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SSC2 - The Dark Place
You can’t catch me, I’m like the wind. You’ll see the disturbance I leave in my wake but I brush past rippling blades of grass and billowing curtains without so much as casting a shadow. My victims, carefully selected, choice cuts of prime meat; rump, leg and breast. I spill blood with my pendulous blades and feast upon the meal I have prepared myself, often raw. Most flesh can be eaten but skin is hard to digest, I use an old brown-handled pairing knife to remove the top layers of skin from a meal before I eat her. The best bits are the thighs, buttocks, upper arms and breasts, if you cook them just right they are very tender and juicy and taste like spit-roasted pork. There is little meat on the hands, feet or neck so I often leave these bits for the rats.
I usually make a victim last about a week before choosing a new one; my technique is flawless. I lure the maidens up to the dark place with promise of fine wine and grapes, it helps if they’re drunk but I prefer them sober, to see the glint of fear in their eyes before cutting deep into them. Watching the blood spurt out of their mouth, over their sweet little lips and dripping elegantly from their chin onto their cleavage. The priceless expression on their pretty little face, knowing they’ve made a fatal error. The way their lips try to ask me “why?” as life drains from their body has become one of my many vices. But they’ll never catch me, nobody knows about the dark place, not nobody.
Children in the village talk about it, but it’s just childish folklore, the adults know that. They outgrow the tale like the tooth fairy and forget about the stories of the dark place. Rumours have it that I’m the spirit of a worker of the old mill who hated females and was killed in an accident at the mill and exists, embittered, killing young women for sport. They’re half right, I hate women, they’re an inferior species – but I am very much alive, blood still pulses, cold, through my veins. Few know the location of the old mill any more and those who do don’t dare stray here any more. This is my dark place, not theirs.
There are three levels inside the grey-stone building, the storage floor at the bottom – this is littered with filthy rotting bodies and swarming with black rats spreading their disease. The rats are like the, they both spread their disease to the world – the rats spread the plague, the women spread their filthy lust; they are one and the same. The second floor has my preparation table, coated with a film of dried blood, some of which has splattered onto the cold wall behind it. There is my tool rack holding all of my equipment, my bone saw, brown-handled pairing knife, meat hooks, chest cavity expander, gall bladder plucker, intestine unraveller, bone cutters, a tongue severer and most precious of all the long curved silver handled blade I use for sliding through a victims diaphragm and up into their lung cavity until their breathing fluctuates, falters and halts.
The third level of my shadowy hideaway is where I live and work. It is a simple existence with only a bed and a loom and few other necessities to my name. I embroider patchworks I weave on my loom using natural dyes. There’s not a lot of cloth here in the country so I have to improvise. After carefully removing the skin from a meal with my brown-handled pairing knife I can carefully stitch the strips of skin back together and make it into a beautiful picture. I cart these down to the village to sell to the rich townsfolk and buy myself more tools of my trade with the profits. I’ve got my eye set on a small round blade they use for artificially birthing cattle, I’ll have some fun with that.
The rumours will carry on, the children will tell their fanciful stories to disbelieving adults and people will gossip at the disappearance of a young woman. But nobody investigates, nobody comes to my dark place to investigate. The evidence is here for them, rotting putridly, slowly expiring. They’ll never catch me, I’m like the wind.
You can’t catch me, I’m like the wind. You’ll see the disturbance I leave in my wake but I brush past rippling blades of grass and billowing curtains without so much as casting a shadow. My victims, carefully selected, choice cuts of prime meat; rump, leg and breast. I spill blood with my pendulous blades and feast upon the meal I have prepared myself, often raw. Most flesh can be eaten but skin is hard to digest, I use an old brown-handled pairing knife to remove the top layers of skin from a meal before I eat her. The best bits are the thighs, buttocks, upper arms and breasts, if you cook them just right they are very tender and juicy and taste like spit-roasted pork. There is little meat on the hands, feet or neck so I often leave these bits for the rats.
I usually make a victim last about a week before choosing a new one; my technique is flawless. I lure the maidens up to the dark place with promise of fine wine and grapes, it helps if they’re drunk but I prefer them sober, to see the glint of fear in their eyes before cutting deep into them. Watching the blood spurt out of their mouth, over their sweet little lips and dripping elegantly from their chin onto their cleavage. The priceless expression on their pretty little face, knowing they’ve made a fatal error. The way their lips try to ask me “why?” as life drains from their body has become one of my many vices. But they’ll never catch me, nobody knows about the dark place, not nobody.
Children in the village talk about it, but it’s just childish folklore, the adults know that. They outgrow the tale like the tooth fairy and forget about the stories of the dark place. Rumours have it that I’m the spirit of a worker of the old mill who hated females and was killed in an accident at the mill and exists, embittered, killing young women for sport. They’re half right, I hate women, they’re an inferior species – but I am very much alive, blood still pulses, cold, through my veins. Few know the location of the old mill any more and those who do don’t dare stray here any more. This is my dark place, not theirs.
There are three levels inside the grey-stone building, the storage floor at the bottom – this is littered with filthy rotting bodies and swarming with black rats spreading their disease. The rats are like the, they both spread their disease to the world – the rats spread the plague, the women spread their filthy lust; they are one and the same. The second floor has my preparation table, coated with a film of dried blood, some of which has splattered onto the cold wall behind it. There is my tool rack holding all of my equipment, my bone saw, brown-handled pairing knife, meat hooks, chest cavity expander, gall bladder plucker, intestine unraveller, bone cutters, a tongue severer and most precious of all the long curved silver handled blade I use for sliding through a victims diaphragm and up into their lung cavity until their breathing fluctuates, falters and halts.
The third level of my shadowy hideaway is where I live and work. It is a simple existence with only a bed and a loom and few other necessities to my name. I embroider patchworks I weave on my loom using natural dyes. There’s not a lot of cloth here in the country so I have to improvise. After carefully removing the skin from a meal with my brown-handled pairing knife I can carefully stitch the strips of skin back together and make it into a beautiful picture. I cart these down to the village to sell to the rich townsfolk and buy myself more tools of my trade with the profits. I’ve got my eye set on a small round blade they use for artificially birthing cattle, I’ll have some fun with that.
The rumours will carry on, the children will tell their fanciful stories to disbelieving adults and people will gossip at the disappearance of a young woman. But nobody investigates, nobody comes to my dark place to investigate. The evidence is here for them, rotting putridly, slowly expiring. They’ll never catch me, I’m like the wind.
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Screammmmmmm (second of the night so it's a little shorter).
Growls. Do you pick ideas out of my sodding head? I'm still posting my story, it's typed up ready to spell check.
Blogdrells!
Growls. Do you pick ideas out of my sodding head? I'm still posting my story, it's typed up ready to spell check.
Blogdrells!
O-o-o-o! YOU MANIAC!
Ah, an encapsulation in words/swords of my perfect existence... ahem.
Ah, an encapsulation in words/swords of my perfect existence... ahem.
Hmmm ...
Well, they could probably use a length of guttering if you ask nicely enough.
Well, they could probably use a length of guttering if you ask nicely enough.
My mummy said I'm not allowed to play with swords.
That's the idea - and he insists that it's not a pyramid scheme, so you needent worry
I hear there's a ritual bonding of entrails and everything - complete with hooded men, lots of blood, and a big drippy sword.
I hear there's a ritual bonding of entrails and everything - complete with hooded men, lots of blood, and a big drippy sword.
Interesting. So you have to write a story about an old mill and if The Meka likes it bestest you are adopted as his manchild and learn the secrets?
[URL]http://ukchatforums.reserve.co.uk/display_messages.php?threadid=98509&forumid=423[/URL]
This SSC2 thing - I'm guessing it's Short Story Competiton 2, behold my deductive powers - whats it all about?
Me.
Who said the protagonist was a man?
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