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The wind dithered and dallied across the way, waltzing with the taboo machine until the purple haze of hot summer nights blossomed from its bud. Thartell was drifting and floating across the moors, hoping to get back home. His navigational skills had been cut off at the nerves by an evil substance. Words were beyond him...in fact he was largely non-verbal.
He had been promenading through the fresh air for the sake of his own health. Cloudy, smog thoughts bubbled through the holes in his head. A good leg-stretcher sprayed his evil toffee-tar stain-brain with clean turquoise aquatic bubbles from a pure spring leaking through the ground. A light everlasting was now plugged in at the mains and feeding him powerful aqua-bubbles. As long as this source of light was wearing white garment, thus quickening the healing process it neutralised the grey-brown crumbles, which was the source of all evil. A chapel of thickets presented Thartell a place to prepare a spiritual plateau. He sat and meditated and breathed pure green chloroplasts and their babies in.
The inaudible commentary in the back of his mind was disturbing. He had no idea what was being said, but the tone that was used scared him. Some 60-year old pipe smoker who lives in the black library. Black with heretical beliefs that is, a sinister place for evil worship. But the voice made it known when he felt good or bad. If he stood still the galley would swoon from the great heights above, down to the black cesspool below and to the abyss and back. His real emotions were tangled with the G-forces being fed by some invisible stimulant. He had no idea what he was feeling and stimulated he was.
When the moors were just elevated mystic greenery in the distance behind, Thartell stumbled across something. Something unusual. “Probably gypsies” he established in his head. He established this in his head because he couldn’t speak; some sort of toxicant was manipulating him. What he had seen though, wasn’t for this world’s eye to see. It defied logic and normality. It seemed that the inhabitants had been living in this area for a long time. This was disturbing for Thartell because he had been through these misty parts so many times. A dozen’s hundred would be a sensible guess. Yet never had he seen anything remotely like this.
There was elevated cabins made from timber, as far as the eye could see. They were all identical; two windows, one on the left and one on the right. Each cabin was 6-foot off the ground, being held up by a piece of tanned, reed-thicket planks on the underside of each corner. Thartell had a suspicion these makeshift pillars were made from witch’s broom. “Why are these things elevated?” A girl’s voice said, in his head (she was crying).
He froze. Something was definitely not right here. For such a populated place, there wasn’t a soul in sight. He was too sick to be scared, but desensitised enough to be critically disturbed. And this was…acutely sending shock signals to his brain. Ice razors were stabbing the flesh barriers on his head. Frosty daggers now wore on him like a veil of crystallized parasites. Was he hallucinating? Was this a trick on himself, by himself? Thartell kept walking. Not out of choice but, if he had stopped, then the G-force would drag him back on some artificial floating path. His mind would be thrown back to the marshes or even further.
The commentating voice was still inaudible in his head, but it kept him company and drove him on. By now, the taboo machine’s dance floor duet with the wind was over. The purple haze of hot summer nights was darkening with violet compression. The heartened twilight was coming fast and at the wrong time for Thartell.
He passed the first row of cabins, keeping his eyes on the floor. The ground was different to that of the plains. It was moist. The grass appeared to be knee-deep in water. Every step he took, Thartell made a slushy, sloppy slap noise. And this strange community he was navigating through was dead silent. He had to slip and slide through, instead of making awkward belches which could be heard from a sparrows nest, 100 yards due south-east. Thartell’s cheeks were numb and the sweaty ice weed crystals were flowering, his spine seemed to jar every left step he took.
The venomous grey death gas capacity was nearing full. He needed to sit down and be fed by some aquatic bubble springs. The only springs visible were indigo. “No way” he thought he said, but it was just a thought. He hurried now. He was dying in the worst place possible; smack bang in the middle of some devil-worshipping/ voodoo nomad cannibal necrophiliac camp. And it wasn’t there an hour before. It just appeared.
The old heretic commentator told him which way to go though. The evil, inaudible voice led him to salvation. He came to the last row of huts and looked behind…. and saw endless buildings stretching forever. Had he really just trekked through it all? Wait. Whilst trying to look beyond the alien camp Thartell saw something. At least ten rows down and to the left…. movement.
There were two of them, two heads peering around, looking for something. Silhouetted by the purple twilight rays from the sky. Small, round heads with pointy ears. Their eyes were luminous yellow miniature sun beans, reflecting light. He knew that they were looking at him.
All of a sudden the power of comprehensive speech and orthodox movements returned to Thartell, though he didn’t need it. A track of disturbed thoughts expanded his will power:
A syringe with transparent liquid inside the chamber, probably to terminate rabid dogs in kennels. Controlled, severe power headaches were you know death is inevitable. The smell of medical rooms and hygienic gloves to touch teeth. Locked in the compound. With white walls and ceilings showing death, restraint, actually happening. White wings. Fairy Tinkle Dust aromatised the white, transparent termination syringe.
Thartell awoke from a trance, he felt like it had been raining adrenal glands. Uproar of adrenaline imploded in his stomach and resumed control. His heart began beating again and surreal thoughts of actual life and death appeared in his head. The G-force captivator yo-yo string restricted back to the marshes. The icicle sweat razors melted into molten blast furnace robot workers. Nanomachines flew out of the crack in his shoulder. He looked down to see he was standing on an aquatic bubble spring. He was still disorientated yet he felt in control. He staggered back, shaking the thoughts from his head and as he did so, made a violent deafening SPLOSH!
The two sets of light-emitting button eyes froze… neither blinked nor shifted.
The two sets multiplied into swarms. Thartell’s heart was making thunderous amplified beats of horror….
Silence
Then… a distant moan… followed by an outburst of trickled water slaps and echoing growls…they were coming.
His legs felt like they suddenly filled with helium. He turned and skidded across the water plains, past the last row of cabins, toward the village, not far passed the small outlet of woodlands and the great oak planted by the village founding fathers 100 years ago. The noise behind him intensified to horrifying shrieks and ritual puddle stampings.
He was now bearing down on the village at top speed. A zombified dead carelessness about the ethic of his motion, Thartell sprinted past the perimeter and into the village. He was exhausted and so he screeched to a halt and began shifting forwards.
Everything was dark and dead. The sound of devil-worshipping stampedes behind had faded away. He thought he was safe in the village and resumed breathing. Once again…silence. No one was around; no light was on, apart from the aluminous-green ooze coming from the well. There appeared to be some sort of chloro-light generator humming from the depths of the well. This generator was spurting out green fluorescent ooze. Thartell neared the well cautiously. The ooze was humming to. A nice metropoliptic, vibrant buzz arose from it. It smelled of argon-laced salt jelly and it looked inviting, to say the least.
He was now standing next to the well, curious. He arched forwards and peered down and seen…it. The chloro-light generator was biologically bionic…it was alive. He seen its grand green figures, before a flash bang of iris-attacking spores were released. It sent Thartell to the floor with a jolt of lime green power. The experience this power provoked… was addictive. He wanted more. More. More. More.
The dreamy state he’d been in since the beginning, fortuitously was the prime factor aiding him to be consumed by light. Green light.
He had been promenading through the fresh air for the sake of his own health. Cloudy, smog thoughts bubbled through the holes in his head. A good leg-stretcher sprayed his evil toffee-tar stain-brain with clean turquoise aquatic bubbles from a pure spring leaking through the ground. A light everlasting was now plugged in at the mains and feeding him powerful aqua-bubbles. As long as this source of light was wearing white garment, thus quickening the healing process it neutralised the grey-brown crumbles, which was the source of all evil. A chapel of thickets presented Thartell a place to prepare a spiritual plateau. He sat and meditated and breathed pure green chloroplasts and their babies in.
The inaudible commentary in the back of his mind was disturbing. He had no idea what was being said, but the tone that was used scared him. Some 60-year old pipe smoker who lives in the black library. Black with heretical beliefs that is, a sinister place for evil worship. But the voice made it known when he felt good or bad. If he stood still the galley would swoon from the great heights above, down to the black cesspool below and to the abyss and back. His real emotions were tangled with the G-forces being fed by some invisible stimulant. He had no idea what he was feeling and stimulated he was.
When the moors were just elevated mystic greenery in the distance behind, Thartell stumbled across something. Something unusual. “Probably gypsies” he established in his head. He established this in his head because he couldn’t speak; some sort of toxicant was manipulating him. What he had seen though, wasn’t for this world’s eye to see. It defied logic and normality. It seemed that the inhabitants had been living in this area for a long time. This was disturbing for Thartell because he had been through these misty parts so many times. A dozen’s hundred would be a sensible guess. Yet never had he seen anything remotely like this.
There was elevated cabins made from timber, as far as the eye could see. They were all identical; two windows, one on the left and one on the right. Each cabin was 6-foot off the ground, being held up by a piece of tanned, reed-thicket planks on the underside of each corner. Thartell had a suspicion these makeshift pillars were made from witch’s broom. “Why are these things elevated?” A girl’s voice said, in his head (she was crying).
He froze. Something was definitely not right here. For such a populated place, there wasn’t a soul in sight. He was too sick to be scared, but desensitised enough to be critically disturbed. And this was…acutely sending shock signals to his brain. Ice razors were stabbing the flesh barriers on his head. Frosty daggers now wore on him like a veil of crystallized parasites. Was he hallucinating? Was this a trick on himself, by himself? Thartell kept walking. Not out of choice but, if he had stopped, then the G-force would drag him back on some artificial floating path. His mind would be thrown back to the marshes or even further.
The commentating voice was still inaudible in his head, but it kept him company and drove him on. By now, the taboo machine’s dance floor duet with the wind was over. The purple haze of hot summer nights was darkening with violet compression. The heartened twilight was coming fast and at the wrong time for Thartell.
He passed the first row of cabins, keeping his eyes on the floor. The ground was different to that of the plains. It was moist. The grass appeared to be knee-deep in water. Every step he took, Thartell made a slushy, sloppy slap noise. And this strange community he was navigating through was dead silent. He had to slip and slide through, instead of making awkward belches which could be heard from a sparrows nest, 100 yards due south-east. Thartell’s cheeks were numb and the sweaty ice weed crystals were flowering, his spine seemed to jar every left step he took.
The venomous grey death gas capacity was nearing full. He needed to sit down and be fed by some aquatic bubble springs. The only springs visible were indigo. “No way” he thought he said, but it was just a thought. He hurried now. He was dying in the worst place possible; smack bang in the middle of some devil-worshipping/ voodoo nomad cannibal necrophiliac camp. And it wasn’t there an hour before. It just appeared.
The old heretic commentator told him which way to go though. The evil, inaudible voice led him to salvation. He came to the last row of huts and looked behind…. and saw endless buildings stretching forever. Had he really just trekked through it all? Wait. Whilst trying to look beyond the alien camp Thartell saw something. At least ten rows down and to the left…. movement.
There were two of them, two heads peering around, looking for something. Silhouetted by the purple twilight rays from the sky. Small, round heads with pointy ears. Their eyes were luminous yellow miniature sun beans, reflecting light. He knew that they were looking at him.
All of a sudden the power of comprehensive speech and orthodox movements returned to Thartell, though he didn’t need it. A track of disturbed thoughts expanded his will power:
A syringe with transparent liquid inside the chamber, probably to terminate rabid dogs in kennels. Controlled, severe power headaches were you know death is inevitable. The smell of medical rooms and hygienic gloves to touch teeth. Locked in the compound. With white walls and ceilings showing death, restraint, actually happening. White wings. Fairy Tinkle Dust aromatised the white, transparent termination syringe.
Thartell awoke from a trance, he felt like it had been raining adrenal glands. Uproar of adrenaline imploded in his stomach and resumed control. His heart began beating again and surreal thoughts of actual life and death appeared in his head. The G-force captivator yo-yo string restricted back to the marshes. The icicle sweat razors melted into molten blast furnace robot workers. Nanomachines flew out of the crack in his shoulder. He looked down to see he was standing on an aquatic bubble spring. He was still disorientated yet he felt in control. He staggered back, shaking the thoughts from his head and as he did so, made a violent deafening SPLOSH!
The two sets of light-emitting button eyes froze… neither blinked nor shifted.
The two sets multiplied into swarms. Thartell’s heart was making thunderous amplified beats of horror….
Silence
Then… a distant moan… followed by an outburst of trickled water slaps and echoing growls…they were coming.
His legs felt like they suddenly filled with helium. He turned and skidded across the water plains, past the last row of cabins, toward the village, not far passed the small outlet of woodlands and the great oak planted by the village founding fathers 100 years ago. The noise behind him intensified to horrifying shrieks and ritual puddle stampings.
He was now bearing down on the village at top speed. A zombified dead carelessness about the ethic of his motion, Thartell sprinted past the perimeter and into the village. He was exhausted and so he screeched to a halt and began shifting forwards.
Everything was dark and dead. The sound of devil-worshipping stampedes behind had faded away. He thought he was safe in the village and resumed breathing. Once again…silence. No one was around; no light was on, apart from the aluminous-green ooze coming from the well. There appeared to be some sort of chloro-light generator humming from the depths of the well. This generator was spurting out green fluorescent ooze. Thartell neared the well cautiously. The ooze was humming to. A nice metropoliptic, vibrant buzz arose from it. It smelled of argon-laced salt jelly and it looked inviting, to say the least.
He was now standing next to the well, curious. He arched forwards and peered down and seen…it. The chloro-light generator was biologically bionic…it was alive. He seen its grand green figures, before a flash bang of iris-attacking spores were released. It sent Thartell to the floor with a jolt of lime green power. The experience this power provoked… was addictive. He wanted more. More. More. More.
The dreamy state he’d been in since the beginning, fortuitously was the prime factor aiding him to be consumed by light. Green light.
I did enjoy this greatly. It was deliciously obscure and managed to make me picture myself striding in a haze across the bizarre landscape you described so well. I felt that the link to 'the well' was rather weak, however, but that doesnt stop the story being any less enjoyable.
So what were you on? I think I need some of it to understand the story.
:-)
:-)
I really think it would have been better for you if Paradox made this SSC about a dream :-D
Wonderful, imaginative and made no bloody sense. Lovely. ;-)
Wonderful, imaginative and made no bloody sense. Lovely. ;-)
If I'm going to make ANY sense of this then I'll need to read it atleast 6 more times! :-D
I like over-description. It has a place in my heart.
I kinda felt like making you feel:
[I] Whoa! Meet me halfway may, mate
I kinda felt like making you feel:
[I] Whoa! Meet me halfway may, mate
Whoa! Indeed.
Mightily impressive, good sah.
I did struggle for comprehension. I know that this has nothing to do with comprehension - but usually there's that connecting line which makes me feel welcome.
And then again, maybe I wasn't supposed to feel welcome.
Hmmm ....
Mightily impressive, good sah.
I did struggle for comprehension. I know that this has nothing to do with comprehension - but usually there's that connecting line which makes me feel welcome.
And then again, maybe I wasn't supposed to feel welcome.
Hmmm ....
The wind dithered and dallied across the way, waltzing with the taboo machine until the purple haze of hot summer nights blossomed from its bud. Thartell was drifting and floating across the moors, hoping to get back home. His navigational skills had been cut off at the nerves by an evil substance. Words were beyond him...in fact he was largely non-verbal.
He had been promenading through the fresh air for the sake of his own health. Cloudy, smog thoughts bubbled through the holes in his head. A good leg-stretcher sprayed his evil toffee-tar stain-brain with clean turquoise aquatic bubbles from a pure spring leaking through the ground. A light everlasting was now plugged in at the mains and feeding him powerful aqua-bubbles. As long as this source of light was wearing white garment, thus quickening the healing process it neutralised the grey-brown crumbles, which was the source of all evil. A chapel of thickets presented Thartell a place to prepare a spiritual plateau. He sat and meditated and breathed pure green chloroplasts and their babies in.
The inaudible commentary in the back of his mind was disturbing. He had no idea what was being said, but the tone that was used scared him. Some 60-year old pipe smoker who lives in the black library. Black with heretical beliefs that is, a sinister place for evil worship. But the voice made it known when he felt good or bad. If he stood still the galley would swoon from the great heights above, down to the black cesspool below and to the abyss and back. His real emotions were tangled with the G-forces being fed by some invisible stimulant. He had no idea what he was feeling and stimulated he was.
When the moors were just elevated mystic greenery in the distance behind, Thartell stumbled across something. Something unusual. “Probably gypsies” he established in his head. He established this in his head because he couldn’t speak; some sort of toxicant was manipulating him. What he had seen though, wasn’t for this world’s eye to see. It defied logic and normality. It seemed that the inhabitants had been living in this area for a long time. This was disturbing for Thartell because he had been through these misty parts so many times. A dozen’s hundred would be a sensible guess. Yet never had he seen anything remotely like this.
There was elevated cabins made from timber, as far as the eye could see. They were all identical; two windows, one on the left and one on the right. Each cabin was 6-foot off the ground, being held up by a piece of tanned, reed-thicket planks on the underside of each corner. Thartell had a suspicion these makeshift pillars were made from witch’s broom. “Why are these things elevated?” A girl’s voice said, in his head (she was crying).
He froze. Something was definitely not right here. For such a populated place, there wasn’t a soul in sight. He was too sick to be scared, but desensitised enough to be critically disturbed. And this was…acutely sending shock signals to his brain. Ice razors were stabbing the flesh barriers on his head. Frosty daggers now wore on him like a veil of crystallized parasites. Was he hallucinating? Was this a trick on himself, by himself? Thartell kept walking. Not out of choice but, if he had stopped, then the G-force would drag him back on some artificial floating path. His mind would be thrown back to the marshes or even further.
The commentating voice was still inaudible in his head, but it kept him company and drove him on. By now, the taboo machine’s dance floor duet with the wind was over. The purple haze of hot summer nights was darkening with violet compression. The heartened twilight was coming fast and at the wrong time for Thartell.
He passed the first row of cabins, keeping his eyes on the floor. The ground was different to that of the plains. It was moist. The grass appeared to be knee-deep in water. Every step he took, Thartell made a slushy, sloppy slap noise. And this strange community he was navigating through was dead silent. He had to slip and slide through, instead of making awkward belches which could be heard from a sparrows nest, 100 yards due south-east. Thartell’s cheeks were numb and the sweaty ice weed crystals were flowering, his spine seemed to jar every left step he took.
The venomous grey death gas capacity was nearing full. He needed to sit down and be fed by some aquatic bubble springs. The only springs visible were indigo. “No way” he thought he said, but it was just a thought. He hurried now. He was dying in the worst place possible; smack bang in the middle of some devil-worshipping/ voodoo nomad cannibal necrophiliac camp. And it wasn’t there an hour before. It just appeared.
The old heretic commentator told him which way to go though. The evil, inaudible voice led him to salvation. He came to the last row of huts and looked behind…. and saw endless buildings stretching forever. Had he really just trekked through it all? Wait. Whilst trying to look beyond the alien camp Thartell saw something. At least ten rows down and to the left…. movement.
There were two of them, two heads peering around, looking for something. Silhouetted by the purple twilight rays from the sky. Small, round heads with pointy ears. Their eyes were luminous yellow miniature sun beans, reflecting light. He knew that they were looking at him.
All of a sudden the power of comprehensive speech and orthodox movements returned to Thartell, though he didn’t need it. A track of disturbed thoughts expanded his will power:
A syringe with transparent liquid inside the chamber, probably to terminate rabid dogs in kennels. Controlled, severe power headaches were you know death is inevitable. The smell of medical rooms and hygienic gloves to touch teeth. Locked in the compound. With white walls and ceilings showing death, restraint, actually happening. White wings. Fairy Tinkle Dust aromatised the white, transparent termination syringe.
Thartell awoke from a trance, he felt like it had been raining adrenal glands. Uproar of adrenaline imploded in his stomach and resumed control. His heart began beating again and surreal thoughts of actual life and death appeared in his head. The G-force captivator yo-yo string restricted back to the marshes. The icicle sweat razors melted into molten blast furnace robot workers. Nanomachines flew out of the crack in his shoulder. He looked down to see he was standing on an aquatic bubble spring. He was still disorientated yet he felt in control. He staggered back, shaking the thoughts from his head and as he did so, made a violent deafening SPLOSH!
The two sets of light-emitting button eyes froze… neither blinked nor shifted.
The two sets multiplied into swarms. Thartell’s heart was making thunderous amplified beats of horror….
Silence
Then… a distant moan… followed by an outburst of trickled water slaps and echoing growls…they were coming.
His legs felt like they suddenly filled with helium. He turned and skidded across the water plains, past the last row of cabins, toward the village, not far passed the small outlet of woodlands and the great oak planted by the village founding fathers 100 years ago. The noise behind him intensified to horrifying shrieks and ritual puddle stampings.
He was now bearing down on the village at top speed. A zombified dead carelessness about the ethic of his motion, Thartell sprinted past the perimeter and into the village. He was exhausted and so he screeched to a halt and began shifting forwards.
Everything was dark and dead. The sound of devil-worshipping stampedes behind had faded away. He thought he was safe in the village and resumed breathing. Once again…silence. No one was around; no light was on, apart from the aluminous-green ooze coming from the well. There appeared to be some sort of chloro-light generator humming from the depths of the well. This generator was spurting out green fluorescent ooze. Thartell neared the well cautiously. The ooze was humming to. A nice metropoliptic, vibrant buzz arose from it. It smelled of argon-laced salt jelly and it looked inviting, to say the least.
He was now standing next to the well, curious. He arched forwards and peered down and seen…it. The chloro-light generator was biologically bionic…it was alive. He seen its grand green figures, before a flash bang of iris-attacking spores were released. It sent Thartell to the floor with a jolt of lime green power. The experience this power provoked… was addictive. He wanted more. More. More. More.
The dreamy state he’d been in since the beginning, fortuitously was the prime factor aiding him to be consumed by light. Green light.
He had been promenading through the fresh air for the sake of his own health. Cloudy, smog thoughts bubbled through the holes in his head. A good leg-stretcher sprayed his evil toffee-tar stain-brain with clean turquoise aquatic bubbles from a pure spring leaking through the ground. A light everlasting was now plugged in at the mains and feeding him powerful aqua-bubbles. As long as this source of light was wearing white garment, thus quickening the healing process it neutralised the grey-brown crumbles, which was the source of all evil. A chapel of thickets presented Thartell a place to prepare a spiritual plateau. He sat and meditated and breathed pure green chloroplasts and their babies in.
The inaudible commentary in the back of his mind was disturbing. He had no idea what was being said, but the tone that was used scared him. Some 60-year old pipe smoker who lives in the black library. Black with heretical beliefs that is, a sinister place for evil worship. But the voice made it known when he felt good or bad. If he stood still the galley would swoon from the great heights above, down to the black cesspool below and to the abyss and back. His real emotions were tangled with the G-forces being fed by some invisible stimulant. He had no idea what he was feeling and stimulated he was.
When the moors were just elevated mystic greenery in the distance behind, Thartell stumbled across something. Something unusual. “Probably gypsies” he established in his head. He established this in his head because he couldn’t speak; some sort of toxicant was manipulating him. What he had seen though, wasn’t for this world’s eye to see. It defied logic and normality. It seemed that the inhabitants had been living in this area for a long time. This was disturbing for Thartell because he had been through these misty parts so many times. A dozen’s hundred would be a sensible guess. Yet never had he seen anything remotely like this.
There was elevated cabins made from timber, as far as the eye could see. They were all identical; two windows, one on the left and one on the right. Each cabin was 6-foot off the ground, being held up by a piece of tanned, reed-thicket planks on the underside of each corner. Thartell had a suspicion these makeshift pillars were made from witch’s broom. “Why are these things elevated?” A girl’s voice said, in his head (she was crying).
He froze. Something was definitely not right here. For such a populated place, there wasn’t a soul in sight. He was too sick to be scared, but desensitised enough to be critically disturbed. And this was…acutely sending shock signals to his brain. Ice razors were stabbing the flesh barriers on his head. Frosty daggers now wore on him like a veil of crystallized parasites. Was he hallucinating? Was this a trick on himself, by himself? Thartell kept walking. Not out of choice but, if he had stopped, then the G-force would drag him back on some artificial floating path. His mind would be thrown back to the marshes or even further.
The commentating voice was still inaudible in his head, but it kept him company and drove him on. By now, the taboo machine’s dance floor duet with the wind was over. The purple haze of hot summer nights was darkening with violet compression. The heartened twilight was coming fast and at the wrong time for Thartell.
He passed the first row of cabins, keeping his eyes on the floor. The ground was different to that of the plains. It was moist. The grass appeared to be knee-deep in water. Every step he took, Thartell made a slushy, sloppy slap noise. And this strange community he was navigating through was dead silent. He had to slip and slide through, instead of making awkward belches which could be heard from a sparrows nest, 100 yards due south-east. Thartell’s cheeks were numb and the sweaty ice weed crystals were flowering, his spine seemed to jar every left step he took.
The venomous grey death gas capacity was nearing full. He needed to sit down and be fed by some aquatic bubble springs. The only springs visible were indigo. “No way” he thought he said, but it was just a thought. He hurried now. He was dying in the worst place possible; smack bang in the middle of some devil-worshipping/ voodoo nomad cannibal necrophiliac camp. And it wasn’t there an hour before. It just appeared.
The old heretic commentator told him which way to go though. The evil, inaudible voice led him to salvation. He came to the last row of huts and looked behind…. and saw endless buildings stretching forever. Had he really just trekked through it all? Wait. Whilst trying to look beyond the alien camp Thartell saw something. At least ten rows down and to the left…. movement.
There were two of them, two heads peering around, looking for something. Silhouetted by the purple twilight rays from the sky. Small, round heads with pointy ears. Their eyes were luminous yellow miniature sun beans, reflecting light. He knew that they were looking at him.
All of a sudden the power of comprehensive speech and orthodox movements returned to Thartell, though he didn’t need it. A track of disturbed thoughts expanded his will power:
A syringe with transparent liquid inside the chamber, probably to terminate rabid dogs in kennels. Controlled, severe power headaches were you know death is inevitable. The smell of medical rooms and hygienic gloves to touch teeth. Locked in the compound. With white walls and ceilings showing death, restraint, actually happening. White wings. Fairy Tinkle Dust aromatised the white, transparent termination syringe.
Thartell awoke from a trance, he felt like it had been raining adrenal glands. Uproar of adrenaline imploded in his stomach and resumed control. His heart began beating again and surreal thoughts of actual life and death appeared in his head. The G-force captivator yo-yo string restricted back to the marshes. The icicle sweat razors melted into molten blast furnace robot workers. Nanomachines flew out of the crack in his shoulder. He looked down to see he was standing on an aquatic bubble spring. He was still disorientated yet he felt in control. He staggered back, shaking the thoughts from his head and as he did so, made a violent deafening SPLOSH!
The two sets of light-emitting button eyes froze… neither blinked nor shifted.
The two sets multiplied into swarms. Thartell’s heart was making thunderous amplified beats of horror….
Silence
Then… a distant moan… followed by an outburst of trickled water slaps and echoing growls…they were coming.
His legs felt like they suddenly filled with helium. He turned and skidded across the water plains, past the last row of cabins, toward the village, not far passed the small outlet of woodlands and the great oak planted by the village founding fathers 100 years ago. The noise behind him intensified to horrifying shrieks and ritual puddle stampings.
He was now bearing down on the village at top speed. A zombified dead carelessness about the ethic of his motion, Thartell sprinted past the perimeter and into the village. He was exhausted and so he screeched to a halt and began shifting forwards.
Everything was dark and dead. The sound of devil-worshipping stampedes behind had faded away. He thought he was safe in the village and resumed breathing. Once again…silence. No one was around; no light was on, apart from the aluminous-green ooze coming from the well. There appeared to be some sort of chloro-light generator humming from the depths of the well. This generator was spurting out green fluorescent ooze. Thartell neared the well cautiously. The ooze was humming to. A nice metropoliptic, vibrant buzz arose from it. It smelled of argon-laced salt jelly and it looked inviting, to say the least.
He was now standing next to the well, curious. He arched forwards and peered down and seen…it. The chloro-light generator was biologically bionic…it was alive. He seen its grand green figures, before a flash bang of iris-attacking spores were released. It sent Thartell to the floor with a jolt of lime green power. The experience this power provoked… was addictive. He wanted more. More. More. More.
The dreamy state he’d been in since the beginning, fortuitously was the prime factor aiding him to be consumed by light. Green light.