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"SSC18 : For Gorland"

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Thu 24/01/08 at 13:23
Regular
"not dead"
Posts: 11,145
They walk across the beach, an old woman in a hideous floral dress, and young boy in dungarees, both with eyes cast firmly on the sand. They walk on towels that lie in their path and trample sand-castles, ignoring the wah-wahs of the creators. The boy mumbles, repeating the same word over and again, his chubby cheeks filling, almost bursting, with air as he chokes on his word. It almost sounds like “Gollum,” only not quite.
They stop, and release hands. The woman pierces the air with a high-pitched squeal, like a monster from a Japenese creature-feature. She lifts her hideous dress, revealing off-white knickers, and launches a steaming stream of urine through them. Where it hits the sand it sizzles, and a sweet stench like candyfloss, with a hint of brine, wafts through the air. A bewildered crowd gathers as the child starts dancing on the spot as he sniffs the air, tasting the flavour, then he starts mumbling again, louder. The woman bends down, and digs in the soaked sand until she lays her hand on a pinkish shell. She holds it to her ear and hunches, troll-like. She listens intently, as if for a trip-trapping across her bridge. Any sound from the crowd around her and she throws a single finger to her juicy lips and gestures a silent shush.

She takes the shell and holds it against the child’s ear, whilst he still mumbles, “Gollum, Gollum”. He stops, takes a deep breath, and his word is suddenly clear – “Gorland! Gorland!” he cries, over and again. “Yes! Yes!” says the old lady as she looks into the eyes of each of the spectators. She grabs the shell from the boy, and crashes it down on top of his head, where it sticks. “Gorland! Gorland” he cries, louder still. A balding man breaks from the crowd and sprints away across the sand, speaking in a strange tongue, whilst the rest look on, paralysed by confusion. The old lady puts two fingers from each hand into the shell, and peels it open, as if it were a giant banana. After the shell comes away, the skull peels with it until a huge red opening is revealed. Still the boy cries, “Gorland,” even though his head is opened up, and the old lady jumps into the air, spins and dives head first into the boy’s head, sinking into the red pool with barely a ripple.



The castle is full of sorrow that the King cannot express. Wastepaper baskets overflow with his attempts to put his feelings into words.
“My Queen is gone, so why can I not write?” he cries in anguish as he hurls another waste of words into the bin.
“Sir,” said Harold, faithful servant to the King, “I have summoned poets to aid you in your hour of need.” Harold beckoned in a dozen men, all dressed in jaunty hats of varying colour and extremely baggy trousers. The king looked to his pen-pot and sighed.
“We have a plethora of poets and a paucity of pens! Quick, stick one in the pot and let us feast on its flesh! His creativity may go to waste, but this way, not his taste!” said the King, standing and eying up the men before him. “The paunchy chap in the red hat – he’s the one for me!”
Harold gestured to the guards, and they grabbed the poor poet in the red hat and carted him off to the kitchen. As he was marched he sang,
“Cut out my liver,
Make pate for your toast,
Slice off my shoulder,
And make it a roast,
If I am to die,
Put me in a pie,
For fit for a King,
Is my…” but before he could finish, he was silenced by a swift blow to the temple with the guard’s hefty truncheon.

The King stuffed the last of the gravy-sodden pie-crust into his mouth, and sat, dissatisfied.
“Harold,” he called, “’tis no use, without my Queen I cannot be satisfied. Send a message out to my people – he who brings my Queen back to me shall have my entire kingdom! That’s right; the Kingdom of Gorland is theirs for the taking!”



Grevett sat slumped on the same stool he’d sat slumped on for the three months that had passed since the King’s declaration. He sat there for so long, the patrons of the nameless tavern treated him as if a piece of the furniture, and most people assume that pieces of furniture do not have ears. Grevett learnt a great deal during his three month stint on the stool. He knew a lot of places where the Queen wasn’t after overhearing weary travellers’ tales.What Grevett had not banked on, was the severe muscle wastage that can occur after three months sat on a barstool. He pushed himself off the stool, and when his feet touched the floor, he found his legs lacked the strength to support him, and he fell face first onto the dirt.
In the subsequent month it took Grevett to build up his muscle, and pick himself up from the floor, he learnt more still. The leper colony in the hills had grown considerably over recent months, but what was the use in gaining an entire kingdom, if all of your bits were going to fall off? This simple conundrum had stopped many a traveller from venturing further. But Grevett liked the sound of ‘Grevett King of Gorland’ an awful lot, and he had a foolproof plan.

With strength restored to his legs Grevett headed into the hills, carrying only a single soapy bottle. As he could see the caves in the distance he popped off the top, and pulled out a plastic loop. He dipped it twice more into the bottle, then, slowly and deliberately blew through it. The soapy solution held well, creating an enormous bubble around him. Surely in here he would be safe. He followed the path through the hills to the caves, rolling his bubble happily along, singing a song about woodland creatures dancing merrily. He could clearly see a queue of people, flaking skin and all waiting to enter the cave, but coming out, miraculously, they were clean. Ladies and gentlemen finely dressed in smart evening wear with baby-soft skin, they walked with a spring in their step and were thankful for all that was good. Bizarrely they spoke like chimney sweeps and had a penchant for shinning shoes, but otherwise they were perfectly normal.
The queue parted to allow Grevett in his bubble through. Sure enough, there was the Queen, laying her hands on the sick and the diseased, and somehow sprucing them up. See was not looking quite so rosy. Her brow was somehow loose, a large flap of skin, that, if not for the bone-clips holding it out of the way would surely hang in her eyes. Her chin was deeply cleft, with curly hairs sprouting from the crevasse. And her breasts had ballooned, and seemed somehow floaty. Grevett didn’t notice that they were, in fact, anchored down, and it was the point of the anchor that pierced the bubble with a delicious pop.

“You are released! Go free from your bubble prison!” called the Queen, blowing a kiss from her blistered lips, which Grevett couldn’t help but stick a hand out to catch.
“My Queen, what has happened to you?”
“I woke one morning with a nightmarish squeal in my ears, I could not shake it off, and I found my faces changed so. I had to run away, lest my King see me so.”
“You must return to the castle with me!”
“But look at me! I am but a hideous beast now!”
“But your King needs you.”
“So do all of my people. I have been inflicted with a terrible curse, and yet I can heal – the lives of these people are worth so much more than mine.”
“But the King is sick!” said Grevett, thinking quickly on his feet.
“Sick? What ails my love?”
“A rash – green spots all over his belly.”
“Oh my!”
“And his tongue has spawned a mouth of its own!”
“A mouth on his tongue? Does it speak?”
“It sings so horribly out of tune, songs of sorrow and vulgar limericks!”
“Then I must return with you.”
The Queen picked a crudely carved wooden mask from behind the rock on which she sat, and held it in front of her face.
“I will return with you, but he must not know who I am, he cannot see me like this.”
Grevett nodded his head, certain that once he got the two of them in a room they’d sort it out together. Grevett and the Queen made their way back through the hills, Grevett holding the ropes which stopped the Queen from floating away whilst she held the mask in front of her face.

Upon approaching the castle Grevett called for Harold, who granted then entry to the King’s chamber.
As the Queen was faced with her King, spot free, she turned angrily to Grevett.
“Where is this green rash?” she said, accusing eyes dancing madly through the gaps in the mask.
“Underneath his clothes!”
“And why cannot I hear those vulgar limericks?”
“His mouth is closed! Go closer, listen carefully, you will see, no hear, you will hear!”
So the Queen approached. The King recognised her step, and sat forward in his chair.
“My Queen?” he jumped up and cast the mask aside.
She looked immediately to Grevett, and with a gurgle in her voice cried, “you fool! What have you done!”
The King cared not about her hideous looks, and moved in for a kiss, when her head flopped suddenly back. From the cleft in her chin a foot flew out, striking the King straight in the mouth. He bit through his tongue and spat out a fountain of blood as he fell the floor. The Queen had collapsed, a hollow shell on the floor, and in her place stood the old woman in a floral dress.
“Gorland is mine!” she cried, and she made her way to the throne. Stepping over the king she cocked a leg, releasing a brown cloud over the King, disolving him instantly. With her only steps away from the throne, Grevett ran for her, pulling his soapy solution from his pocket. He pulled off the lid, and placed the loop to his mouth. He blew bubbles all over the old woman as she turned to sit in the throne, but they fell to the floor as heavy lead balls. As she sat down she released a scream from her lips which turned into a cackle as she saw Grevett melt before her. Gorland was hers.
Sat 08/03/08 at 13:28
Regular
"Laughingstock"
Posts: 3,522
An enjoyable tall tale, sort of weirdly perverted. Lots of peculiar goings-on.
Fri 01/02/08 at 16:41
Regular
"WhaleOilBeefHooked"
Posts: 12,425
Lovely and surreal, I'm amazed how much you got into a relatively short story, very enjoyable!
Thu 31/01/08 at 10:07
Regular
"Going nowhere fast"
Posts: 6,574
Wow I wish I'd been on the same stuff to read this that you'd obviously been on when you wrote it :D
Thu 24/01/08 at 13:23
Regular
"not dead"
Posts: 11,145
They walk across the beach, an old woman in a hideous floral dress, and young boy in dungarees, both with eyes cast firmly on the sand. They walk on towels that lie in their path and trample sand-castles, ignoring the wah-wahs of the creators. The boy mumbles, repeating the same word over and again, his chubby cheeks filling, almost bursting, with air as he chokes on his word. It almost sounds like “Gollum,” only not quite.
They stop, and release hands. The woman pierces the air with a high-pitched squeal, like a monster from a Japenese creature-feature. She lifts her hideous dress, revealing off-white knickers, and launches a steaming stream of urine through them. Where it hits the sand it sizzles, and a sweet stench like candyfloss, with a hint of brine, wafts through the air. A bewildered crowd gathers as the child starts dancing on the spot as he sniffs the air, tasting the flavour, then he starts mumbling again, louder. The woman bends down, and digs in the soaked sand until she lays her hand on a pinkish shell. She holds it to her ear and hunches, troll-like. She listens intently, as if for a trip-trapping across her bridge. Any sound from the crowd around her and she throws a single finger to her juicy lips and gestures a silent shush.

She takes the shell and holds it against the child’s ear, whilst he still mumbles, “Gollum, Gollum”. He stops, takes a deep breath, and his word is suddenly clear – “Gorland! Gorland!” he cries, over and again. “Yes! Yes!” says the old lady as she looks into the eyes of each of the spectators. She grabs the shell from the boy, and crashes it down on top of his head, where it sticks. “Gorland! Gorland” he cries, louder still. A balding man breaks from the crowd and sprints away across the sand, speaking in a strange tongue, whilst the rest look on, paralysed by confusion. The old lady puts two fingers from each hand into the shell, and peels it open, as if it were a giant banana. After the shell comes away, the skull peels with it until a huge red opening is revealed. Still the boy cries, “Gorland,” even though his head is opened up, and the old lady jumps into the air, spins and dives head first into the boy’s head, sinking into the red pool with barely a ripple.



The castle is full of sorrow that the King cannot express. Wastepaper baskets overflow with his attempts to put his feelings into words.
“My Queen is gone, so why can I not write?” he cries in anguish as he hurls another waste of words into the bin.
“Sir,” said Harold, faithful servant to the King, “I have summoned poets to aid you in your hour of need.” Harold beckoned in a dozen men, all dressed in jaunty hats of varying colour and extremely baggy trousers. The king looked to his pen-pot and sighed.
“We have a plethora of poets and a paucity of pens! Quick, stick one in the pot and let us feast on its flesh! His creativity may go to waste, but this way, not his taste!” said the King, standing and eying up the men before him. “The paunchy chap in the red hat – he’s the one for me!”
Harold gestured to the guards, and they grabbed the poor poet in the red hat and carted him off to the kitchen. As he was marched he sang,
“Cut out my liver,
Make pate for your toast,
Slice off my shoulder,
And make it a roast,
If I am to die,
Put me in a pie,
For fit for a King,
Is my…” but before he could finish, he was silenced by a swift blow to the temple with the guard’s hefty truncheon.

The King stuffed the last of the gravy-sodden pie-crust into his mouth, and sat, dissatisfied.
“Harold,” he called, “’tis no use, without my Queen I cannot be satisfied. Send a message out to my people – he who brings my Queen back to me shall have my entire kingdom! That’s right; the Kingdom of Gorland is theirs for the taking!”



Grevett sat slumped on the same stool he’d sat slumped on for the three months that had passed since the King’s declaration. He sat there for so long, the patrons of the nameless tavern treated him as if a piece of the furniture, and most people assume that pieces of furniture do not have ears. Grevett learnt a great deal during his three month stint on the stool. He knew a lot of places where the Queen wasn’t after overhearing weary travellers’ tales.What Grevett had not banked on, was the severe muscle wastage that can occur after three months sat on a barstool. He pushed himself off the stool, and when his feet touched the floor, he found his legs lacked the strength to support him, and he fell face first onto the dirt.
In the subsequent month it took Grevett to build up his muscle, and pick himself up from the floor, he learnt more still. The leper colony in the hills had grown considerably over recent months, but what was the use in gaining an entire kingdom, if all of your bits were going to fall off? This simple conundrum had stopped many a traveller from venturing further. But Grevett liked the sound of ‘Grevett King of Gorland’ an awful lot, and he had a foolproof plan.

With strength restored to his legs Grevett headed into the hills, carrying only a single soapy bottle. As he could see the caves in the distance he popped off the top, and pulled out a plastic loop. He dipped it twice more into the bottle, then, slowly and deliberately blew through it. The soapy solution held well, creating an enormous bubble around him. Surely in here he would be safe. He followed the path through the hills to the caves, rolling his bubble happily along, singing a song about woodland creatures dancing merrily. He could clearly see a queue of people, flaking skin and all waiting to enter the cave, but coming out, miraculously, they were clean. Ladies and gentlemen finely dressed in smart evening wear with baby-soft skin, they walked with a spring in their step and were thankful for all that was good. Bizarrely they spoke like chimney sweeps and had a penchant for shinning shoes, but otherwise they were perfectly normal.
The queue parted to allow Grevett in his bubble through. Sure enough, there was the Queen, laying her hands on the sick and the diseased, and somehow sprucing them up. See was not looking quite so rosy. Her brow was somehow loose, a large flap of skin, that, if not for the bone-clips holding it out of the way would surely hang in her eyes. Her chin was deeply cleft, with curly hairs sprouting from the crevasse. And her breasts had ballooned, and seemed somehow floaty. Grevett didn’t notice that they were, in fact, anchored down, and it was the point of the anchor that pierced the bubble with a delicious pop.

“You are released! Go free from your bubble prison!” called the Queen, blowing a kiss from her blistered lips, which Grevett couldn’t help but stick a hand out to catch.
“My Queen, what has happened to you?”
“I woke one morning with a nightmarish squeal in my ears, I could not shake it off, and I found my faces changed so. I had to run away, lest my King see me so.”
“You must return to the castle with me!”
“But look at me! I am but a hideous beast now!”
“But your King needs you.”
“So do all of my people. I have been inflicted with a terrible curse, and yet I can heal – the lives of these people are worth so much more than mine.”
“But the King is sick!” said Grevett, thinking quickly on his feet.
“Sick? What ails my love?”
“A rash – green spots all over his belly.”
“Oh my!”
“And his tongue has spawned a mouth of its own!”
“A mouth on his tongue? Does it speak?”
“It sings so horribly out of tune, songs of sorrow and vulgar limericks!”
“Then I must return with you.”
The Queen picked a crudely carved wooden mask from behind the rock on which she sat, and held it in front of her face.
“I will return with you, but he must not know who I am, he cannot see me like this.”
Grevett nodded his head, certain that once he got the two of them in a room they’d sort it out together. Grevett and the Queen made their way back through the hills, Grevett holding the ropes which stopped the Queen from floating away whilst she held the mask in front of her face.

Upon approaching the castle Grevett called for Harold, who granted then entry to the King’s chamber.
As the Queen was faced with her King, spot free, she turned angrily to Grevett.
“Where is this green rash?” she said, accusing eyes dancing madly through the gaps in the mask.
“Underneath his clothes!”
“And why cannot I hear those vulgar limericks?”
“His mouth is closed! Go closer, listen carefully, you will see, no hear, you will hear!”
So the Queen approached. The King recognised her step, and sat forward in his chair.
“My Queen?” he jumped up and cast the mask aside.
She looked immediately to Grevett, and with a gurgle in her voice cried, “you fool! What have you done!”
The King cared not about her hideous looks, and moved in for a kiss, when her head flopped suddenly back. From the cleft in her chin a foot flew out, striking the King straight in the mouth. He bit through his tongue and spat out a fountain of blood as he fell the floor. The Queen had collapsed, a hollow shell on the floor, and in her place stood the old woman in a floral dress.
“Gorland is mine!” she cried, and she made her way to the throne. Stepping over the king she cocked a leg, releasing a brown cloud over the King, disolving him instantly. With her only steps away from the throne, Grevett ran for her, pulling his soapy solution from his pocket. He pulled off the lid, and placed the loop to his mouth. He blew bubbles all over the old woman as she turned to sit in the throne, but they fell to the floor as heavy lead balls. As she sat down she released a scream from her lips which turned into a cackle as she saw Grevett melt before her. Gorland was hers.

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