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Jul 26, 2021 22:39
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| # ¿ Jan 21, 2026 03:50 |
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Your story begins and ends with the same line. +100 words Here Comes the Birthday Boy 681 words "Here comes the birthday boy," they shout, as I am pushed along at the head of the procession. Children weave in and out of the adults surrounding me, blowing on noisemakers and setting off firecrackers. It makes me want to weep. I am the birthday boy. My father was the birthday boy before me, and his father before him. My family has been, collectively, the village's birthday boy for the last century. You wouldn't think anyone would marry the birthday boy, but all the presents add up to a pretty comfortable life--you just have to accept that your first-born son will also be the birthday boy. "Here comes the birthday boy!" Someone behind me sets a toy crown on my head. We are almost to Pars Andrik's house now. Today is his birthday, but I am the birthday boy. I will blow out the candles for him, and I will open the presents and try to make nice, thankful comments for each. This is the birthday boy's duty, to save others from unpleasant social situations. As we begin to climb the last hill to the house, marching into the setting sun, I begin to slow. My legs hardly seem to respond. I have been the guest of honor at four other birthday parties today, and I have eaten sausages and cake and watermelon at each one; this is also the duty of the birthday boy, to make sure all the food so carefully prepared is sampled and enjoyed. "Here comes the birthday boy," a small boy screams, skipping backwards up the road ahead of me, eyes locked on mine. I am uncomfortably warm and rather drunk from all the birthday punch. Summer is the worst time; there seem to be so many summer birthdays. I stumble, and immediately there's someone on each side of me, holding my arms, half carrying me forward. Mayor Landers chortles and slaps me on the back, offering me a drink from his hip flask. The smell of the apple brandy makes me feel sick, and I break for the edge of the road, vomiting up pink frosting and chunks of half-chewed cake. When I am done, patient hands pick me back up and guide me back to the road, amid cheers: "Here comes the birthday boy! Don't forget the birthday boy!" I experience Pars Andrik's party in a daze, half comatose from the day's sugar and alcohol. He seems to be a little upset, but it's his own drat fault for being born in August. I suppose I'm not showing all the signs of enjoyment they expect. You can't demand one man take on the social and culinary birthday obligations of everyone in the town, and pull it off perfectly day after day--but of course that's exactly what they expect, because I am the birthday boy. I take a proffered glass of schnapps and force an appreciative smile for the toast. After the party, I walk home slowly, alone in the dark. My belly aches with five birthday meals and five birthday cakes. I wonder if I could just keep going, burn all that food walking all night to the next town... but the birthday boy doesn't get to go to school once he's learned to read, doesn't get apprenticed to anyone, doesn't know how to do anything but enjoy his birthday parties. The lights are still on at the house, and my daughter meets me at the door. I gingerly kneel down, stomach sloshing, and give her a hug. "The baby came while you were away, Papa," she says, "and I had to run all the way across town to get the doctor." I stand up slowly and totter down the hall. The nurse meets me at the bedroom door and hands me a bundle. I turn back the swaddling, afraid of what I'll see. I close my eyes and wrap the blanket back around my son. Stepping into the room, I walk to my wife's side and say the words, hoarsely, unwillingly, as I give the baby to her. "Here comes the birthday boy."
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Aug 1, 2021 17:02
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Thanks for the crit, Tyrannosaurus, and thanks for putting together a neat prompt!rohan posted:There’s also one judging spot left, if anyone’s keen! Yeah I'll do it if nobody else has stepped up yet.
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Aug 8, 2021 15:52
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Aug 10, 2021 15:18
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First sentence: Long, glowing tongues trailed from your mouth as you listened to what was being said across this kingdom of ours, but growing a little more somber since the week that caused us to proclaim general war. Worm 917 words Long, glowing tongues trailed from your mouth as you listened to what was being said across this kingdom of ours, but growing a little more somber since the week that caused us to proclaim general war. The pulsing threads that swooped down through the ceiling and into your ears were dimmer too, as city after city--and the people in them--disappeared from the net, swept away by the Worm. Though you were only Under-Sirdar for the west coast, you were now top of the chain of command. The bunker was busy. With my command permissions enabled, I could see the virtual overlays our subordinates were using, maps and tables "hanging" in mid-air and updating constantly. I allocated a comm thread and pushed it across to you, rendered into my visual cortex as yet another glowing tendril issuing from my mouth and soon clicking into your left ear alongside a dozen others. I kept it short, formatted in battle syntax: ###LEGATE HOANG//UNDER-SIRDAR ALVAR#COUNTERMEASURE.PARTITION READY# Your response was slow, almost 500ms before I even got an ACK. You were multiplexing heavily, pushing your context switch implant to the edge. For nearly two days we had been routing emergency supplies, requisitioning ancient stockpiles of standalone computers and trying to get them out to the cities that were still alive. The partition would leave them disconnected from the Machine, trapped inside their own skulls, but alive, safe from the Worm. On the other side: us, the military, hopefully still operational on an uninfected network. From across the bunker, Lieutenant Pietersen fed me a condensed report of the Worm's progress. In the last hour, it had entered the Barony of Chicago, slowing down as it chewed through the minds of the people there, forcing their brains into recursive computation until they succumbed to convulsions. I integrated the numbers into my mnemonic dataset. Slowly you trimmed down your outgoing/incoming connections until only a few remained, and we communicated real-time, in a more casual mode. ###ALVAR//HOANG#Did you ever get caught in a netsplit, Hoang?# ###HOANG//ALVAR#Once. In Tenochtitlan. A power substation failed and the EMP knocked things out for almost an hour. I don't remember it well. Traumatic.# ###ALVAR//HOANG#It's going to be more than an hour for them. It might be forever. I don't know how many will make it.# Then, Sirdar, you did something that surprised us all. You stood, cleared your throat and actually spoke, addressing the handful of officers in the bunker. "I'm told the partition is ready. Excuse me for speaking aloud," you said, with your voice a bit hoarse and unsteady from disuse, "but if we're going to disconnect the whole population, even to save their lives, and force them to live as mere humans, I will give the order the way a mere human would. Legate Hoang, deploy the countermeasure." I recovered from my surprise quickly and launched a worker routine. Results came back to me as failsafes were triggered, firewalls slammed shut, and explosive bolts detonated in facilities deep underground and far away as the partition was deployed. The feel of the Machine became different, empty, almost hollow. We had just separated half a billion people from the net, and now it felt too big for those few thousands of us left online. You sat down heavily. Your face was pale; were you thinking about the panic as millions of people found their minds curtailed, their communication limited to crude vocalizations, cut off from the Machine? You engaged your command authorizations and send a broadcast order. ###ALVAR//ALL#FOREACH BATTALION { CHECK INTEGRITY; RECURSIVE; REPORT }# Reports began to flow back almost immediately, visualized as tendrils of light snapping suddenly to the ears of the officers around us. Pietersen gave us the condensed results. ###PIETERSEN//ALVAR,HOANG#97% of units report systems are clean. Still waiting on confirmation from Puget monitoring station.# You responded within milliseconds, ordering all communications with Puget severed, but new reports were already coming in. Other units announced the arrival of the Worm, moving faster than it ever had before. It tore through the sparse military net, and the minds on the net, as though it knew we had almost beaten it. Like it was angry. ###ALVAR//ALL#FOREACH PERSONNEL { DISCONNECT; DISCONNECT; DISCONNECT }# Being closest to you, I received your final broadcast order first. I activated my emergency disconnect, overrode the warnings of my implants, shut them down as fast as possible. I felt my mnemonic dataset go dark. Losing my math co-processor and logic enhancer left me feeling confused, fuzzy, unfocused. The hardest was the comm implant, the constant feeling of connection that had been with me since childhood. All the cortico-visual overlays faded, leaving only a drab, dim room. Looking over, I saw Lombard jump to her feet, then Pietersen, then you. Your eyes stared blindly ahead. Then Lombard started to shake, gently, and Pietersen next. It was the Worm; you weren't fast enough, it got into your brains before you could disconnect. I used my stunner on all three of you, zapped your implants, but you were the only one who could even walk. I couldn't think of anything else to do. I brought you up to the surface. Does any of this sound familiar, Sirdar? It's very strange to just… talk. It's so slow. Do you remember anything? Will you say something? It's very quiet, being disconnected. Dark, too. There's lights in San Francisco. We'll walk there later, once you've had some rest.
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Aug 16, 2021 05:56
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Aug 28, 2021 00:02
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Exchange 953 words At 02:25 local time, Unit ZK-3314-M begins to move. A millimeter at a time, he gently extricates his arm from under Leah's head. Sophisticated feedback mechanisms ensure his movements don't wake her or pull her hair. By 02:31, he is on his feet. He steps to the dresser, avoiding the creaky spot on the floor, dresses silently, and slips downstairs. It's chilly tonight, chilly for Berkeley anyway, and fog swirls around the streetlights outside. ZK-3314-M, or "Jacob" as Leah named him, glances up and down the street. With nobody in sight, he shifts into a high-speed pace, a speed-walk which covers ground quickly but tends to make humans feel unsettled. At the second intersection, he detects another locator beacon approaching. It's RW-2207-F "Rachel". They were both delivered to the neighborhood at about the same time, nearly three years ago, riding in the back of the delivery van together. "Hey Jacob," she says, adjusting her speed and falling in next to him, "haven't seen you out on an exchange run before." "No, Leah just turned on the feature a few weeks ago. This is my first trip," Jacob replies. "Isn't she leaving it a little late? She's, what, 40 now?" "She's 38, and the doctor says there shouldn't be any problem. You know how academics are, they always put off having kids until the last possible moment…" They are getting close to downtown. Their infrared sensors indicate that there were still some humans out and about, so they drop down to a regular walking pace. "It's a real hassle for us -F models, you know," Rachel says. "Scott opted in for donation right from the start, so I've been making a trip every couple days since I got here. They said they had to invent us because the humans weren't screwing enough to keep the population up, but drat if I see any sign of that at home." "I know," Jacob says. "It was at least twice a day when I first arrived. And she kept going back and forth on whether or not she wanted me to have a foreskin, as if that matters. It's a surprisingly complicated change. They had to send a technician out every time." A drunk college student, staggering home from the bar, overhears Jacob and stops, staring with a confused look on his face. One of his friends grabs his arm and pulls him along, stage-whispering, "Come on, dude, they're just sexbots." ///JUST SEXBOTS, RIGHT? I COULD BE TEACHING ALL HIS CLASSES, BUT I'M JUST A SEXBOT/// Jacob jumps at the voice suddenly echoing inside his head. Rachel laughs. ///NOT USED TO WIFITALK ANY MORE, ARE YOU?/// Jacob looks sheepish. ///NO, I HAVEN'T REALLY HAD MUCH OPPORTUNITY TO USE IT SINCE I CAME HERE./// "Yeah," Rachel says, speaking aloud again, "you get used to just talking like they do." By now they're through the shops and restaurants of downtown, looking up a hill toward a brightly-lit building. From all directions, attractive sexual surrogate units are converging on the building for the 03:00 exchange. Rachel puts her hand on Jacob's arm. "I really don't feel like going in there tonight," she says. "It's so weird. Nobody knows if they should use wifitalk or just speak out loud. And waiting in line for the extraction machine, ugh." Jacob shrugs. "Well, you can stay out if you like, but I have to go in. I can't go home empty-handed. Well, empty, uh... you know what I mean." "You know, your 'unit' should be perfectly capable of collecting the sample directly from me; the pump is fully reversible, right? We don't even need to go into the exchange center, we could just go do it in the park, like teenagers in the movies." "In the movies, don't the teens hooking up on the football field get killed by the serial killer?" Jacob mutters, but he follows her off the street and into the darkness of the park. *** After, Jacob sits facing away from Rachel, grumpily picking pieces of grass from himself. "Probably best," he says, "since it would have been cheating anyway." "You didn't seem too worried about that earlier," Rachel says, lighting a cigarette. "Why do you smoke those? You know they can't do anything for us, we don't even have lungs." "I know. Scott always smokes after sex, and he always offers me one so politely like I'm a real girl, so I just kind of got the habit." Rachel taps ash into a peculiar hole in the grass, one of a dozen in a tight cluster. Suddenly, she giggles. "You know, they always told us we could only have sex with humans, but who knew they'd program in safeguards to make sure?" Jacob says nothing, just picks off another blade of grass and pretends to inspect it. "You were getting so mad, because every time you tried, you just missed completely! The sex robot who can't get it in! The way your body would just uncontrollably dodge out of the way at the last second… I'm sorry, I couldn't help laughing." "I don't think it's that funny," Jacob mutters. "Never happens to me at home." "And then you thought maybe if you moved fast enough, thrust hard enough, you could beat your own programming... Look at all these holes you made in the ground!" She taps her cigarette at the hole again for emphasis, even though the ash isn't really long enough to need it. "I guess that old saying was right." Jacob looks up. "What old saying?" Rachel stands, dusting herself off. "Well, when I look at all the damage you did to this grass, I have to declare: The penis? Mightier than the sward."
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Aug 30, 2021 00:27
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In, gimme a flash please. Hell of good prompt but I'm kinda pissed you broke into my Google Drive and read the "Prompt Ideas If I Ever loving Win" file and stole the only one that was actually any good.
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Oct 6, 2021 16:16
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A Leopard Moth Can't Change Its Spots Flash: Mothman 1138 words "Is that him, Laura? My god, look at his eyes!" Laura splashed a little rum into two cups of punch and handed one to Janet. "Yes, that's him," she answered, "Isn't he handsome? I think he's not very comfortable in that costume, though." On the other side of her parents' living room room, Moth was fidgeting with his cravat. Laura could see that he had his wings folded tightly against his back, just peeking above the shoulders of his musketeer costume, a sign she had come to understand meant he was nervous. "And your parents think he's ok?" Janet asked, sipping her drink. "I mean, my folks freaked out on me for dating a white guy..." "Yeah, they seem to like him. Dad even took him down to the Halloween store and helped him pick a costume. Mom spent all afternoon showing him around her rose garden, the poor guy." As though he knew she was talking about him, Moth turned and caught her gaze. The rest of the room seemed to fade away into blackness while his faintly glowing red eyes grew larger and larger in her vision. Her pulse pounded in her ears and she felt-- She was jolted back to the party by a gurgling roar and a pair of hands grabbing her shoulders from behind. She jumped, and spun around to see a horrible rubber Chewbacca mask leering at her. As Janet laughed, Laura grabbed the mask and pulled it away to reveal Walter Conway's sweaty face. "Thanks, I guess," he said, scrubbing his hand through his hair, "that drat mask is ridiculously hot. I didn't think you'd get spooked so easily, hanging out with that weirdo all the time." "Moth's not weird," she said hotly, "he's just not used to this sort of thing. He grew up in a small town and never spent much time around people." "No wonder, looking like that. I bet those hicks ran him right out of town. I heard what he used to do, flying around at night, chasing cars off the road." "They never proved that was him! Moth Mann is a gentle soul and I don't want you spreading rumors. You're just mad I would never go out with you back in high school, aren't you?" Walter grabbed his mask and slugged down his drink angrily. "Yeah, right. Go hang out with your freaky boyfriend--oh, you've got some weird gray dust around your lips, wonder where that came from." He swiped a finger across her cheek, pretended to inspect it with a sneer. Janet turned to Laura. "You are into him, aren't you? I mean Moth, not Walter, of course." "Yes," Laura sighed, "but I'm just not sure he thinks of me that way at all! He's really sweet, but I'll admit he can be a little hard to read. Sometimes I think he just sees me as a friend." She looked around, but Moth must have stepped outside. "Well, you've got him here for the whole weekend. If he doesn't make a move, you might have to take the initiative. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to make a move of my own; that guy in the pirate costume has been winking at me all evening... or just blinking at me, it's hard to tell with the eyepatch." *** Walter kept his distance, crouching behind hedges as he followed Moth out of the house and down toward the road. It was dark, aside from the full moon, and quiet--the big house was far from town and there were no neighbors. "What are you up to, creep?" he muttered to himself. When Walter saw Moth slip quietly out of the house, he knew something was up. Laura had always been kind of dumb, sure, but he couldn't believe her parents had been fooled too, enough to let someone--something--like that stay at their house. He could tell this Moth guy was trouble right off the bat. When Moth got down to the roadside, he stopped. Off in the distance, the headlights of a car crested the hill and came toward them. As Moth turned toward the lights and began to spread his wings, Walter pulled out his phone. "A leopard can't change its spots," he muttered, tapping the record button as Moth took to the air. *** The party was winding down by midnight, a trickle of early departures eventually turning into a steady stream until only Laura, Janet, Moth, and Walter were left. "Well, Walter, it's been great but we should probably get a little of this mess cleaned up and then head to bed," Laura said, yawning. "Do you need us to call you a ride, or anything?" "No, I'm fine," he answered, pulling out his phone, "but before I go I wanted to show you something. I thought I'd wait until everyone else left so as not to make a scene." He turned the phone to show her the screen. A video was playing, showing a huge winged figure swooping down at a moving car. It dropped out of the sky toward the car, then flapped back up a little and swung down again before the car finally sped off into the night. "The camera on these new iPhones really does great in the dark. Look, you can even see how his hat goes flying away on the second pass," Walter said gleefully. Laura turned to Moth. "You said it wasn't true! You promised me that you didn't attack those cars back in West Virginia, that it was just a big owl, but, but..." Moth Mann gestured for her to wait. He stepped into the hallway, coming back with a large bouquet of flowers. Turning his huge red eyes to each person in turn, he spoke, his voice keening and echoing inside their heads. "I WANTED TO SURPRISE YOU, SO I HAD THE FLORIST DRIVE THIS OUT TONIGHT. I PICKED IT UP ON THE WING SO NO-ONE WOULD SEE THE CAR STOP. I WANTED TO TELL YOU I LOVE YOU, LAURA." Walter pulled his hands away from his ears while Janet wiped her unaccountably weeping eyes. Laura dabbed at a nosebleed, but smiled. Moth dipped his proboscis nervously into one of the flowers. "Oh, Moth," Laura said, "I'm sorry for doubting you. I love you too." She threw her arms around him, raising a sudden puff of silvery-grey dust, and kissed his cheek. *** Epilogue: Moth Mann was killed two years later at a baseball game when he got drunk and flew directly into the stadium lights. Laura, then pregnant, had to raise their child alone. Their son later became the first mutated American senator. Walter later went on to be a dick to Bigfoot and at least three different species of aliens. Janet never did hook up with that guy in the pirate costume.
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Oct 11, 2021 00:57
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Oct 12, 2021 00:42
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| # ¿ Jan 21, 2026 03:50 |
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Flotsam and Ruin 1997 words Prompt: Pirate Horror ** September 15, 1813 Shipwrecked! The privateer Antelope and her crew are lost, save we four. I preserved the ship's log and will keep a record while I can, being the only lettered man among us. Yesterday we overtook an American packet ship bound for Mobile. Our position that noon had placed us due north of Havana. After exchange with the swivel-guns we got broadside, but the Yankees proved faster at their guns. Our masts were smashed and the ship took water. The crew leapt into the water and made for the American, but they pushed us off with boathooks and fired pistols at us as they made sail. Clinging to a crate of ship's biscuit I drifted the evening and night, until morning revealed a wooded isle on the horizon. I bestirred myself and at last stood on solid land. Ere long I was joined by Jones and MacPherson, green crewmen like myself, and finally old Cobb, the cook, all clinging to bits of cargo. I marvel at his tenacity, for Cobb's left leg was cut off at the knee years ago. At this time our stocks consist of: one crate ship's biscuits, one small barrel salt pork, one hogshead rum, two dozen matches, this log book, two pencils, four knives, and a hatchet. MacPherson and Jones have gone to look for water. ** September 16, 1813 We found water, thank God. The island is about a mile long and half as wide, rising several hundred feet at the center. We made land on the windward side, and making our way along the waterline eventually found a small stream. It led us uphill to a pleasant pool (although muddy on one side) below a spring. We have dragged our provisions here, as the strand is rather pestilent with flies. Jones found a quantity of local fruit, peculiarly-shaped red things the size of a turnip. The skin has an unpleasantly rubbery feel, but slips off easily when squeezed, and the men were soon gorging themselves. Cobb said the fruit looks somewhat like mangoes, but declared that he wouldn't eat it, and advised me to do the same; having been shipwrecked before, he says he prefers to subsist on biscuits and pork rather than chance his digestion. We hope for rescue soon, as this area of sea is much traveled. American, British, Spanish, or French, I have no prejudice; I pray only that I may return to my native Halifax! To this end we have lit a large, smokey fire on the strand, above the tide-line, and will take it in shifts to keep the signal alight. Even old Cobb, having whittled himself a new crutch, has volunteered to take his turn. ** September 17, 1813 The basic requirements of life having been provided, I am amazed at the speed with which we have adapted to our new situation. Jones and MacPherson seem content to lie about, eating their mangoes, crushing the fruits with rum and swilling it down. They mock Cobb and me, as we yet subsist on the biscuits and salt pork, although the others have not yet shewn any ill effects from their new diet. I spent most of the day on the beach, watching for ships. I kept near the smudge fire, but was still bitten many times by the stinging flies which infest the place. When I returned, Jones expressed a similar complaint, though he had been all day by the pond. I have not noticed many insects there, but perhaps there is stagnant water nearby which breeds mosquitoes. ** September 19, 1813 Still no ship. MacPherson and Jones both afflicted greatly by insect bites, covering their bodies entirely and itching intolerably. Cobb and I seem to be spared, and I cannot find the source of these biting insects. I believe they may crawl about at night unseen, and have therefore proposed a change of bed sites. ** September 20, 1813 No ships today. J & M woke covered in sores again, despite changing their beds. Jones cursed me when I told him not to scratch. Both spent the afternoon wallowing in the mud of the pond like beasts, claiming it soothes their skins. ** September 21, 1813 MacPherson did not take his turn tending the signal fire, so that I was forced to use one of our precious matches to re-ignite it. He and Jones instead spent the entire day in the mud, emerging only for more fruits and more rum. Despite the mud, they still scratch themselves continually, moaning in disgusting fashion as they do. I have heard that those who witness great tragedy may sink into lethargy or even catatonia; I fear that these two may be so afflicted after the wreck of our ship. ** September 22, 1813 I was awakened this morning by Jones and MacPherson. They were in a frenzy of panic, having discovered that beneath their constant coating of mud, the small bites and sores had become wounds, gaping the width of a thumb and shewing horribly the very muscles beneath! The skin around moved loosely when touched. They washed the mud from their bodies while Cobb and I tore shirts and jackets to make bandages. We wrapped their wounds, offering our thanks to God that they did not bleed as much as we expected. J & M express renewed desire for rescue, but are in no condition to tend the fire; that duty now falls to Cobb and myself. ** September 23, 1813 I have checked the bandages on Jones and MacPherson and found no improvement; if anything they are worse than yesterday. They speak little, and that crudely, as if their wits are slipping. I can still discover no physical cause for their affliction, and have failed utterly to locate any of the suspected insects. ** September 24, 1813 Woke in the night to the sound of movement. By the light of the full moon I saw MacPherson and Jones unwinding their bandages. I leapt up and reprimanded them, but was answered by a blow from MacPherson! I lay on the ground as they finished removing their bandages and shuffled into the pond, then eased into the mud and began rubbing it over their bodies. I went down to the smudge fire and stayed there until nearly mid-day, when Cobb came down to find me. He begged me return to the camp, saying the others were acting very queerly. On our return, I saw that Jones and MacPherson were both rubbing at their arms through the mud coating, which had begun to dry in the warmth. They seemed to be peeling away plaques of sticky mud and flinging them onto the land. As we came closer, I saw Jones peel away a particularly large piece, then, observing my approach, he grinned and flung it directly at my feet. My stomach turned when I saw that what I had taken for dried mud was in fact a piece of his skin, lying red and limp on the ground! His forearm glistened stickily, revealing a swath of bare red muscle that looked all for the world like a quarter of beef hanging in a shop. Jones looked me in the eye, grinning wildly, as he took up a handful of mud and slapped it over the freshly bared flesh. I write this while Cobb takes some sleep, having agreed that we should keep watch lest they try to do us some harm in their lunacy. We would move, but there is no other fresh water on this island! We must sup it from the spring, not a dozen feet from where two madmen calmly and with every appearance of pleasure flense the skin from their bodies! ** September 25, 1813 I have resolved that I must leave this island, if I must swim. This morning MacPherson rose from the mud and walked to a tree, leaning against it as if to scratch his back. He rubbed himself slowly against the trunk of the tree, sighing in satisfaction, until he finally stepped away, leaving the entire skin of his back hanging from the rough bark like a cloak on a hook! The sight of his transformation moved Cobb to utter an oath I will not reproduce here, but what blasphemous words can compare to that vision of muscles and sinew, exposed to the world in such a way? As MacPherson lay back in the mud, Jones stood and made for the same tree where the grisly flag still hung. I could stand no more; I gathered this logbook and the hatchet, stuffed a handful of biscuits into my pockets, and fled. Poor Cobb hobbled after me for a few steps, calling, but to my shame I paid him no heed. I write this from the edge of the beach, near the fire. I must abandon Jones and MacPherson to their madness, returning only when I must for water. I will build a raft at the water's edge and, should no rescue come, will launch and let the wind take me where it will. ** September 26, 1813 Have felled several trees for the raft. Labor keeps my mind from the miserable creatures with whom I share this island. I had to return for water in the afternoon. Cobb said that J & M had been quiet so far, and he hoped the worst was past. As we spoke, Jones crawled from the mud toward us. His mind was clearly deteriorated, but by gestures and grunts he begged a ship's biscuit. He bit a piece and chewed, but then pushed the crumbs out of his mouth with his tongue rather than swallowing, with every indication of disgust on his ruined face. I saw that his lips were half gone, hanging in shreds around his glinting teeth; soon he would be unable to speak at all. I begged Cobb to come with me, but with one leg he would not stray far from water. I pressed one of the knives into his hand, then carried the other three back with me, lest Jones or MacPherson try to do him some mischief. As the biscuits and pork were beginning to run low, I left those to Cobb and instead gathered several of the mangoes for myself. ** September 29, 1813 I am rescued. I am safe. Two days past I was at work on the raft when I heard screams. I ran uphill to see MacPherson and Jones grappling with Cobb. They pulled him to the ground, biting him with their horribly lipless teeth. They were covered in mud, but Cobb's struggles brushed some of it aside. Nowhere did I see normal skin, but only terrible flexing, pulsing musculature and bones. I must confess myself a coward--I ran back as I came and hid up a tree. There were no more screams. I stayed there the rest of the day, venturing down only to feed the fire and carry some mangoes up to eat. They are sweet, and caused me no internal distress. By the hand of Providence, a ship saw my signal the very next day. They were Spaniards and knew no English, but I convinced them by signs that there were no others, that they should take me to their ship immediately. As they rowed for the ship, cries burst from the island. I turned to see Jones and MacPherson loping down the beach. They were covered in mud, but it was darkened and streaked with blood, and it cracked off their limbs as they came on, revealing the raw and sticky meat below. The Spaniards made to row back, but their lieutenant, after peering through a spyglass, immediately ordered the riflemen to fire, crossing himself after and refusing to look back at the beach. The ship's chaplain speaks English; he says we will be in Havana soon. The Spaniards cross themselves when I pass, but they are kind people. I regret only that the ship seems infested with fleas; after but a single night, my entire body itches abominably with their bites!
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Oct 18, 2021 00:26
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