The TFP Plotto Machine Output #1

Elk

It was the twenty-second day. Dawn. The moon had waxed and was now on the wane. The nights were becoming darker, and longer. The summer, when the sun never set, now over, the first snow had arrived three days earlier.

The walls of the cave were dry, but there was enough moisture in the air to ice his beard. He knew he would have to return to the village soon. Not even he could survive a winter up here.

Squatting at the mouth of the cave, he pulled his furs tighter around him and began his incantation, feeling with his right hand for the small piece of bone tied around his neck and keeping time with the rattle in his left.

After a while, his hands stopped moving. Nothing moved. The forest was still and silent, bar the occasional, soft crack as pieces of ice broke from the bank and floated away in the stream below him.

Had anybody found him at this point, they would have thought him dead, frozen to the ground in the mouth of the cave, his spear and his knife at his side; a hunter who had remained on the mountain for too long when the snows came. In his trance, the shaman appeared to have stopped breathing and his eyes to have stopped seeing. He was between worlds now.

The spirit was drawing closer. This spirit was strong and different. He had sensed it first on the day before the snow arrived, faint but unmistakable. With each day, he could sense it more strongly. It was drawing closer and he knew he couldn’t leave until he had overpowered this spirit. He knew it was important. He knew that this was a great spirit and that it held the potential for great power.

With their permission, he had harvested many spirits this time out and in his previous mountain sojourns. Each spirit taken had added to his power. Each time he bit into the soft, warm heart and gathered the spirit to him, he could feel it surge and his understanding of the spirit-world expand and clarify.

But this spirit was special. And now it was close. This spirit had life-changing potential.

When it came, it was not as he expected. A branch rustled. A snout. Steam from behind a tree. Tentative steps. A movement in the shade. Another step into the clearing. An elk coming to the stream to drink.

Just an elk.

Then another.

Two elks, alert and cautious, occasionally lowering their heads to drink, tensed, ready to flee. He was disappointed. Surely neither of these elks could be the spirit he had sensed and was waiting for?

It was then that it stepped into the clearing, and his heart beat faster.

Another elk, but larger than the others. And white. Pure white. He saw its eyes. Pink. A white elk, with pink eyes. His hand dropped the bone around his neck and, without thinking, went to the soft spot at his hairline where the bone had been removed. As a child, he had been subject to wild imaginings and the old, village shaman had drilled out a small circle to release the spirit that was torturing him. Was this white elk imagined, or real?

The movement of his hand was enough. The first elk, startled, sprang back from the water’s edge, spooking the second elk which turned and leapt towards the trees, crashing into the white elk as it did so.

In an instant, all three were out of sight behind the tree-line and the shaman was left, open-mouthed, one hand still on his forehead, cursing his own stupidity. They were gone. Should he track them or wait? He remained still.

After 10 minutes, he heard a rustle from the edge of the clearing and this time the shaman focused his mind, dropped into the spirit world and, finally, began to commune with the great, white elk.

Negotiations would normally be straightforward.

Some spirits would immediately recognize him as a great shaman and welcome the honour of joining with him. Others would demand to know his credentials before agreeing to his request.

There had been one spirit, a bear, who he fought for a day and night in the spirit-world before it would surrender to him. When he had returned to the village with the pelt of the bear the villagers had been astonished, prostrating themselves before him and creating a great feast to celebrate his return. Surely, they cried, he was the greatest shaman who had ever lived!

This white pelt would answer any doubt.

The elk, however, was intransigent. Why, it reasoned, should a unique spirit such as he bow to a shaman, however accomplished? What interest had he in the recognition of a few villagers, no different from any other villagers scattered across the frozen waste? He, who could wander at will through the snows, across mountains and see sights the shaman could only dream of as the shaman crouched around a fire through the winter, powerless to venture out, healing sickly children and the weakened spirits of the old and infirm.

A day passed. The elk had left the valley but he and the shaman continued the debate. Two days passed, then three.

Day blurred into night into day and back again into cold, dark night.

The shaman was beginning to think he would never get permission from the elk when the elk changed tack.

Why should he surrender his spirit to the shaman? Why should the shaman not surrender his spirit to the elk, along with all the spirits he had harvested over the years? What use had he for the world of flesh? His flesh was weakening anyway and his hair was becoming grey.

And the shaman had no answer.

In the Spring, as the snows began to melt, they found him at the mouth of the cave, frozen to the ground, clutching the bone at his neck, his rictus a smile, peaceful and serene.

 

The Note

Day of Frigg. Can't trust that day according the Vikings, who would have had no reason to lie. The Day of Roger, God of Perpetual Lunch, Wearer of the “all you can spatter” Big and Casual Friday attire. Day of the perky, well distributed weekend plans of Jessica Simpson Tits who might work in Accounting but for her vagabond ways. Day of Njord, spare thy weary sailor.

No ordinary Friday either. It was Friday the 13th and I didn't need the bagel lady to remind me of it. I knew it was coming. What I didn't know is what manner of misfortune awaited me this time around. I decided that the shit-clogged men's toilet didn't count. Nor did the rest of the day's shit, resembling as it did, the same shit as every other workday.

I drove home like an old woman, fearful my fate lie ahead of me in a tomb of twisted metal. I survived the trip to find my crucible waiting for me as I walked through the front door. Slipped through my mail slot. An alien intruder at odds with the utility bills and delivery pizza offers. A real nose on the forehead.

A blank envelope. Unstamped and unaddressed. The note inside consisted of ten handwritten words. All caps. No punctuation. One word misspelled. The author had left it unsigned. If two of the words hadn't been my name, I would have assumed it was meant for the previous tenant. Six months gone, the odor of cat piss and his stale tobacco lingering to remind me that I did indeed rent a pig in a poke.

The note could've been a prank if I'd been sufficiently friendly with anyone inclined to play a well-meaning joke on the Rickster. On the flip side, the Rickster doesn't warrant a mean-spirited joke either.

I live in Boston now where I blend into the woodwork. I could bludgeon schoolchildren during recess, in broad daylight, in front of a dozen witnesses and never be nabbed in a lineup. Invisibility has been the goal. When Chloe dumped me, I decided that the Rickster, Chicago's favorite party favor, was going to lay low and take stock. Because what assholes like me lack, according to Chloe, is the ability to recognize we're assholes. (Her parting words) I assure you, if it was as easy as staring long and hard at myself in a mirror, the task would be finished.

It wasn't my intention to drive her away, or more precisely, to come home on that other Friday the 13th to find all my earthly possessions dumped in the driveway and brutalized like Dickensian orphans. Suits which had hung in my closet and shirts, neatly folded in my dresser only hours before, looked as if they'd weathered a direct hit by a tornado. My album collection resembled shattered skeet. That she'd obviously driven over the debris a couple of times (for good measure) clued me in to just how badly I must have fucked up. For the record, I still have no idea how I managed it so royally, though there are a few possibilities on the short list.

Top of that list. Our 3rd anniversary of co-habitation, celebrated a week before the tornado hit. Chloe presented me with two tickets to a Bull's playoff game. Scarce as hen's teeth right? She hated basketball so I was free to pal up with a buddy. What a gal! So was it disappointment rather than delight on her face when she unwrapped the cookbook I'd given her? I'm thinking now it probably was and thinking maybe it was supposed to be a ring or at least not a cookbook.

I immediately ruled Chloe out as the note writer. A human spell checker and world-class grammar nazi; she would sooner leave the house naked than torture the English language with such ferocity. Besides, I heard she's moved on and not in my direction.

The note was obviously a threat, despite the fact I've hardly shared more than a few grunts with anyone, outside of the bagel lady whose generosity with cream cheese is relative to the length of any conversation with her. I may be an asshole, but what asshole doesn't know when they create a revenge seeking monster?

I spent Saturday and Sunday trying to forget about it. I managed 30 nonconsecutive minutes of a football game. The rest was spent in near certainty someone was trying to get in my apartment. Car bombs and snipers on rooftops dampened any thought of leaving. It was hopeless. I couldn't let it rest. Like the woman at the bar with the killer legs. You see yourself entangled in them later but know you'll have to talk to her first. Your mouth is cactus terrain and the five remedial scotches render you too drunk to even introduce yourself. Can't nail it down. Can't stop hammering at it.

It's now Sunday, 3:00 am. Finally drifting off when, through some tunnel of distorted time, I hear Chloe telling me I've missed the entire point. The Titanic movie. There I am harping about poor Jack. Dead because that selfish bitch Rose didn't insist he get on the floating piece of wood with her.

Maybe Chloe's right. Maybe I am an asshole. She'd tell me we needed to talk and I'd know it was about us. I'd grab the wheel and drive right over her, straight into the ChiSox or the Bears or my job or how her leaving damp towels on beds and shoes under tables were gross acts of inconsiderate behavior on her part and how I thought she was an idiot for worrying about her loser brother and the homeless cat I'd keep chasing off with a golf club.

I understand now.

The shrunken man and his ancient wife. Egg foo yung and dry-cleaning solvent.

Two misspellings, actually.

RICHARD MCHALE

CLOSE REDDY FOR YOU MISTER NOW YOU PAY

I'd forgotten about that suit.

 

Here's mine. The ending is kind of abrupt, because 1000 word limit.

 

Amid intermittent hot water and the clanking stutter of the central heating, his towel resentfully subsiding, mortal lust-hunger having been untimely disturbed, Stan vacated the bathroom and dressed hastily.

“I am Called, my dearest Isabel: there are fractures in the cosmic flow.”

She watched him make final adjustments to his crimson over-robe and to the golden figure-of-eight that floated above his head, then felt the life-juices sucked out of her as, with one hand he held his wand aloft and with the other, pointed toward the floor. She knew he had refined his Magik, climbed Jacob’s Ladder on steps built with a lifetime of Selflessness and Truth; that he was powerful and invulnerable, but that, as his Priestess, she completed him. Today was the hardest yet, for, as his powers increased so did he drain more energy from her; but the world was a better place for it and she was giving to the Universe, of which she was part, thus with her next in-breath she was made more whole and strong than before.

“That radiator'll need more than a wand, Stan. I’m off across town to get a bleed-valve key. You want anything?”

“No, thanks, I’m good.”

“Back soon.”

She kissed him and was gone.



#



Elsewhere, amid screams of the Damned and the flames of those who torment them, his loincloth twitching regretful echos of immortal lust-hunger untimely disturbed, Satan rolled off an ornate Bed of Souls.

“I am Called, my dearest Jezebel. Forgive me, I must leave you to your own devices”. Of which she had many.

In an instant, he was at the topmost Netherlevel - the Mouth of the Pit.

“Moloch .. WHAT? What is it?”

“Mafter! Doom approacheth! Yt ftarted as a crack that became a fiffure that became a rend in the very fabric of our Dark reality. Hellgate ytself did buckle at ye most filthy cooing Angelf and the flutter their pallid wingf.”

“Yef … I mean yes. That Wizard wossisname? Wizard Stan. Has he been making waves of Vile Goodness again?”

“Yef, but worfe, much, much worfe: he’f learnt to channel his Girlfriend’f energy thus twife-weaving, certes, creatioun’f owne …”

“Yehyehyeh! Thus adding microcosmic focus to the general macrocosmic waves spewed by his Selflessness & Truth™. That is so sick. Why, even that Other Bugger two thousand years ago hadn’t caught on to this. We must take him out or Hellgate is fucked - we’re all fucked.”

“Ah Mafter Kill Him! Kill the Wytch! Arrrrrgh Kill the Wytch! Kill them both! Killllllllllllllll!”

Moloch’s cheeks puffed and his face pinched as he Called an army of ten thousand by ten thousand demons, proud in the stirrups of black Pegasi, the bones of the lesser damned, their armour; under which could be seen tabards they wore when employed by Jehova for some Psalmy Old Testment smiting.

“Ah, Moloch, Moloch, Moloch, you are so … Medieval.” Waving away the army to whence it came, Satan lectured,“For these times of science and CCTV there may be no direct intervention - we cannot be seen to influence Free Will. Bring me my Scrying Stones”

Moloch got them and they gazed at hazy tendrils of near-future to find the best point of indirect influence. Satan pondered, “Hmm. He is invulnerable. But his Girlfriend - what would he sacrifice for her safety? In what danger can we put her to compromise him?”

“Oh NO … Mafter!” Moloch pointed to the trace of an imminent disaster: Today, Isabel was to die: while driving, she’d skid into a bus-load of fifty school children. No survivors.

Satan grew pale. Isabel dead? But then there would be no point of influence on Stan. This could not be. He teased and picked at the strands to find how they could be rewoven. He could, at best, divert her death into severe injury, but, alas, he could not save her without saving all the children. Not one would die.

“That I must save one good life to preserve Evil is bad enough” He grimaced, “But to save a whole coach-load of innocents? I might as well trade my horns for a halo and become a Chri …” He made the adjustment but his molten skin darkened in shame.

“Mafter …”

“Enough of all this fucking maFter, already!" Satan snapped, "‘S’s from now on you bastard. Aww, Sorry Moloch, I didn't mean to ... it’s just that this entire goddamm … er … Daggum … arghhhh! Blasphemy never sounds right when I say it. Look, can we have just ‘S’s, please?”

“OK, Boff - bugger - Boss. Boss, lissen, yes, it's such a shame about those kids but I really do think you’ve nailed it. He loves her: he’s GOTTA heal her, and cos they are an item, then if he makes a move, that’s close enough to 'selfish' to feck his ‘Selflessness Credit’ record: he'll lose his powers. He's screwed.”

"And by his own hand," muttered Satan, "so's to speak. From now on we stand out of the way.”



#



Stan was frantic on the phone all afternoon. He did not want to ring round the hospitals, but eventually, yes. And eventually, Oh no.

God. Fuck. Fuck. God. Fuck. Became his mantra as traffic tailed back, but, at last, he was holding her limp hand in the Intensive Care Unit; a bank of instruments flickered to him their own arcana, beeping to make up for her silence; though without her voice, sound, itself, was worthless.

A tentative cough and he turned. In hushed tones, a doctor described the problem: the impact to the cranium.

Stan’s world began to dim and plunge.

“The trauma to the brain.”

His world became dark and frozen - paralyzed.

“The clotting and the coma.”

All was black and brittle - shattering.

But I have the magic - save her! Save her! … No! No selfish use, and she is part of me. NO SELFISH USE.

“Only a moment left”

No selfish use! But I cannot! But I cannot NOT! Shall I lose my love? NO … I must … I shall …

“The clot fpreadf to vital neural fyftemf. Oopf … Fod yt!”

What??????

Stan’s vision snapped into bright focus and he saw Moloch. So this was Evil’s greater plan! It was against the World, and Isabel's 'accident' had been instrumental. He was now free. Free to heal Isabel as part of this World, as was his Desire, as was his Duty, and, as again, was his Pure Will. Then, wand aloft, his left finger downpointing, he took the final spark of her unconscious energy; it was all there was and was all he needed. The wheel of Fortune turned, the guttering candle in the Lantern grew stronger, The Serpent rose and from the Limitless Void the lightening struck. And she awoke.

“Stan?”



#



Elsewhere, Satan was locked in his own private facepalm.

Jezebel tried to soothe him,

“Try this, it worked for me.”

“Fuck off … no no no .. No I’m sorry .. I mean .. I’m just so fucking mad. I mean F U C K I N G MAAAAAAAAD!!!!!!!”

“Go on.”

“No no no - thanks - no no … It’s just that Moloch - MOLOCH is a WANKER. W. A. N. K. E. R.... OI .... OI! YOU! YES YOU! MOLOCH?????????”

"Just a little peek", she purred.

Distantly could be heard, from the recently created Tenth circle of Hell where all the Fucking Wankers Named Moloch go, “Yef Mafter?”

“You. Are. A. Whuh Ahhhh Nnnnn Kuh AHHHHHHHHRGHHHH … WANKER!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

OK, this was no longer a matter of seduction. Jezabel nodded to herself and fetched him a mighty slap upside the head.

“Wha? But Moloch IS a … ” Satan deflated.

She thrust in his direction the scrying stones she'd been studying and slapped him again, this time the shock-wave knocked a distant angel off Heaven's cloud to plummet, ever downward and backward to the Dawn of Time, but that’s another story.

“Jezebel … you … you hurt me!”

“This!” she exploded. "This will put the smile back on your face"

Through the scrying stones, he saw the neck of one of the children he’d inadvertently saved from the bus crash, and on it was a tiny birthmark.

666

 

Bless you, Zen. I almost enjoyed this more than my wedding night.

1000 words?

 

1274

And I'm glad y'all enjoyed it

 

I didn't feel my original Plotto story was occultish enough so I wrote another. Looking forward the next Plotto challenge.

Voodoo

Desiree Rathbone took her chances and climbed the steps to Sheila Dixon's front door. She hoped the white folk watching her would assume she was the Dixon's new colored help. No reason for her to be in the neighborhood otherwise. 90 years of emancipation had all but snubbed its nose at 1950's Alabama.

She rang the doorbell. Impatient, she rang again. The sound of approaching footsteps brought a sigh of relief.

“Who is it?” Sheila Dixon chirped from within. The lilting octave, designed to dispel any notion that life was amiss at the Dixon's.

“Desiree Rathbone, Ma'am. It's to do with your husband.”

Sheila Dixon cracked the door for a look at her unexpected visitor. “My husband isn't home.” she replied, her brain churning out a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

“May I come in please?” Desiree asked, taking stock of the woman whose life she was about to change.

Thirties. Lost beauty. Blonde hair, lustrous once, now a riotous heap of dry corn husks. Eyes gouged deeply into a facial gravestone. But it was the lilac bruise fading on her cheek telling the whole story. Sheila Dixon was a specter trapped between a nice Jasper home and her own private hell.

“I'm sorry. Yes, come in.” Sheila opened the door, stepping aside to make room for the large Negro woman. “Please excuse my untidy home. I've been... ill. Might be I could use some help around here, if you're....”

“Not my line of business, Ma'am.” Desiree interrupted.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to suggest...Really...I'm not that kind of white woman.”

“You apologize too much.” Desiree told her. “Bad for your health.”

“Habit, I guess. Would you like some tea or coffee, Mizz Rathbone?”

“Tea would be fine. And call me Desiree.”

“I'm Sheila. Nice to meet you.” she smiled. A nice smile, Desiree thought. Too bad about the broken teeth.

“Please make yourself at home on the sofa while I get the tea.”

Desiree sat down and opened her tapestry sewing bag. A gift from a grateful lady in Selma. She pulled out the handmade cloth doll and set it in the center of Sheila's coffee table. She kept the pistol tucked away, for now.

Sheila returned a few minutes later with a tray of steaming mugs and a plate of cookies.

“Just set it on the floor, dear” Desiree instructed, “and sit down next to me.” Desiree knew Sheila would do as she was told. All the Sheilas did.

“Your doll is very... unique, Desiree.” Sheila remarked, as she took a seat at the far end of the sofa. “Maybe I misunderstood, but didn't you say were here on a matter concerning my husband.”

“I did.”

“Well, he won't be home until 5.”

“No time to waste then. Tell me, Sheila, when your husband beats you, does he do it in sight of your children?”

Sheila couldn't have been more shocked if Desiree had stripped naked in front of her. “What do want with me?” She asked.

“For a month now, I've been suffering through your terror, Sheila. Personally experiencing each painful indignity, in the confines of my own home. I'm at my wit's end. I'm here to help you so I might get some relief.”

“I don't understand.”

“I don't either. Gave up trying to.”

Sheila looked at the cloth doll again. “It's a voodoo thing, isn't it?” Sheila asked, not knowing why she thought so.

“It's one of my remedies. So, does he?

“Does he what?”

“Beat you in front of your children?”

Sheila felt the words yanked off her tongue.“Yes, sometimes he does.”

“Yet, you don't leave him?”

“I've tried, but he finds me and brings me back.” To speak so openly to a stranger! Later, she'd come to the conclusion she was spellbound.

“Why don't you report him to the police?”

“The police do nothing when it's one of their own.”

“I see. Do you love him?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“How far would you go to save yourself and your children?”

“Leo would never hurt the kids.”

“But he will kill their spirit and put you in your grave. You see that, don't you? So, I ask, who is more important? You and your children or this man who will destroy you?” Sheila had no problem with that one. “Me and my kids.”

“Then there's no question. It must be done.” Desiree rubbed her dark, dusky hands together and pulled out the revolver. Sheila jumped a foot off the sofa. What was she thinking letting this strange woman in? But Desiree was quick to reassure her. “This weapon is your freedom train, Sheila.”

“Are you going to kill my husband for me?” Sheila asked, familiar with relishing the idea of a dead Leo.

“No. It has to be you.”

“I can't.” Sheila lied. Nothing was off the table anymore.

“What if it was as easy as shooting this doll?” Desiree asked, revealing her dazzling oral landscape of gleaming white and shimmering gold.

“You've got me wrong. I'm a coward.”

“Nonsense. I can only imagine the courage it must take for you to get up every morning.”

Maybe it was a just a doll. Maybe it was more. Either way, she had nothing to lose.

“He must be shot in the head or heart.” Desiree added, as Sheila carried the doll to the backyard and laid it on the ground. Centering the muzzle in the middle of his forehead, she pulled the trigger. Surprisingly simple. She set the voodoo ablaze, watched it burn to ash, then went inside.

Desiree Rathbone was gone.

When Leo arrived home, he reached for his wife. He pulled her close. He apologized for his misbehavior. He'd been under a dark cloud but for some reason, he was feeling much better now. Things would be different, he promised.

This time Sheila placed the muzzle over his heart. Surprisingly simple.

 

These are all a lot of fun. I haven't written *anything* like this in a long time. Thanks for these. I am looking forward to reading more!

 

I agree that these are all good reads. I wish I would have proof read mine more closely, since I apparently jumped from present to past tense randomly throughout. It was late and I'd spent a couple hours working on it. I was pleased that I could pump out 1000 mostly coherent words in such a short amount of time.

 

The Morning Routine

Frank paused half way to putting a spoonful of cereal to his mouth. There was something he was forgetting. Mornings were a time of routine: coffee, cereal, the morning newsfeed, teeth brushed and off to work.

This morning, however, there was something different.

He looked down past his suspended spoon and could see his bowl of Cheerios, steaming mug of coffee (milk, two sugars) and his iPad, scrolling this morning’s news. Everything seemed as normal, like the morning before and the morning before that. Routine.

So what was giving him pause?

His eyes wandered further about the room. On the sink his landlady said he was lucky to have, he could see the cup that held his toothbrush. His jacket and tie were on the hook on the back of the door. The door that lead to the outside. Everything was as it should be in his small but well kept bedsit.

He gave a mental shrug and shoveled the dripping spoonful of Cheerios into his mouth. They had grown mushy. There was nothing worse than mushy Cheerios. With a sigh, he pushed the bowl to the side and reached for his coffee. It looked like it was going to be one of those days. He hated those days. Routine was the foundation upon which any good day was built. And soggy toasted oats were not strong building blocks. He sipped his coffee and buried his nose in his iPad. Maybe he could salvage the morning before it got too far off track.

It wasn’t until he was draining the milk away into his “precious” sink that it hit him again. Something wasn’t right. He stared at an errant “O” that refused to be washed down before idly poking it into the drain.

“Shit!”

He pulled his finger back from the hole. The tip was swelling with a tiny ball of his blood. He looked into the sink and could see a small piece of glass caught in the drain, the tip of which had just pierced his fingertip.

This day was just getting better and better.

It wasn’t a bad cut by any stretch; the bleeding stopped almost as soon as it had started. He washed his hands and, with another sigh, got ready to brush his teeth. Nurdle. The word for the little swish of paste he squeezed onto his brush. It was one of the good words. Why did that pop into his head? He got down to making his teeth the home of good bacteria by banishing the bad, with a frothy spit, to the sinkhole. He would have to remember to clear that glass when he got home from work. He didn’t want to cut his finger again.

It wasn’t long before he was slipping on his jacket and giving his tie a final tug, to get it just right. He may be heading for a bad day, but there was no excuse to not look proper while he was at it. Taking his keys from the hook by the door, he was reaching for the doorknob when he froze once more.

Something wasn’t right. He knew his routine was off, but this was different. He pulled his hand back from the doorknob. The door that lead to the outside. He was forgetting something. Something important.

Frank ran through his mental checklist.

He had his cereal. He had his coffee and the morning newsfeed. He brushed his teeth. He tied his tie and put on his jacket. While his routine wasn’t as precise as he would have liked, he made it though his morning and was ready, as always, to take on the world.

He reached for the doorknob and as his hand closed on cool metal he remembered.

He looked at the keys in his hand and sure enough, these were not his Keys. There, on the rack from which he had just taken these keys were his Keys.

“Nice try. But not this time.”

The keys in his hand faded from existence.

“There will be other days. Other distractions. You cannot bind me forever,” thrummed The Voice.

With a roll of his eyes, he grasped his Keys. Today was looking better already. Routine satisfied, Frank opened the door, prepared to take on the World.

 

“A person influenced by the occult mysterious, becoming involved in a complication that challenges the value of cherished idea, emerges happily from serious entanglement. “

Only if you believe...

She is led down the dark chilly cement stairway, gazing at the walls, which seem to be moving. Focusing more clearly she sees there are millions of tiny creatures, moving about in circular movements with brightly intermittent colors. She pulls her arms and hands close to her body.

Feeling the dampness of the basement as she descends down off the last step, a brief glance around the room brings a depiction of what seemed to be an intimidating feeling of darkness and wickedness.
She had been told this would not be the place to get her answers or help with the darkness that followed her over the years. She thought to herself “maybe they were right, maybe this mysterious group are sent from the depths of hell.”

It has been told that they steal the souls of others, leaving their human bodies empty shells. Very few individuals knew this group existed. This did not stop her from trying to seek their help to rid the curse that was upon her.

When she stepped into the room, little flickering lights appeared out of nowhere, gliding through the air. Stepping forward, her face grazed one of the lights, which gave a puff of air through her hair, almost sounding like voices as they past by her face.

She was than introduced to this mysterious group, all dressed in white robes with fluorescent colors which also had the look of movement. She pulled back from her friend’s firm hold, scared that this would be the end either way.

Her friend took hold of her arm once again and said “Lidia these are my friends from the dimension known as the keepers, do you remember we spoke about them before we arrived? Remember it will work only if you believe. Please come forward and join in the circle for this gathering. As you know, we meet here secretly and you can tell no one. Once your darkness is gone, you are required to come back here once a year to help others from their dark curses that consumed their lives.”

Before she had a chance to answer, the flicking lights lifted her. They had surrounded Lidia without her even noticing. It felt like little hands touching her body, moving her towards the circle of the keepers. The keepers were chanting, but she was unable to understand their words. The darkness that followed her most of her life had began to pull away from her spirit, screaming as they disappeared into the darkness of the room. Lidia’s soul had finally been cleared of the curse that would not let her live a normal life.

Lidia soon learned that this gathering of the keepers was something special, the energy in the room was incredible, pulling her towards the circle. There was no darkness or evil here only good.

 

awesome work everyone.. great reads

 

This totally floored me Zen! I did not read all the stories until I was able to finish mine. Did not want any influences.

All the writing here is awesome and has been the most fun I have had in a long time!

 

A Sequence

She is a round thing on a sofa. Tinkling metal bells orbit the interior of one hand.

She does not always look into the camera. When she says “The hand is a map of potentials” she is not talking to you.

A palm-reader once told me that my lines indicate a desire to part the veil and witness the mysteries. But not in order to communicate anything: more for their own sake, like the mysteries are tourist destinations.

The Other had said: Make sure she is wearing the colors I requested before you start shooting. Then just keep the camera running. Do not intervene or interrupt.

She is a silver spangle balloon.

The Other handed me an envelope full of cash. Bring the footage to me, he said. The magic will happen in the editing room. And I winced.

Now she looks steadily into the camera.

Her silence spreads like a rash.

Once I drove along a Pennsylvania river valley to the place where the court of Louis XVI was to have lived in exile. But they never came. By the site where Louis XVI was not there was a parking lot and a diner. The diner was open but the staff had long since given up believing that anything would happen. The food was awful.

The sofa is beige. There are vaguely nautical elements on a segment of mantlepiece behind her.

The refrigerator motor pulses sine waves through the air that reorganize the tinkling from the metal bells that orbit the interior of her hand.

Finally the bell sounds stop.

She says: Don't you have any questions?

I say: No. I was told to allow you to speak.

She says: Well, that's stupid. Who contracted you to shoot this?

I hand her the business card that had come in the envelope with the cash.

My son. I knew it. Turn that thing off.

I leave the camera running and ask: Why did you agree to do this shoot?

I've long felt like I am living in a movie. So there's a side of me that sees it as inevitable that I should be in one.

As she talks, she moves across to living room to a cabinet.

But it is always the same hoax.

She opens the cabinet and pulls out a box with a reel of film in it.

How much did he offer you? I'll give you the same amount. In exchange, you will give him this instead of what you have shot this afternoon.

What is it?

It's the same reel he gets every time. It's what he really wants. He's not interested in me. He's interested in the story that's on this reel. He likes the illusion that it is the only story I tell and that somehow he controls it.

Abruptly, the screen goes black.

As the footage rewinds again, I think: I am OK with being a character in someone else’s story.






Plotto: A person influenced by the occult and the mysterious, becoming involved in a complication that challenges the value of cherished ideals, emerges happily from a serious entanglement.

 

Intriguing roach. Leaves me wanting. Which is of course, a lovely destination unto itself.