the pit of my stomach again. This time it wasn't over the idea of slaughtering cows. It was just the look of them. I couldn't, in good conscience, ignore the fact they seemed to be starving.

A large red barn, worn like the sign out front, stood to one side of the cattle pen. It was open to the elements, its doors off their hinges and leaning against the facade. Everything seemed to be in a sorry state, and all at once I realized the worst thing of all; I was the one who was expected to fix it.

We finally pulled to a stop at a crooked little house at the tree line. We had passed some pigs, a chicken coop, a broken-down tractor, and a few other landmarks. They were all in the same state of repair. Not really worth mentioning, since you most likely get the idea by now.

Farmer Waken was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch. I couldn't have pictured anything more clichéd if I tried. I expected there to be an old hound dog at his side, but the closest thing to it was a ratty old barn cat that ignored us and focused on a proud rooster nearby.

He got up slowly, probably painfully, and welcomed my Mother and I inside.

On the way up the stairs, I could hear the crunching of bug-eaten wood. The unsteadiness of the surface put me off-balance, and I fell palms-first onto an unforgiving bed of splinters. A few got under my skin, but only one, a thick one, managed to draw blood.

I howled for a moment before pulling the wedge from my hand and pressing the wound tight. I think Farmer Waken made a comment about me being clumsy, but it's difficult to say due to the shock of sudden pain out of nowhere.

Mom used some gauze and hydrogen peroxide on the wound while the farmer watched from his kitchen table and sipped a cup of something that sounded thick and disgusting. I was embarrassed by the ordeal and apologized to both adults for my stupidity. Mom assured me it was alright. The farmer didn't croak out a word.

For the next hour or so, I followed the slow-moving old man around his property. Mom went back to the car while I spent some "quality time" with him. He showed off all the decrepit junk and half-dead animals with a casual sort of demeanor that almost convinced me the state of things was completely normal.

I just wanted to get the tour over with so I could go home.

When I was lead into the house once again, through the back door, up the creaking stairs, and down a hallway to a small bedroom, I wasn't sure exactly what Farmer Waken had wanted to show me. What he said next made me feel numb and cold.

It was my room.

As astounding as it may be, the topic had never come up in any conversation my Mom and I had. The time spent volunteering on the farm was a live-in position. I immediately knew Farmer Waken had lied again. He told her we had already discussed it at the restaurant, when I had no idea whatsoever.

She had already left, dropping a suitcase off in front of the house.

This was the point where I had enough and started to speak up for myself. It took way too long and way too much to get to that point, but the time had finally come. I loudly refused the offer and called Farmer Waken a liar directly to his face. His reaction was no reaction at all. He didn't so much as twitch an eyelid.

I walked past him, out of the room and down the hall. I had seen the old man's phone down in the kitchen and made a bee-line for it. Of course, I had to leave a message on our answering machine. There was no way Mom had gotten home yet. I told her the basics, that I had never agreed to any of this, and that I wanted her to come back and pick me up.

I was on the verge of tears when I hung up the phone to wait for her to either call back or show up at the door, and when I turned back to leave the kitchen, lip quivering like I was toddler, I ran face-first into someone unexpected.

Tessie. I didn't know her name at that point, of course, but there you go. She was short, lean, and well developed by anyone's standards. Her hair was blindingly orange, and unkempt only in a very purposeful sort of way.

At once, I was embarrassed all over again. Crying, or nearly crying, in front of a really attractive girl around my age. Part of me wanted to shove her out of the way and barrel out of the house. Tessie asked if I was alright, to which I remarked something awkward and over-compensating like "Of course I am" or "What're you talking about".

I know what you're thinking, and no. She did not make me change my mind about staying on the farm. It didn't matter how thin her yellow dress was or how far down it I could see if I had the audacity to tilt my head forward. That wasn't enough to make me spend a single night in the garbage heap they called home.

No, what made me stay there was the angry phone call from Mom. The second she heard the message, she called the farm and scolded me for not only trying to get out of my agreement, but for trying to make her drive all the way back out there right after she got home. I could still hear my own simpering voice in the background, she hadn't even listened to the whole thing before grabbing the phone.

I wanted to know why she hadn't even let me pack my own suitcase for the stay if she thought I knew about the deal, and she pointed out that I never pack. She noted that she always packed for me because otherwise I wouldn't do it until the last second. She was right, and that didn't make me feel any less shitty.

With that, I was stranded in Bumfuck County with complete strangers. As it turned out, I was going to be there for three weeks. I had never paid attention to the time frame because I thought I'd be making trips out every few days... and of course I never intended to actually do it, anyway.

That first night in the house, I didn't sleep at all. I mean, if I did, then I couldn't tell. It's possible that sleep caught up with me for a few moments between glances at the bedroom door. I had an irrational fear that Farmer Waken was going to come into the room in the middle of the night, and either forget who I was and shoot me... or do some weird shit that I didn't even want to think about.

When the door creaked open just before sunrise, I nearly screamed.

Tessie poked her head in, and for a moment we just stared at each other. I was both terrified by a stranger intruding on me, and relieved it wasn't the old man, all at once. After that breathless moment passed, she said she was glad I was there and left just as suddenly as she'd appeared.

The next few days were brutal. It was very obvious to me that Farmer Waken was putting the work of three or four kids on my shoulders alone. I put things together in a piss-poor manner, I did shitty paint jobs, and I wrapped barbed wire until the random cuts got me frustrated. It didn't take me long to figure out I only had to work on the things Farmer Waken would be able to see. I didn't care if everything fell apart on him. As long as the facade gave the impression I had completed a job, that was good enough. He didn't earn any of my respect or compassion by behaving so awfully in the lead-up to my stay.

Tessie, his granddaughter, I assumed, was never there to help with the really tough stuff. I'd catch sight of her once in a while, sewing something up or cooking for us, but the only time we crossed paths during the work day had been when she came up behind me with a sparse basket of fresh eggs and smashed one down the back of my neck before bolting away in a fit of laughter.

Also, though it wasn't actual interaction of course, there was a point where I was working up in the barn and I could see her hosing herself off by the house. I guess that was our "closest" moment, though she had no idea.

While I had grown to hate the old taskmaster who was now effectively keeping me prisoner, the only thing that frustrated me more than Tessie was their cat. The frazzled, angry little thing that refused to get off the bed when I wanted to collapse from exhaustion and clawed the shit out of my hand the one time I tried to pet it. That was the only thing on the farm I actually wanted to kill, though it was only in fits of impotent anger at the end of a long day.

It got to the point that I was so sleep deprived, sun burnt, and over-worked that I began to think I was hallucinating.

The problem began when I walked back into the house about a week and a half into my stay. The boards didn't crunch under my feet like I'd gotten used to, and I realized I couldn't remember the last time they did. When I studied the area, it looked like I had replaced the wood and hadn't even realized it. It was like I blacked out and built a porch. Something I didn't tend to do.

When Farmer Waken got it into his head that he was going to check my work on the barbed wire, supposedly because he'd heard coyotes that might jump it, I was once again startled to see I had apparently finished the job when I wasn't looking. Even the crappy effort I had put in seemed to be corrected by an expert. I swear... even the cows looked healthier.

I noticed more and more of this as days passed slowly by. For another example, the tractor I had fruitlessly toiled away on with no idea what I was doing looked almost shiny and new. It was as if I had went out and stolen one to replace the rusted heap that slit my forearm and likely gave me tetanus when I reached in too far.

Things were generally getting better, and it was disquieting. Even the fucking cat was groomed and filled out as if it suddenly realized it was supposed to lick its fur and eat cat food instead of fighting with chickens and losing.

It dawned on me that Tessie, or even Farmer Waken himself might have been going around and cleaning up after me. One or both of them could've been re-doing all my work the proper way... but when? The old man only left the house to feed livestock and do the least taxing chores, and though Tessie woke up before me and went to bed after I did, she was small-framed and slight despite any rambunctious spirit in her.

Plus, I would've heard either of them working during the night. Even after I stopped worrying as much about night visitors, I remained a light sleeper due to being on edge. I would've noticed hammering, especially on the porch right below my room.

I couldn't square it up in my head, so I decided either I was forgetting things due to exhaustion, or there was some sort of trick being pulled on me. Knowing what a coot Farmer Waken was, I would never have put it past him to have someone doing all of this just to teach me some outdated, foolish "lesson" or something.

For all I knew, he posted Tessie at my door while he had the quietest group of migrant workers fixing things up in the brief moments I passed out completely.

In what were to be the my last few days on the farm, I got up the nerve to actually have a conversation with the girl I had now been full-on fantasizing about. She was sitting by a small pond just a short walk beyond the trees, somewhere I had followed her to once before, though again I was pretty sure she hadn't noticed.

For whatever reason... She went there to cry.

She was surprised when I called to her from the undergrowth, her orange mane splaying out as her head turned suddenly. Her gasp turned to a smile within moments, however, as she told me she'd been waiting for me to "get up the guts" and sit with her.

So... I assume that she had actually noticed.

I couldn't get straight to the point of things. I knew I was going to ask her about the phantom repairs, but not just right off the bat like that. I had to work to it since we had essentially never had a real conversation until right then.

We talked about the farm, Tessie's favorite music, and even Farmer Waken and how much she wanted to get away from his dictatorial behavior and away from the house. Apparently, I was far from the first young man that had been brought out for free labor. The peak amount was five boys at one time, but as time went on, less and less teens were willing to be suckered in.

In fact, there had only been one young man as of late, and he had left a full two months before I had arrived. The way Tessie talked about him, I could tell he hadn't been nearly as shy with her as I was. Even though she didn't say anything at all about liking him, I could see exactly how it had been.

I was about to approach the subject of the repairs I hadn't done, knowing full well I was about to sound like a lunatic, an idiot, or both, when Tessie said something I didn't expect.

She called me "cute".

I wasn't someone who considered myself anything of the sort, not by any means. I had just drawn in a breath to begin debating the issue with her when Tessie took my hand and placed it on her knee. To be completely honest, I wasn't the most experienced teenager, so while I had a general idea of what to expect, I still had little to no idea what I was supposed to be doing.

One sudden interruption followed the other as rustling came from the woods toward the house. Farmer Waken. Of course. He called out for me, then Tessie, and asked why no one was working on the barn or sewing his black socks. Tessie threw my hand off like it was a tarantula and whispered for me to get the Hell out of there. She sounded angry, as if I had been the problem to begin with. I got up and moved into some reeds by the lake, then pushed further into the trees.

The last thing I saw before I worked my way back around to the house was Farmer Waken hobbling up to Tessie as she stood to her feet. She cast a quick look in my direction, but didn't seem to see where I had gone. For all she knew, I had run off like a frightened rabbit. Farmer Waken spent a few moments scolding her, while she shook her head and pouted at him. I couldn't hear their words, but the tone and body language were clear.

Then... they kissed.

Not like Grandfather and Granddaughter should.

Not even remotely like it.

When I did circle back to the house, I was immediately on the phone again. Now, I had called home multiple times over the three weeks I had been there, but I never tried to argue with my Mother about the situation again. I knew better than that. However, this time I explained everything to the answering machine in detail. Something weird was going on, Farmer Waken and his daughter were beyond friendly with each other, and if she didn't come get me, I was going to start walking home even if I dropped dead on the way. I didn't care if I was being obnoxious or threatening at that point. As far as I was concerned she deserved it for pawning me off on these freaks just so she could have me out of the house for a while.

I should have expected it by this point.

Just like the last time I had made a frantic call to Mommy, I turned around to see an all-too-familiar orange mop standing in the kitchen doorway. I wasn't sure if Tessie had heard the whole thing, but even so she had to suspect exactly what I was doing.

Luckily, Farmer Waken would take a bit longer to make his way back from the pond.

At first, Tessie asked how my Mom was doing. It was in the sort of sing-song way you talk to someone when you're trying too hard to sound like you aren't mad. I had heard that before. I explained that I was just calling home, like usual, and I'm sure I sounded like I was trying too hard as well.

Tessie brushed past me. She was utterly cold to me now. She walked to the counter and started chopping carrots with a kitchen knife that was entirely too large and unsuitable for the task. I heard foot steps as Farmer Waken walked into the house, but instead of coming to the kitchen I heard him stop out by the front door.

Everything was eerily silent for minutes on end as I stood in the kitchen doorway. When I would look back at Tessie, she was still chopping away, paying no attention to me at all.

In my gut, deep, deep inside of me, I knew that things were about to go very, very wrong. It was the same feeling I'd get between the claps of thunder during a really bad storm. The next shoe was going to drop, and it was unavoidable.

I looked down at my hands. I don't know why. I studied the scratches, the cuts, all the battle wounds I had collected during my stay on the farm. I looked them over in that moment and suddenly a single thought became crystal clear in my mind.

Everything that had miraculously repaired itself, from the porch, to the tractor, and even to the cat... they had all cut me open.

I was there to fix things up, but not in the way I had expected. I was there to bleed.

I was feeding Waken Farm.

Farmer Waken called from the other room, and even though it was only one word, it still carried enough weight to crush the air out of my lungs the second I heard it.

"Well?"

I spun in place, nearly tripped over my shoes, as Tessie herself whirled around and leaped at me, knife drawn above her head. The instant her grandfather spoke, presumably to ask her if she had done what came next, she let out an ear-splitting shriek that I couldn't define as a sound of rage or pain.

We rolled to the floor and Tessie thrust the knife down at me. I wasn't able to block her, or to grab her arms, or anything of the sort. All I could do was pull her down with me and hope she missed.

At first, she was insane. Maddened by an impossible mix of determination and uncertainty.

All at once she was on top of me, straddling my stomach and I lay sprawled out and helpless, knife dangling over my heart in small, shaking hands.

Thinking quickly, or not thinking at all, my hands moved to her. Not with force or hatred, though it was all I could do to contain the natural urge to fight. I knew that one wrong move would put a metal wedge somewhere close to my heart.

Staring her dead in the eyes, no doubt displaying every ounce of fear in my soul, I felt for her legs, her thighs, and waist. I held her like I imagined a man would if I had been anything close to one before that moment.

I could taste her tears.

She softened. Her hands wavered. I sat up incredibly slowly, never breaking from her eyes that were now nearly as red as her hair. She still had the knife in her hands, but now it seemed to have nowhere to go.

When I heard the old man's footsteps, much closer now, I moved quickly once more. All but forgetting Tessie, I rolled to avoid whatever Farmer Waken was about to do now that his Granddaughter had faltered.

A gunshot echoed through the house, creating a deafening echo in the small kitchen.

I had moved just in time to save my life.

Just in time to doom her.

Farmer Waken turned pale, whiter still than he had already been, as he stood in the kitchen doorway. He dropped the smoking hunting rifle to the worn carpet and stared at Tessie as she lay bleeding out. She was still, silent, almost a perfect doll if not for the gushing red patch that had been her delicate throat.

The old man screamed. He dropped to his knees with a crack, and I'm positive he broke bones in the process. He gathered Tessie up in his arms and howled like a wounded beast through gasps and wheezes.

I got to my feet and backed out of the kitchen. I was shocked beyond measure, to the point I didn't even think to pick up or move the gun.

Farmer Waken rocked Tessie in his arms and begged her not to go.

Not after all this time.

Not after more than fifty years.

I watched as Tessie's blood pooled on the kitchen floor, moving between the tiles and spreading quickly from wall to wall.

I watched the cabinets pop and creak as their doors straightened, their hinges tightened, and they took on a new shine. The electric humm of the refrigerator became quieter and quieter as its paint brightened and its handles grew out small fractals of new chrome. The wallpaper came to live with vibrant color, and the ceiling lamp shone brighter than I could stand to look at.

Fifty years?

Waken Farm. A vampiric plot of land in the middle of nowhere. A strange, ghoulish blight on an otherwise unremarkable country side. Waken Farm, a place young men go to shed blood, sweat, and tears.

Fifty years...

Tessie wasn't Farmer Waken's granddaughter. She was his wife.

I ran from Waken Farm. It might be typical to say I never looked back, but I looked back constantly. I checked to see if the old man was following me at every opportunity, even after I reached the end of the dirt path and knew there was no way his crippled legs could bring him that far. I wasn't going to assume anything by that point.

Every time I looked back over my shoulder, the house was newer.

The first thing we did when Mom arrived at the iron gate was to call the cops at the nearest Mom & Pop gas station. Luckily, she believed me about the supposed "incest", and now about the attempted murder followed by the actual accidental murder.

Some state troopers came out, and we actually had to show them where Waken Farm was. They'd never even heard of it despite working in the area. The troopers left us at the end of that dusty dirt path as they radioed for emergency services and took off toward the house.

Toward the plume of smoke.

The house burned to the ground, and all of us knew Farmer Waken had done it. They found Tessie's remains in the house, later on. We had to find out from the local TV News rather than the authorities themselves. The old man had apparently dragged himself outside after starting the fire, and drowned himself in the pond out back.

I looked into Waken Farm, even though Mom insisted I shouldn't. Under the premise of studying for school, I was able to look up some newspaper articles that seemed loosely related to the place. There wasn't very much, and the information that did exist was mostly innocuous. However, I did find one thing that made it all "click" for me.

I found something about the boy that had been staying at the farm before me, the one Tessie seemed to speak fondly of.

It was an obituary.

I still think Tessie loved him. I imagine she was an old woman, then, tied to an unromantic and cruel husband who stranded them on a Hellish farmland that disturbed her. She probably would have never acted on it, but I bet the boy reminded her of a time when she was happy.

Some part of me wants to think that she warned him. She didn't want him hurt, didn't want him paying a price of pain for their upkeep. I think Farmer Waken found out and killed him. Made it seem like an accident. After all, the cause of death was a fall from the very barn I had been working on.

I think Tessie found him. Held his body. Didn't care that his blood was all over her.

I think that boy gave her back her youth, and by then she didn't want it.

Hell, maybe it really was an accident. There's no way to know for sure, and maybe my disdain toward the old man is clouding my judgement.

I don't know if Tessie tried to kill me because they were desperate to cover up what I had discovered, or if my death had been planned all along. Did Tessie's change show Farmer Waken that a big enough sacrifice could do the same thing for him? Had it taken two months for him to bully, threaten, or even abuse her until she broke down and agreed to kill?

When the police were done with the scene, and everything was about to be auctioned off, there was a final bit of gossip to come out of Waken Farm. Someone or something had left nothing but debris in place of the structures. The crops had turned to dust. The animals were reduced to bone.

No one here wants to talk about it, and now that I've spilled my guts like this, neither do I.

29

Proud to be a guest on this show for the second time!

30
Slimy Stories / SKSim
« on: 11:08:24 PM 02/07/16 »
This weekend, I spent some time with my younger cousin, Eddie. We don't know each other that well, but enough to have fun passing time together when necessary. (We're separated by a couple states, so the disconnect is only natural.)

Usually, we would sit at his computer any troll online games. We would log into war games just to run around shooting our own team-mates, or we'd join a "Draw My Thing" style game and sketch out completely unrelated and profane images until we got kicked. Not the more intelligent way to spend our time, but it kept us laughing until our parents were done visiting.

That weekend, however, Eddie had some new games he wanted to try out. Not to troll them, but for legitimate fun. During our time apart, he got really into watching YouTube Let's Players like Pewdiepie, Markiplier and a host of others I'd never heard of, and seeing their content made him want to start a channel and emulate them. This was how we ended up playing shit like "Turtle Turnover", "Scrotal Sack Race", and a game I never want to touch again... "SKSim".

The last game was the only one Eddie hadn't played before I arrived. Well, I suppose there could have been others, but given what happened when we played SKSim, I was in a hurry to leave. I played sick, and something about my frantic need to get away from the place must've made my act more convincing than usual.

The game wasn't much to look at. Not at first, anyway. The title was in a blood red grunge font that was trying too hard to look scary, and the opening menu screen was menaced by a little polygonal man with a ludicrously oversized meat cleaver aimed at the buttons.

I was in the "driver's seat" for this one. Eddie sat behind me, peering over my shoulder as I started the game up. The very first thing I did was, of course, to adjust the mouse sensitivity. That shit's always way off on these crappy indie games. Once I figured I had things set, I clicked "New Game".

A short set of jumbled MIDI tones beeped in my headset, followed by a slow hiss of static that tapered off into silence. I expected the game to crash right then and there, but I wasn't that lucky. A loop of obnoxious, generic dubstep music followed.

The setting of the game was just as depressing as the opening screen. White walls, grayish floor. Empty shelves like the scene was supposed to be taking place at a supermarket or something. I reasoned that the developer, whoever they had been, abandoned all hope of producing a quality product the moment they realized they needed to stock the countless shelves in each aisle.

When I say the main character on the title screen was "polygonal", I mean that was basically all you could say to describe him other than the sallow color that should in no way be referred to as a "skin" on his model. His head was just an angular shape with no discernible features, and his "hands" came to points which could not realistically hold his weapon.

The enemies in the game were identical to the main character. Polygon mannequins with vaguely pukeish coloring. They even held items in their non-hands as well. These were mostly weapons, such as knife, clubs, and so on. Every so often, one would get shafted by the RNG and would be impotently wielding a medkit. The weird thing is that even after I killed each NPC, I couldn't pick up the weapons or the kits. It seemed like an oversight or a bug, since the developer had gone to the trouble of including the items on the first place.

Some of the enemies were as tall as the main character, as me, while others were shorter imp-like enemies. The AI seemed just as shitty as the rest of it, with enemies randomly running away, running into walls, or falling over shelves and causing disarray.

All the while, the NPCs just buzzed and groaned electronic noise. Indecipherable computer generated gibberish.

The last glitch I noticed was the numbering of each level. I started out mowing down monsters on level 1. When I had met whatever arbitrary goal that had been set, I moved directly to level 5. From there, I went to 10, then 18, and so on. Within a few minutes, I was on level 99, which turned out to be the final one.

While the activity seemed truly meaningless and hollow, I decided to trash talk the angular mob just to squeeze a little bit of humor out of it. I took to calling them "Polygoners" and made various puns about their lost limbs and the massive wounds I was inflicting.

Level 99 wasn't that much of a challenge. I was in keeping with the rest of it, and throughout the entire game it seemed like the difficulty never really ramped up. There was no challenge, just mindless clicking for the reward of pixellated blood squares and flying pointy limbs.

When the "Game Over" screen finally showed its face, I took off the headset and leaned back in my chair.

"Welp, that was a thing that happened." I smirked, "So what's next?"

Eddie was silent for a moment. Curious, I swiveled around in my chair and faced him. He asked what was wrong with me. He asked how I could be so cruel, sick, and twisted.

He asked why I was making jokes about killing all of those people. The men, women, and children who begged for mercy and cried while I hacked them to pieces. He outright demanded to know why I chased people down when they ran away and cried out for help, even when they were visibly intended to be pregnant or elderly.

The final question he had for me... was why I played 99 straight levels in near silence, only speaking up every ten or fifteen minutes to make a quip.

I turned back to the screen, this time with my headset off and no buzz in my head. I looked at the main menu again and saw the well-rendered, very realistic-looking man standing by the buttons with an oversized meat cleaver. Confused, I pressed "New Game" again and watched the highly detailed 3D Models of the NPCs walking aimlessly through the rich environment of a fully stocked super-store.

At a loss for words, I turned back to Eddie... and saw his featureless, polygonal head hissing garbled gibberish at me.

Pages: 1 [2] 3 4 ... 36