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Author Topic: Community story - horror - Scary (hopefully)  (Read 6243 times)
Ed
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« on: May 29, 2006, 05:31:45 PM »

Intro -

This is a communal story - everybody is invited to join in and take part in it, whenever they like.  I suggest writing no more than say 100 words at a time, for the simple reason of time between the idea striking and the posting of it.  It could be that by the time you've written 500 words, somebody else might have already posted 100 and by doing so might have rendered your post redundant.

If you want to write more, I suggest you post to say 'bagsy I write this bit' and reserve the spot for an hour or two, but don't reserve a spot and then leave it hanging.  All bets are off after two hours and anybody can take over.

This is the scary story thread - there's a 'humorous story' thread that you might like to contribute to as well.

*Please note*  By posting your work on this thread, you automatically give permission for it to be used if and when this story is published at a later date, and you understand that any profits from its sale will go to charity, rather than you.  The charity to benefit will be chosen by forum vote (majority rules).

Any questions, please feel free to ask smiley
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Planning is an unnatural process - it is much more fun to do something.  The nicest thing about not planning is that failure comes as a complete surprise, rather than being preceded by a period of worry and depression. [Sir John Harvey-Jones]
Ed
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« Reply #1 on: May 29, 2006, 05:33:40 PM »

Let's get the ball rolling -

Mainstreet USA bustles with activity.  The sun shines, people wash cars, mow lawns, children play. 

Luigi Fibonacci shambles along the sidewalk.  His hands are planted in the pockets of his dirty raincoat, his collar is raised, and his eyes are fixed on the concrete at his feet.  It’s like the world around him is in colour and he’s in black and white. 

Without looking up, he turns up a narrow and overgrown gravel pathway that leads to a dilapidated house.  The sounds of the world outside are muted by the surrounding vegetation, the shrieks of children’s laughter fade until the only noises to be heard are gravel crunching underfoot and Fibonacci’s rasping breaths.  He stops beside the house, reaches down, turns a key in a rusted padlock and pulls open a pair of rotting cellar doors.  The stench of decaying flesh wafts upwards, mixing with the bosky odour of damp soil.  Fibonacci closes his eyes, breathes deeply, drawing the rancid air through his large Roman nose, and he smiles.
« Last Edit: June 01, 2006, 04:50:53 PM by blunt » Logged

Planning is an unnatural process - it is much more fun to do something.  The nicest thing about not planning is that failure comes as a complete surprise, rather than being preceded by a period of worry and depression. [Sir John Harvey-Jones]
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« Reply #2 on: May 30, 2006, 07:30:18 AM »

Mainstreet USA bustles with activity.  The sun shines, people wash cars, mow lawns, children play. 

Luigi Fibonacci shambles along the sidewalk.  His hands are planted in the pockets of his dirty raincoat, his collar is raised, and his eyes are fixed on the concrete at his feet.  It’s like the world around him is in colour and he’s in black and white. 

Without looking up, he turns up a narrow and overgrown gravel pathway that leads to a dilapidated house.  The sounds of the world outside are muted by the surrounding vegetation, the shrieks of children’s laughter fade until the only noises to be heard are gravel crunching underfoot and Fibonacci’s rasping breaths.  He stops beside the house, reaches down, turns a key in a rusted padlock and pulls open a pair of rotting cellar doors.  The stench of decaying flesh wafts upwards, mixing with the bosky odour of damp soil.  Fibonacci closes his eyes, breathes deeply, drawing the rancid air through his large Roman nose, and he smiles.

“Luigi? Is that you?” A crone of a woman comes around the corner of the house. “Where have you been? I asked you to bring home milk from the store hours ago.”

“Mama, that was yesterday,” he sighs and drops the cellar doors. Work before pleasure. It was always this way. He’d leave for a little bit, come home, the same question over and over again. No one had to tell him she had Alzheimer’s disease.

“Where’s Papa? He’s late for dinner.” She leans toward her only child. “Is he with that whore again? Tell me. I can take it.”
« Last Edit: June 01, 2006, 04:51:37 PM by blunt » Logged

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« Reply #3 on: May 31, 2006, 03:42:01 PM »

He thought of the rotting smell in the cellar.

"No, mama, he's not with the whore.  She left him quite suddenly."  He took her arm gently and led her back into the house.  All the while she chattered about things that had happened years ago as though they'd happened today.  Suddenly she looked at him.

"Hello, sir.  I don't quite remember why you're here, but you really should speak to my husband once he arrives.  I'd hate for the neighbors to talk, " she said demurely.

"Mama, I'm your son, no one will talk."  He took her inside and set her at the kitchen table.  He set about making lunch for his mother while she waited for her dead husband to arrive to talk to the stranger in her kitchen.
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« Reply #4 on: May 31, 2006, 07:32:50 PM »

The whore. It was all her fault. He would have never done any of this, had the stupid bitch just stayed away from his father. First he’d smelled perfume and seen the make-up on his father’s collar. Then he came home early with a sick headache, and found them in his parent’s bed, rutting like animals. All he could think of was his mother off to her religious retreat, praying with bowed head in front of the statue of Mary. When his head cleared, the whore was dead, and his father was on his knees, naked, begging for his life
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« Reply #5 on: June 01, 2006, 04:49:48 PM »

What could he say?  Luigi swore he would never be a bully like his father was to him as a child, but now that little boy with the big nose had grown up, while the wisened old man only weakened, he saw neither father nor child before him.  Not father, nor child, nor human.  Nothing deserving of pity.

Mother's face brightened.  "Do you smell that?"

Luigi sampled the air.  "Don't worry yourself Mama.  I'll get the landlord to come take a look at it."

"Honeysuckle."  She blinked, childlike and twirled a lock of her hair between her leathery fingers.

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Planning is an unnatural process - it is much more fun to do something.  The nicest thing about not planning is that failure comes as a complete surprise, rather than being preceded by a period of worry and depression. [Sir John Harvey-Jones]
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« Reply #6 on: June 01, 2006, 05:01:40 PM »

However, he couldn't kill the animal either.  Momma's memory was so short.  She'd relive the pain of having lost him over and over again.  Luigi couldn't make Momma suffer that way.  So what to do?  He thought of a very fitting punishment.  Papa would do as Momma was doing now.  Repent.   And he would do it leisurely.

Luigi gave Momma a plate.

"My favorite."  Actually, Momma had always hated grilled cheese and tomato soup.  But it was all he could afford these days and she hardly ever remembered what she liked and disliked.

"I'm glad you like it, Momma.  Listen, you eat while I handle some chores in the basement.  Be right back."
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...the person who wrote that... is dangerous. And this button-down, Oxford-cloth psycho might just snap, and then stalk from office to office with an Armalite AR-10 carbine gas-powered semi-automatic weapon, pumping round after round into colleagues and co-workers.
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« Reply #7 on: June 01, 2006, 09:50:34 PM »

“Don’t be long,” she called. “Perry Mason tonight. You know we love to watch that show.” She smiled, humming the opening bars to the long-gone program. “Paul Drake is dreamy.”

“Yes, Mama, I’ll be upstairs in short order,” he said.

As he went outside into the twilight, fireflies danced in the bushes, reminding him of long-gone childhood nights, Mama’s prayers, and Perry Mason. It had been an age of innocence for all of them.

A toad hopped as he reached for the cellar door, startling him. He laughed, a big booming laugh. What did he have to be afraid of?
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« Reply #8 on: June 07, 2006, 11:57:43 AM »

As he descended the stairs, Papa's weeping drifted up to greet him.  Papa believed he was suffering.  He didn't yet know the meaning of the word!!

Luigi passed through the large storage area, headed toward the door in the back of the room.  Beyond that door was the room which housed shelving and about 300 jars of home-canned jars of fruits and vegetables.  Now it also housed one dead whore and one chained, nude, bloody old man.  One that weeped.

Luigi opened the door and stood silhouetted against the cellar's single light bulb.  He felt like Gabriel, come to blow his trumpet.  It was Judgement Day.
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...the person who wrote that... is dangerous. And this button-down, Oxford-cloth psycho might just snap, and then stalk from office to office with an Armalite AR-10 carbine gas-powered semi-automatic weapon, pumping round after round into colleagues and co-workers.
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« Reply #9 on: June 08, 2006, 05:58:04 AM »

“So, Papa, are you prepared to meet your Maker?”

“Please, Luigi, please, don’t do this. I beg of you,” Papa wept out of his remaining eye, the other a burnt ruin.

“You made me beg for mercy all my life. What was it you used to say? Oh, that’s right, ‘I do this because I love you!’ Well, Papa, I’m just returning your love, a thousand times over.”

Papa panted like a winded runner. “Luigi, no, not that! No!”

Luigi twisted the knob to increase the voltage going through Papa’s left testicle and listened to his father’s song of pain.

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« Reply #10 on: July 07, 2006, 01:23:33 PM »

The old man's body seized, straining at the chain.  Smoke rose from him and a few of his back teeth cracked under the pressure of his clenching jaw.  Something inside that testicle popped.  Luigi smiled down at him, thinking of how that testicle would never bang into the ass of that whore, nor anyone else again.  It wouldn't bring mama's mind back, but she would be avenged.

He turned the knob again, shutting off the power.  Then he sat on the single straightbacked chair in the room and waited for the old man to regain consciousness.
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...the person who wrote that... is dangerous. And this button-down, Oxford-cloth psycho might just snap, and then stalk from office to office with an Armalite AR-10 carbine gas-powered semi-automatic weapon, pumping round after round into colleagues and co-workers.
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