Tag: horror

Today I am Unconquerable

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

He was finally feeling some relief. There was an odd scraping sound which was starting to stir up a headache, but he would take a simple headache over the fever and nausea that plagued so many of his days recently.

It was more irritating than anything. He would be in the middle of an important meeting and then suddenly soaked in sweat, with random itches in unreachable places. He let the advisors think he was overheating, perhaps even a bit nervous about the discussion. Whenever it happened he would dramatically call for more water and another fan for the room. Occasionally a fresh fruit platter. It was better he appeared sensational and demanding than any sort of weak.

The cough had made that more difficult. He quickly took up the practice of constant incense smoking, to better communicate with the beyond of course. It also provided a helpful haze around his person, making him appear ethereal while hiding paling skin.

It was just what was going around these days and it was his turn apparently, though he felt as he should have really been above such a thing. It was hard to avoid with so very many people around the residence at all times. He was lucky indeed to have been alone when the fainting spell happened. He was not sure how he would explain that away, though he was thinking perhaps something about being divinely visioned? But then he would have to spend more time with those aging priests. Something else then.

And he would think of it after he figured out what that scraping sound was and had whoever was making it killed. Hadn’t he suffered enough? Every time some foreign dignitary brought a new disease with them, he soldiered on with his duties with nary a pause. Sometimes literally soldiering- what other pharaoh had to defend their borders with three physicians breathing down his neck, trying to bleed him and stuff herbs down his throat while he commanded? None he knew of. Or at least none that had done it well enough to be carved into history.

By the GODS who was making that sound? So near his chamber! He stood, shaking off his bedsheets, and abruptly halted. Beneath his feet was not the smooth cool stone of his chambers. He wiggled his toes, in a rather undignified manner he admitted, to find that there were rough blocks here instead. He surveyed the room- it was his chamber indeed. Or at least arranged like his chamber. All his possessions as they were- except instead of the lovely acacia tables he’d had made for his wife, his things were piled on bejeweled chests, each painted more intricately than the last.

No, he decided, was not his chamber. His chamber had the melody of small fountains and the calming scents of herbed oils. Where his wide window to look upon his people and feel the sweet air of his land should be- another wall. Other than the terrible scraping, there was silence. He smelled only dry earth and something oddly sour.

A nightmare, surely. He spun towards each corner. His desk here, his water basin there. All pressed against rough carvings rather than where they belonged. Was he captured perhaps? Why would his captors have also brought his belongings? Some were valuable, yes, but others like his great aunt’s weavings, were only so to him.

He searched for any indication of who had brought him here. Was there already a ransom set? How had they gotten by the guards? That was IT. He would never let another foreigner in the residence until a physician had cleared them and would order for a second food taster as well. Ridiculous to be a kidnapped god. Who would dare?! Who could even-

He saw them. The four urns stood on a small bench at the end of his bed: Imsety, Hapy, Duamutef, and Qebehsenuef peering at him with gem-set eyes.

“Sons of Horus…” he whispered, “say you are not here to guard… me.”

They did not answer. With a steady hand and racing heart, he touched his fingers lightly to his chest. A cut. Raised slightly, it ran the length of his abdomen.

This was no nightmare.

Oh, but it was.

The Word

Unconquerable (adj): 1. Incapable of being conquered; indomitable, 2. Incapable of being surmounted

A little short and sweet today! Well, maybe not sweet for our pharaoh…

I’m on my character-study arc again, and I was thinking about “oh how the mighty have fallen” but not in a revenge or justice kind of way. What about after surviving everything, after winning, after out doing the foes and the rebels and everything else- just an everyday life thing, got’em.

If one were to follow my (imperfect) clues, one may deduce our fellow here was not actually taken by a foreign disease or poison as he suspected, but by a pretty common death for ancient Egypt: schistosomiasis (or in I’m-not-a-scientist-don’t-come-for-me terms, “drinking contaminated water from the Nile”). Apparently it can take weeks to fully set in! So even the Egyptians, who caught on to medicine stuff faster than the rest of the world, had a hard time with it.

Good news: It turns out he is immortal due to his god-like status! Bad news: The only door they left him is a metaphorical one painted on the wall for his soul.

I wonder what will become of him…

…happy reading!

Today I am Compost

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story… Essay?

Because I meant to make a story today. I really did. I had this grand idea about organic material and how it feeds into one another. In it, there was a cute little mushroom who grew up learning the strange, constant flow of information from his connected family through the electrical impulses they send one another.

It’s actually science, that one. Not me making stuff up again. Mushrooms and trees are probably talking behind our backs under our feet right now, say (paraphrased) Plant Pathologists and Microbiologists.

But the text response I send to my brother is “I’m currently sitting in front of 2415 words I kinda hate about a mushroom. Gonna take a break.“

And I am going to take a break. I’m so mad at this poor, innocent mushroom for not developing himself into something publishable, even after multiple chunks of paragraphs, that I’m instead writing about how much I hate it to just get some words out.

I feel like you understand. We are all crafty in our own way- whether your medium is words or clay or wire or dough or dungeon-ous minifigures. And sometimes those freaking things get away from us, becoming their own thing instead of molding under our fingertips as requested.

It feels rude! Are we not their creator?!

But alas. My mushroom pal is not to be. So I’m allowing myself to grab the rare mini Dr. Pepper from the fridge. They’re delicious, and I will make up for the calorie deficient somewhere else today. I always think of author John Green when I grab a Dr. Pepper. Not in a weird way, but he’s brought up his Dr. Pepper obsession in two of his books and at least every other podcast episode so I cannot help but associate the two. He drinks the diet kind though, and I would never do something so sacrilegious as disobey the good Doctor’s prescription by replacing real sugar with artificial (please don’t come at me, Diet Coke fanatics, I’m actually rather afraid of you).

I’m taking my mini Dr.Pepper outside. It’s damp and humid from all the rain yesterday, but so lusciously quiet. Normally my neighborhood teems with the happy sounds of toddlers screeching, old men yelling at their lawn mowers, and the teen across the street working on his basketball dribble: Thump thump thu-thump.

But the dampness has kept them all inside. Even the wrens, known accurately for their talkative ways, are quiet. I assume they’re mad I haven’t replaced the birdseed after the storm and are either pouting or, more likely, harassing a distant feeder instead. Only me and the occasional mourning dove, who does not mind a slightly moist sunflower seed.

I have two oak trees in my back yard that I’m very fond of. They are the kind of tall and aged that makes one wonder what things such elders have seen. I often think they are quite cinematic, photogenic. But my attempts to subject them in my “artsy” Instagram posts have not gone well.

The deck chairs are damp, so I figure why not go ahead and sit with one of these lovely trees? I’ll have to change pants once back inside either way, so let’s just confirm the weird-neighbor rumor if anyone looks outside.

How to choose? They’re both good sit-spots. This is when I notice a bright orange blight at the bottom of the larger oak. What’s this?! I work very hard to keep my yard tended and healthy! Alright, I work kinda hard. I work hard when there’s time. I try.

Stomping over, I find that it’s not a big orange blight, but instead a strange mound of peachy mushroom. How appropriate.

“Mocking me, are you?” I ask the mushroom.

It doesn’t respond.

I stare at it a bit, and decide proudly that this is a Jack-o-Lantern mushroom. If I wait a few hours, I can confirm this by the soft, unearthly glow it will give at dusk. I’m getting to know mushrooms better, watching a foraging YouTuber and reading several herb books. I figure if our various leaders are going to blow up the world, we’ll still need to eat afterwards and best to figure out now what’s poisonous and what’s yummy.

The Jack-o-Lantern is on the “no snacking” list. It feels like this should be obvious- one should not risk putting glowing forest objects into one’s mouth. But unfortunately, there are three other kinds of mushroom that are of similar color, grow in the same places, and are excellent sources of nutrients. I know my Jack-o-Lantern is none of these though because as I lean closer, I can see the moss surrounding it has begun to recede in a slow retreat. This guy is apparently poisonous to everyone, not just us vertebrates.

But not dangerous to sit next to. And I’m enough of a stereotypical writer that I think perhaps sitting with a mushroom will help me write about it better.

What do you think- Is this going well? Is it helping?

It’s better than the little gill-capped lad I was trying to create, I tell you that. Most anything would be better.

I set my Dr. Pepper down next to the mushroom on a flat bit of ground. Then, worrying about spores, I move it to the other side of me while giving the mushroom my best “don’t touch my stuff and I won’t dig you out and throw you on the stick pile” glare.

It doesn’t respond to this either.

A deep breath, that’s the ticket. Meditating has never been a skill of mine, but I do find a peace among the world’s natural sounds. The mourning dove is sending out an occasional curious “coorcoo?” wondering why it’s alone. The branches above me are playfully jostling in the wind. Something skitters in the back brush- probably one of the damn squirrels that digs in my flowerpots, little varmint- but I let that anger go and return to my breath.

A creak, probably the oak shifting, peering down at me. Perhaps it thinks Oh here’s the little one from the house leaning on me, how interesting. Perhaps I’m not interesting to the tree at all and the thought is more Lordy not another one, but I feel like we have an acquaintance at least. I pick up its leaves and fallen branches, spray it for invading bugs each spring. It shades my deck and holds up my bat house. We’re companions in a way.

This makes me look again at the mushroom, “Are you hurting my tree? Or just chilling?”

It shifts a little.

Had to be the wind but I huff a laugh, “Is that a yes or no, friend?”

It shifts a little more.

This would bother some people. But I am a certified Weirdo and am okay with the moving abouts of things that should not be moving about. Don’t get me started on the ghost that lived in my first apartment, for example. A mushroom shifting in the wind that… has actually stopped… blowing? Does not disturb me much. I do move my Dr. Pepper a little further away though, onto one of the rocks guarding my peony garden. Imagine a caffeinated poisonous mushroom!

Wait- is that my story? Do I add my little mushroom fella somehow getting his hands on a cup of coffee? Maybe I tie that into the new real world mushroom-coffee fad? And maybe say that mushrooms are trying to take over the world via our stimulant addiction??

No, no. Another deep breath. That’s far too much like the jellyfish story I’m writing. And that one is going better so I don’t want to sacrifice its good idea to fix today’s tale.

I look down again at the splayed pastels next to me. I wish I’d brought my phone out with me to take a picture of it, but I’m trying to do this new thing where I just walk away from my phone for a while. Probably good for my eyes.

Did I slide closer to it when I moved my soda? Odd. I give it a little more space. I don’t know for absolute certain that the only way it can kill you is if you eat it, I’m just pretty sure.

It is gorgeous though. Its caps look like spraying waves frozen in time. I wonder why this one, out of the multiple mushrooms that cosplay as nightlights, got the name Jack-o-Lantern. It’s not even the only orange one, if I’m remembering correctly. Maybe it was just discovered first?

It shifts again.

Third time doesn’t feel like the charm in this scenario and the little hairs on my neck stand in agreement. I’m about to head inside and talk myself out of my spooky thoughts (because really, it’s just thoughts, writers get carried away with our own fiction so often), when a black centipede shimmies out from under one of the caps.

“Oh it’s been you!” I address the bug, now glistening in a bit of sunlight, “You nearly scared me there, little guy.”

The centipede is not impressed with my musings and quickly makes his way up the tree without even a how do you do.

I shake my head. Out here for some air and I’ve not only personified a plant but made it eerie. Try to focus again. Deep breath. The dove coos again. Deeper breath. Close your eyes and feel the sun on your lids.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Ah, pavement must have dried up enough for the teen to come out for practice. Good for him.

Thump thump thu-thump.

If I focus on the bounces, which I must tell him next time I see him are defiantly getting more consistent, it’s almost like one of those drums meditation leaders use to help you hone in on a single thing.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The breath comes easier now, I can feel my own rhythmic system align itself, all my earlier frustration seeping out into the earth.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Something, perhaps a small bug, moves along my thigh, and I quickly flick it away and try to remain in the zone.

Thump thump thu-thump.

It’s lovely, really, out here in the damp moss, under a tree that has endured so much.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The bug lands on my thigh again. Did I spill some Dr. Pepper on it or something to attract him? Another flick, another deep breath.

Thump thump thu-thump.

This time when it lands, I let it. It’s too late in the season for mosquitos. Probably just a cranky fly. I won’t even dignify it with looking. I relax my eyebrows. If it wants to sit there while I breathe, fine.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I’m getting rather good at this meditation. Perhaps having that conscious thought means that I am actually not, but it feels like it. I can feel myself becoming less a bunch of limbs on the ground and more just space out in more space. Feels good.

Thump thump thu-thump.

The air smells alive. How nice to be alive with it. The sun seems to be moving away.

Thump thump thu-thump.

How long have I been out here if the sun is moving? I really am getting very good at this. In a moment though, I will have to open my eyes and go inside. Feed the cat, run the laundry, etc.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Just another moment though. This feels so nice. These breaths are so deep, entering my whole being.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I don’t feel the little bug anymore. In fact, I’m not quite sure I feel much at all.

Thump thump thu-thump.

I feel sedative. Feel pulsing as one with the soil.

Thump thump thu-thump.

We feel lovely down here.

Thump thump thu-thump.

Oh we do glow in the evening. Isn’t that fascinating.

The Word

Compost: (noun) Decayed organic material used as a plant fertilizer. (verb) Make (vegetable matter or manure into compost.

Gotcha! I’m okay- didn’t actually turn into a mushroom! That I’m aware of anyway. They do “communicate” via electrical impulses, and you’re reading this via a kind of electric impulse, so who’s to say?

This story did grow out of another one about a goofy mushroom. Maybe you’ll meet him someday, and maybe like many of his fungi brethren, he will never see the light of day. But today, I turned him back into the earth to come a new life- this spooky-ish story above. I don’t try stream-of-conscious often, partly because I’m a control freak and partly because it simple isn’t my forte. But how do we improve without practice?

And, Jack-o-Lanterns (the carved gourd, not the mushroom) were actually named from an Irish tale about a man named Jack who for makes a bad deal with the devil and has to carry around hell fire as his only light. So, Jack-o-Lanterns (the mushroom, not the carved gourd) are well suited for the realm of spooky.

And it’s very much becoming spooky season, isn’t it, dear readers?

Happy reading!