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In with 'Florida Man Admits Killing Goat and Drinking Its Blood For Pagan Sacrifice, Would Still Like to be Senator'
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Dec 19, 2015 03:31
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| # ¿ Apr 23, 2024 07:47 |
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The Night of the Goat - 1196 words There are no wild places left, least of all in England. But the land’s wild spirits live on; in the geometric plantations of pine for lumber, in Merseyside’s polluted estuaries, in derelict urban graveyards haunted by knotweed. They are powerful, and they deal in the oldest currency: blood. When Charlie Bell wanted to meet such an entity, she marked out his glyph in chalk on the concrete leg of a bridge over a disused railway, smeared black pudding into a certain spot, and waited. Her nervous anticipation sent her back to the first time she bought weed, lingering under a streetlamp for a white Vauxhall. And these appointments run on a drug dealer’s schedule: half an hour late, unless they’re early. She was ready to leave when a figure appeared at a bend in the tracks, a shepherd with a white dog at his heels. He seemed to walk slowly but soon was right by her. His face was young, like a teenager playing dress-up, with pale skin and old, red eyes. Smell of the sea; soot; wet leaves. “What is it?” Her father once told her, “Don’t talk to strangers, and never talk to ghosts.” So she pressed an acorn into the man’s cold hand by way of reply, which he held up for inspection to his thick bifocals. She had scratched a symbol into it with the compass from her maths set. “One goat,” he said, and turned to walk away. She knew better than to watch him go. The engraving on the acorn meant power. Jake Sommerville had known since they were fifteen Charlie Bell was his one true love, but he was starting to think meeting her for coffee six years later had been a bad idea. “I can’t believe you want me to do that,” he said, grinning. Charlie had been into some weird poo poo in school but he never thought she’d stick with it – certainly not take it this far. Charlie had liked Jake, once, but she knew more about his infatuation than he was aware of; probably more than he did. She knew, for example, he didn’t really love her. When she talked about what she believed in – the unfairness of the world and how she would change it – he laughed, dismissive. That wasn’t unusual: her accent, upbringing, and dyed black hair meant a lot of people didn’t take Charlotte Emily Bell seriously as a future politician. But she knew the power she had over Jake, despite the different directions their lives had gone, and she knew about the darker side he tried to keep hidden. Jake had once left the memory card for his camera in her laptop when they were working together on a school project. She had seen the photos he’d taken of her in secret – and a lot more besides. “No, I’m serious. It’s for my dad, ever since he passed away… And you don’t have to kill it for me, just help out a bit.” “And you’d get a goat, how?” His voice was smug. Jake turning her down outright would be inconvenient, but part of her would be relieved. Telling anyone about this meant risk, but Jake brought his own unique set. He was a creep, but hopefully he was as dopey as he looked. At least no one would believe him if he talked. And there was another advantage: “Your family has goats,” she said. His parents, the hippy progeny of aristocrats, kept a smallholding with a few animals on their property – two pigs, some chickens, and three old nannies his mum fed jam sandwiches. Nothing anyone would miss for long. “You want me to help you sacrifice my mother’s pets?” Jake laughed. “This is too much. I’m not doing it.” “She wouldn’t even notice. They get out all the time. They’d chalk it up to a fox or something.” “Charlie. I mean it. No.” But his eyes gleamed with macabre excitement. He was lying. Jake had never been to Charlie's house until the evening he came round with the goat. He hadn’t realised how small it was. Her mum, who looked frail and sad, poured tea for two into chipped china. She wore long sleeves. When they were in Jake’s car, Charlie said he’d met her mother on a good day. On a bad one, she could hardly get out of bed. Charlie had cancelled her university plans because her mum wasn’t capable of looking after her young siblings. Now the government had declared her fit to work. She wasn’t. With the threat of losing what income they had, things were desperate. Charlie worked two jobs. She didn’t tell Jake how scared she was her seven-year-old sister would open the bathroom door to find their mother drowned in red bathwater. The goat, braying grumpily, stuck its head between the seats and licked Charlie in the face. She had to admit it was cute, in a toothy sort of way. They killed it under a secluded bridge of the M52, watched only by jackdaws from bobbing cables strung between the pylons. Charlie slit its throat while Jake stood behind her, keeping lookout. The thirsty grass drank in the animal’s dark blood. When they were back in the car, he tried to kiss her. She was so grateful she let him put a hand up her shirt. The scariest thing about deals with the devil is that they work. Charlotte Bell became an MP at the next general election, and eventually made deputy party leader on a mental health platform. Shortly after her appointment, she opened an envelope sent to her home address to find a black ink drawing of a goat with its throat hanging open. Off to one side, a quickly sketched camera; on another sheet, a P.O. box and a figure. Three digits. She recognised the hand-writing. Hating herself for relying on a creep like Jake, she submitted to the blackmail. Two months passed before the next letter came, with another drawing and a larger sum. She paid it. But the next one took only a week. She couldn’t tell anyone, even her husband, but if she kept losing so much money he would notice – or someone else would. Gambling that whatever photos Jake might have got would be dismissed as fake, surely being taken hastily from behind, in poor lighting, on an old phone camera, she refused to part with more cash and instead wrote to say unless he produced the photos, she didn’t believe they existed. When she opened the next envelope to find five clear photographs of herself under the bridge, bloody knife in hand, carcass at her feet, and scruffy pentagram resplendent on the damp-stained baluster behind her head, she nearly fell off her chair. They were taken from the front, with Jake’s ‘Megadeth’ tee-shirt clearly in the frame. The drawing was even worse. This goat seemed undead, laughing manically, and something had been singed into the paper between its wild eyes. A symbol, and one she recognised. It meant power. At the bottom of the envelope, where Charlie almost missed it, a yellowed newspaper clipping. The headline: “Local Smallholders Lose Three Goats in One Week”.
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Dec 20, 2015 19:02
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In. I'm not gonna attempt the wordbounty since I effectively came last, but if anyone wanted to crit my story you are more than welcome. My new year's resolution is to write something you hacks appreciate, and I'm starting early. Any advice would be appreciated.
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Dec 22, 2015 23:56
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Broenheim posted:my advice is that you should crit somebody's anyways, even if you're not at the top. any and all advice, whether it comes from someone inexperienced or experienced is useful, and also reading and critting stories makes you think about stories in a different way that help you in your writing. so crit something. that's an order. Sure thing. Since you asked so nicely. here's a crit of Jocoserious’ That Furry Son of a Bitch, which I mostly liked but thought was definitely flawed. The reason I enjoyed reading this story is its strong central image: the idea of a talking dog speeding down the highway while his human passenger pours beer into his mouth is inherently funny, so good job, and the banter at the start is entertaining enough. I like that you don’t straight up say Rex is a dog, but it’s made pretty clear by the fact he has paws, has sharp teeth, and is called Rex. Cool. The only problem is, if you were trying to set up Rex being a dog as a twist – only using the word “dog” in the second last sentence – you failed. But if you weren’t setting that up, the ending doesn’t have any dramatic resonance or even make sense. In a world where no one is surprised talking dogs exist, why does no one believe the dog was driving? Do dogs generally not drink? Can they drive but prefer not to? Are there talking dogs and non-talking dogs, and Rex was the former pretending to be the latter? There are many questions here. If we were to be surprised that Rex was a dog at the end it would be a pretty dumb twist, similar to that Goosebumps book in which it turned out all the characters were dogs the whole time, but at least the ending would have some kind of reversal. As it is it’s just: dog drives man to party > man gets dog drunk in car > dog gets pulled over by police > police don’t believe dog was driving… for some reason. Since we know the dog was a dog from the start none of that is a surprise apart from the premise, which isn't a story, and the very end, which doesn’t make sense. This leaves us with an amusing image that doesn’t really go anywhere. I guess if you were gonna re-do it you could create conflict by either emphasizing Rex's internal conflict over whether or not to take the drink or his reasons for betraying Jessie like that, and how he achieved it. As it happens in the story, the two most interesting conflicts are brushed over or happen 'off screen'. Hope I helped!
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Dec 23, 2015 01:55
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Sea Legs - 1379 words When Dad was a whale doctor, he’d spend months living among a family of bottlenoses with his bio-prosthetic tail. His real legs were kept frozen while they waited, like us, for him to come home. Whenever he came back, Abbie and I fought for his attention, asking after every member of the pod by name. With his powerful tail muscles and bionic gills, he could swim underwater for days on end, spending enough time with his cetacean patients that they accepted him as part of the family. Most of all we would ask about Missy, who as a calf had had her fin torn off by a shark. Without the stitches and prosthetic replacements Dad gave her, he told us, the wound would likely have been fatal. Every night after dinner, he took a pill to stop his legs from healing back together with rest of his body. He’d need them to detach again easily for future assignments. When Storm Beatrice hit in the month of my thirteenth birthday, it came sooner and harder than anyone expected. Near our village, the wind toppled a tree onto some cables, plunging half the parish into darkness. That night, Mum got a call from Ellen MacKaye, Dad’s handler aboard the ship. She and the rest of the crew were in Iceland, having jumped for the lifeboats when the tempest punched a hole in the hull and took out their electronics. They were soon rescued but lost contact with Dad, who had been underwater when it hit. “So no one knows where he is?” Abbie asked when Mum told us. “As yet, no,” Mum replied. For three weeks we didn’t hear anything, and then he washed ashore in western Scotland. A stunned dog-walker had phoned him an ambulance, at his request, and we met him at a hospital in Glasgow. “So,” said Abbie after we’d all hugged him, “when do your legs arrive?” “They’re already here, Abs,” Dad said. His tail was so long it stuck off the end of the bed, barely covered by the duvet. “But I’m afraid it’s no use.” “What do you mean it’s no use?” asked Mum. “Can’t you just swap them back?” Dad pulled back the covers. Around his waist, where there had been an abrupt divide between his tan abdomen and the glittery flesh of his tail, there was now a smudgy gradient of colour and texture. Rivers of blue and silver ran up his stomach. “I only had enough pills to last a few days,” he explained. “Unfortunately the fusion is too advanced to operate on, Mrs Wilson,” said his doctor. “We can only hope that the drugs stop it progressing any further. Your husband will most likely have this tail for the rest of his life.” The doctor brought us a wheelchair adapted for bodies like Dad’s, an awkward six-wheeled thing that stretched his tail out in front of him like a rolling futon. When we got him to the car, we quickly realised that his lower body would no longer fit into the foot-well of any seat. Dad had to rest his tailfins on the dashboard as Mum drove, fighting to keep himself upright at every bend. At first he’d insist on trying to be helpful, even where he was no use at all. “I’ll help you walk the dog,” he said to me one night, as if he didn’t need me to push him up every curb or incline. I guess he wanted an excuse to get out the house, but outside I felt hostile stares from everyone we passed. One couple burst out laughing. Another time, a car slowed down enough for the passenger to yell at us out the window. Dad started to spend more time indoors. People made comments in school, too, once his story became more widely known. One day, after the final bell had gone and I was on the way to the bus, I found myself cornered by Johnny Docton. “Hey Wilson,” he sneered, “If your dad has no dick how were you even born?” “My dad does have a dick!” I shouted back. In retrospect, it was an ill-advised retort. One of Docton’s friends appeared from the crowd and they advanced towards me. Then I felt someone’s shoulder brush my own from behind. “Get lost, creeps,” she said. Johnny laughed but stepped away. “That your girlfriend, Wilson?” “No, idiot, I’m his sister,” said Abbie. For the first time in half a decade, we sat together for the trip home. In through the front door, we walked right into an argument. Dad had been offered his position back at the University whenever he wanted it, and sick of being stuck indoors had been thinking sooner rather than later. But to Mum, Dad’s accident confirmed what she had thought for years: his job was unreasonably risky for a man with two kids to raise. He belonged with his family, she’d say. Abbie and I heard it all from my bedroom. As their debate dragged on into the evening, we read old issues of The Beano in a quiet union of shared anxiety. I went downstairs for a midnight snack to find Dad passed out on the couch in front of the still-on television, an old episode of Blue Planet playing to the silent room. His tail, flopped over the armrest, twitched as if in time with the documentary. It was my idea to go on a fishing holiday. Dad’s insurance paid out big time, easily covering a week’s rental of a small boat and a sea-front holiday cottage in the off-season. Dad still got stared at when we walked into town that first night, but with all of us together it didn’t seem as bad. On the way back along the coastal road, I spotted a house with a ‘For Sale’ sign clipped to front gatepost. From the side you could see the private slip-way running into its back garden. The next morning, we drove out to sea in the boat. Dad taught me how to fish with a rod, then dived from the boat to go fishing himself. In the water his tail was no longer awkward but elegant, graceful: he flit near the surface like a minnow for a while, then disappeared down deep. When he resurfaced, he gripped a struggling codfish in his bare hands. Dad’s phone rang as we wheeled him up to the house. He talked quietly for a few minutes then hung up. “It was the university,” he said. “And?” Mum asked, shortly. “They want to increase my salary.” Tensions were raised again by dinner. On the last day, after a lunch on the picnic table behind the cottage, Mum said she and Dad had been talking. They had something to tell us. “You might have heard us talk about me maybe taking my job back,” Dad said. “Well, after discussing it with your mother, we have decided against it.” I looked at Mum, who was failing to supress a smile. “Instead,” Dad continued, “We got in touch with some people selling a house on the edge of town.” “Here?” I asked, not quite believing it. “Here. We have a viewing booked for Tuesday.” It was the one I’d seen before. We got it, and a little boat too. One weekend in spring, Dad, Abbie and I took the boat out into the bay. Abbie read a book while I practiced my fishing, until Dad’s head bobbed up in the water just beside my float. “Kids!” he shouted up to us, “Come and meet our guest!” He vanished underwater again. At the same moment, an enormous dark shape erupted from the waves behind where he had been and sailed into the air, sending a blast of foam spattering on the deck when it crashed back down. I gazed on, mesmerised, as the whale breached again. This time Dad jumped with it, skipping across the water’s surface like a dolphin. Then the whale quietly surfaced by the side of the boat, almost under our feet. It lolled on its back, one staring eye above the waves as if to get a look at us. “Abbie look,” I said “there’s something on its fin.” “It is her fin, Jack,” said Abbie. “It’s Missy.” EDIT: Oh and because I didn't post my merman earlier, it is: 
Ceighk fucked around with this message at 17:09 on Dec 27, 2015 |
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Dec 27, 2015 17:05
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| # ¿ Apr 23, 2024 07:47 |
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IN
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Dec 29, 2015 18:33
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