Saturday 11 December 2010

12. Unsounded


Strange music played, as if it were the opposition of sound, something draining and black.  I moved my limbs, floating, soaring, or perhaps drowning. I was dressed in off white, I could not say what exactly, there seemed to be nothing to it, vapourous, glowing.

...

Bloated faces pass me, merging together into hideous form before parting to reveal more twisted unknown visages. Though I see my aunt in the distance, her flesh teased open by veins, as I stare these veins push outwardly and bloom, thick with blood.

I'm so tired, my mind pulses, I do not know what is wrong.


I went then to her dressing table, and opened the middling drawer. I'm so tired.


I do not know if I have woken up.

Thursday 9 December 2010

Red alert

Hello again! Nice to be out and about. Heheh.

Okay. Right. Things are not going to plan. In fact the plans are pretty much scrapped already. Here I am, mentally chucking them in the bin.

Now, the being I'm up against, lets call him the Godfather, for two reasons:


  1. The more familiar Yankee name is like something out of a comic book. For homosexuals.
  2. He always reminded me of some Made Man. I love gangster films.

is moving a Hells of a lot faster than I thought he would, or can really handle. See, I thought he'd be older and weaker now, and I thought since he picked on kids, he was actually quite low on the old supernatural totem pole.

But he's changed. Theres just so much more of him now than there ever was. He's already effecting the prick's dreams. The scary thing is I don't know where I was when he had that operation dream. As in, I didn't live until it was over, I was just gone.


Heheh. I'll must have to make new plans!


Oh and as a nice bit of slice of life, I bought some new clothes, got a haircut and shaved for the first time today. Didn't do a bad job of it either. No point keeping the loser in the dark any more I guess. This isn't how this story was supposed to go.












He is controlling the God damn weather.












Hang on, hang on. I'm not giving up that easily. I don't think I can. So wait, right, I'm going to post again later, there is something I can show you.

Wednesday 8 December 2010

11. Operation

I am on a operating table. I am completely aware of my surroundings, as if my senses exist both within and spread out into the air. I can smell rot, sulphur, burning rubber and bleach. I can see a bright light shining in my eyes, all the while seeing the black, half-decomposed bags in tall glass cases. The bags drip foul liquid. I can hear machines, machines that are connected to me. Somewhere down the hall music plays, tiny sounds, like a music box. Further still I thought I heard two people, to put it bluntly, copulating.

...

A knife makes an incision upon my chest. I can not see a doctor or any person holding the knife. I feel immense pain but can not scream because my mouth has been bolted shut.

...


Meticulously the presence removes my organs and places them in fresh black bags. The movements are like clockwork:


  1. something severs the organ
  2. plucks it out
  3. flicks open a bag (which stays open by some light breeze)
  4. places the organ inside
  5. as the weight of the organ causes the bag to fall, something twists the top of the bag into a knot
  6. finally places the bag in an old tin bathtub filled with bleach


After I am emptied time seems to slow to a snail's pace. Another instrument is is gathered from a bloody rack that is pulled out from a wall, something I have never seen before, like a spoon with sharp pins growing from it. I am scrapped clean. Until I am just a sack of skin. It feels so cold to be empty.

Soon other objects are used, things that the Spanish Inquisition might have admired. I think it tries to cut open my scalp at some point. I can hear the music slow. I see whole bodies folded into black bags.


Some of them still seek to move! How long have they been in this place? How long have I?


...

By the end of it all...I think...I think everything that was taken was put back in, still in the now bleached grey bags.


...
...



If I am honest (which I try always to be) I checked my body for scarring. Silly, aren't I?

I can not remember my dreams well this week. Sorry. I am too tired. It has been an awfully long day.

I have a tremendous headache. I am going to bed early, as much as I do not want to.





Background

...It appears there is some image behind my words. I will now remove it. Sorry about that dear readers.

A string of errors

As I was publishing my tenth dream the electrical power died within my home. The odd, but certainly not unusual, code, that now replaces the tenth dream became because of this.

Many of the houses on my street are suffering similar occurrences due to the severe frost. Most people living on my street have gone to stay with friends and relatives until the council, if possible, solve the problem, or, we all must wait out the weather.

The tenth dream was titled Luna, but I can't remember enough now to rewrite it accurately.

Thank you for your time, I will write the next dream some time today, for now I must work.

Tuesday 7 December 2010

10.

MD5: 01c762463bf38b38ae66ff69f7cf5de5
MD5: 290556c788ffa7a6687dc3399de8f7c5
MD5: frc="hos


CRYPT (form: $ MD5? $ WATER $ CRYPT):
$1$UxhNQYeV$Utw1omuZLZLvdVkCO8MtE0
      (form: WATER[555555555555555555555555555555555555555] CRYPT[11]):
psBnXzhqfP2vc


SHA1: 32c9bcb10ced7fe64cec67834a9947a19eb3ade6
REAPsm-150: 
  e29c3a319c695555557211

9. Airship

The captain of the ship grabbed me by the shoulder and squeezed it (I do not like physically contact) and lead me to the wheel of his ship. No one was holding it, it just rocked from side to side. The captain was dressed in an amalgamation of various military uniforms. Japanese trench-coat with RAF markings. Green, almost toy-like helmet. American desert warfare pants and boots.

He told me that that things were not going as planned, that the enemy had moved much more quickly than he anticipated, but he had plans to rectify it. He seemed uneasy even as he smiled and patted my back.

...

The captain called to his first mate, a young man that may well of been his brother, this fellow opened a door and whistled for me to follow him. He wore a well pressed cadet uniform. I walked with the young man in silence. Wordlessly he put his hand into my pocket and left something there. He grinned...I could of swore he was wearing lip stick. After ten minutes or so we came to what I took to be the engine room.

...

Inside many shadows flittered over the walls. I soon realised these shades were alive. Though the crew were as ghosts, if one looked closely, as I did, they had the faces of painted dolls. Very old dolls, of porcelain. One even seemed to mouth "ma-ma", as one might expect from a doll.

I turned to the first mate, she was gone. I slowly made my way through the engine room, trying my level best not to interfere with the work of these spirits. They seemed to move in preset patterns, creating dark hieroglyphs across rusty gears and cogs.

I came across an open window and almost without thought I clambered out and onto a wing of the ship. I gazed at it in awe, it was like a cruise ship, but streamlined for flight, with many wings and was completely coal black. I felt the wind on my face and reached out to touch clouds.

Then I became aware of the altitude and my legs buckled. I skidded along the wing and almost plummeted to my death.


...


I climbed back through the window, almost becoming stuck half way. It must have altered size.

I arrived back at the wheel room, rather than the engine room. The captain held his first mate in the air and shuck him violently, his face red. His eyes fiery. He turned to me and snarled, a trap door opened beneath me. As I fell I thought I heard a bicycle bell.




Power Outage

Unfortunate weather conditions forced me to stay yesterday's entry; all of the houses on my street are suffering a lack of electrical power. Mine is the first to come back on, which is pleasant. As a note, usually this would not matter, but the battery of my lap-top was flat, even though I was sure I had charged it.

Ah, my bedside lamp is flickering.


I will write two dreams quickly, before the lights fail.

Monday 6 December 2010

A strange moment

When I came back from a forest hike yesterday my entire street was frozen. No one could start their vehicles and one poor man's porch window had cracked from the sudden drop in temperature. There was no snow however, not even on the rooftops.

As I came towards my house I noted my other neighbour (a large black woman I have never spoken to) was trying to open her front door. It would not budge, it was frozen at the hinges and all around the edge.

Her eyes were wide and she was shouting (she is very loud). I managed to stamp the ice from her door and help her open it.

She asked me why she should want to leave her house so abruptly; I of course did not know. After a moments pause she laughed, it should be a very nice laugh, perhaps a warm laugh, but I do not like to hear laughing very much so I went home.

Sunday 5 December 2010

Cinematic wasn't it?

What did you think of the two-parter?

I've been working on that one on and off for ages, not particularly for him, but I thought you deserved something more than tunnels and enclosed rooms for once. Everything was a Poe reference by the way, he doesn't own a lot of reading material so I absorb what I can. Thats why he writes like a weirdo, just a few old books to his name.



As you read this I'll be squeezing some information out of one of my lot that specialises in keeping secrets. He can be bought though.

This'll be the last message I send before he rolls a one again. In the mean time I'm trying to discover a better way or two of taking control.

8. Quiet

Masses of broken televisions and other appliances create a cavern. Rainbows of oily water pooled inside upturned ovens. I walked bare through this, comforted by the silence.

...

As I tread further into the vaulted cavern the televisions, no matter what their state, would flicker on and off, showing short segments of some interview. I could not see the interviewee clearly, but from his manner of fashion I would suggest a politician. I could not hear the interview either, nor did I want to. The televisions flashed eerie green over the surroundings. If anything else happened I do not recall it.

...

My dream became short bursts then. A day at a carnival with my aunt. Watching the tide come in. Watching myself sleep. A return to the previous night's fortress, completely deserted.

...
...
...

I woke again with only the ability to move my eyes. But only for a thirty two seconds (I could see my wall clock). I could hear waves in my inner ear, as if I had put conch shells to them. I thought I could see a group of odd, hunchbacked or elseways malformed people at the end of my bed, facing away from me. A minor hallucination which I have read does happen during sleep paralysis.

After this I was fine, better than fine in fact, as this was the most pleasant of sleep I have had in a long while.

I apologise for not treating you to my usual lengthy prose, but I am in a rush, for you see I simply must go to the forest today. Too long have I been indoors, I need fresh, billowing morning air.





Saturday 4 December 2010

7. Geometric

Torches light the street ahead. Dilapidated hovels lean against each other for support (Tudor, with hand built attics, balconies and other extensions). I pause for thought, planting myself on a large, flat stone, the kind used by passing riders for ease of reigning. A roof tile flies past my forehead. It was thrown by no one, the streets are empty.


My heart lurches. My tongue sticks drily to the top of my mouth. I come to realise the world in which I now inhabit is vertical; this act of knowing knocks me off the rock and pulls me as if by ghostly horses. Shirt ripped from my back, skin followed. It took several attempts but I scrambled to my feet, with a sense of accomplishment I marched towards a destination unknown. I leant back as I marched, with each measured step I hovered up and ever so slightly backwards, as if I were on a windy moon.


...


The rest of this dream moved too quickly to record as fully as I might. I had taken and wore a tattered, hooded cloak. I took shelter in a palace or fortress. The floor was checkered. I stumbled into a costume party. Rooms in one solid colour each. People looked down on me. A gold skinned child dressed as Ramesses sat cross legged. I am only just entering the party. A lord stood on a table shouting at the party goers as they flee'd the scene. A dame, fanning her face, stepped backwards into a square hole. Grey women wearing huge mechanical braces played harps. I pushed open a colossal oak door and entered the fortress.


This continued until I woke up.


...
...
...


It was a car alarm which roused me from my fitful sleep. I could not move for two minutes. I was pinned, as if I had been buried in sand. After this I was fine.


Apparently sleep paralysis is an evolved mammalian trait to stop ourselves from acting out dreams, which by and large a good thing, lest one wake while the process is still active. I can't seem to win regarding rest as of late, perhaps it was better than sleep walking. Odd though, that I should suffer from both. I have reason to believe it will not happen again.











Under the weather

I shall write last night's dream at some point, I do not remember it very well.

I won't bore you with what I have been doing today. It has been a blur of tedium.

How happy I am to have more Beautifics! To all of you: I hope you are very well indeed.


As a side note: Would any of you mind, if you are not too busy, giving me the internet addresses of some of your favoured musical pieces? I lead a rather simple life and would like to expand my audio intake.

Friday 3 December 2010

How did he do?

Did you miss me? I'm missing you lot already.

I'm not back yet, this blog just has a real life-saver of a feature. Posts set to a timer that turn up whenever you want! It's like magic.

Anyway, I can't get back out yet, but please post here and I'll reply next time, okay? I have something I'd like you to do, nothing major:

Rate his performance! I want you to rate how well you think he did out of five. One being terrible, five being absolutely fandabidozi.

If the final score reaches twenty-five something special will happen! I highly doubt he's worth that much.


Oh and you may be wondering why he can't see my posts, its simple really. A lot of the Shacklers in here gave themselves the job of editing. They're a bit stretched at the moment.

But its not like they have anything better to do.

6. Running

A thunderous series of crashes. The hooves of some dangerous beast. I turn to see frictionless ebon wall betwixt myself and the gaining other. Hurriedly I appraised what lay before me, to each side towering walls, behind me a dead end and in front, twenty or so metres away, an angled corner leading elsewhere. I had but a singular choice.

It bursted forth with such frenzy the wall entire shattered like, no, was ice. I was there only moments ago thus felt a rush of adrenaline as I turned another corner. I was dogged by increasingly icy floor as I ran, causing strain to my ankles and slowing me down considerably, to the point where it was not just slippery, but rather was like moving over perfectly level shimmering glass.

I could hear the beast's heavy, steaming breaths as a I piston'd my legs with all their strength, as if it was all at once far away and next to my cheek. I heard it's berserker stampede echo across the tundric maze. I had no hope of losing the beast, why it had not pounced upon me already was a mystery.

...

I came to a cross roads and elected the left passage way; a woeful mistake, I began to slide down a pitched incline. I spun myself onto my hands and knees to try and climb back, to chance some other route, but to no avail. My white-blue hands began to freeze to the slope, until I rest half way.

...


A sickening feeling held my stomach. I thought I would die like this. Even in the face of such surreal geography, not once did I feel this was a dream. The totality of my end was oppressive. I waited for days (I knew this by the low glow of light that came and went). I peered as best I could at the sky as the ice began to grow; the stars seemed to move in shoals. 


...

Someone began to saunter towards the slope. I could not see who at first as they edged closer, they took their time to avoid the same fate. This person was covered in feathers…in still living sea birds. Each of them white with grey markings, young chicks froze to death at her bound feet, some repeatedly swapped roosting places, as if emitting binary code. A majestic albatross flapped between her shoulder blades- absurd angel wings. Her eyes were covered, yet I could still see them, or perhaps remembered them; this was the creature from my dream on the stair. Do not ask me how.

My voice was an empty shell of a thing, as if it came only after my lips had stopped. I called out to it, to her, 

"If you had spoken to me before, I would not have attempted to harm you. If you can speak, please do. I hope you are quite alright.", the air seemed to lock between us, as if that too was frozen, "Can you help me, please?"

She screamed, reaching a note far beyond what an ordinary man can hear, until it became not sound but a force that lifted my torso from the ice. A spear of black ice fell and sliced through my shoulder. I must of cried out, but I could hear nothing. More shards fell. I felt as if every atom in the vicinity was vibrating. Then slope and the walls around it shattered into tiny fragments.

I was driven into a snowdrift far away. In the distance I saw the woman's birds leave her… until there was no one standing there at all. I mouthed a thank you, unsure if I owed one. I rose bloodied, staggering numbly, and tried to find a landmark to gauge my location. I took a step and was halted. I was still in the maze, but now the walls were not visible to the naked eye. 

...

Much closer than I desired the beast trod, it was not facing me, but I knew it would find the right path, it made no mistakes as it turned corners and clambered over invisible obstacles. I was near panic, it had no need to follow the path, as soon as it wished it could barge straight through. I dragged my gaze from it just long enough to search for a goal. An exit. Which I did indeed find, a distant white gate, a speck on the horizon.

I willed myself to run again. I could not raise my arm to touch the walls, so, shoulder against the it I moved with purpose. The beast continued to meander towards me. 

Anger frothed within me, anger I have not expressed in dream or waking. For all the animosity speaking seemed to bring me, I spoke to the beast, just a hoarse whisper, it was all I could manage,

"What right do y-"

The walls moved like a savannah heat wave and rose skyward. Thunder rolled. The beast lay his hands upon my jawline, lifting me with ease.

"I hate you. You are the cause of all my problems. Because of you I'm trapped and I'd like to get out. Will that suffice?", the beast spoke quickly, spitting the words. He turned his head and eyed me, looking for a response.

I may have sworn at him. I reached for a…a something to fend him off with, close to my breast, beneath my shirt.

He laughed then, his head turned up. His grip tightened sharply. Tightened until his hands past through my skin. I was melting. I felt my flesh drop to into the muddied shush of earth like well cooked meat.

I'm sure the beast spoke to me again, he was looking at the white gate. He plucked it and put it in his pocket. 


For all intents and purposes I was dying. I felt myself drifting in congealed grunge of the the ground. I closed my eyes.


...
...
...


I awoke with a start, chest pounding. My right hand was dug firmly into my chin, which took some effort to remove. Only one of the nails has caused bleeding, do not worry. 

I was laid across my sofa in my living room, directly facing the long window, curtains set apart. I can barely believe I would do such a thing, so I promptly drew them (I did not want passers by to see me in yesterday's clothes, as you can well understand). Sleep walking is now a problem for me.

I did not wish to tell you of this dream, as it was frightful, but I felt I needed to make up for not writing an entry yesterday. I was very busy at work, I hope you can except that, this once.

While the snow seems to be clearing (at least on my road), it is very cold, so I think I shall stay at home today.













Thursday 2 December 2010

Be a Guide














Can you believe he doesn't own a piece of bloody paper? No pencils or pens either. Had to borrow them from my stalwart ally, Dead-Cat-Man. Also no camera, recorder, phone or window that isn't covered. For what he is, he's good at it.

Luckily his laptop has a webcam built in, much to his surprise, so I've got this at least until he "accidentally" breaks it.

This is a very rough draft of what you've seen so far of our playground plus a couple of things I thought you might like to know. Oh, I got rid of that boring bridge scenario, thats what happens when I don't pay attention to him. He's not allowed to build. But what I'd really like is some audience participation, well you know, the four and a bit of you that care.

What will tonight bring?
Let him find his way?        He will choose the easy way.
Throw him in at the deep end?
Or shallow?

Phase One, Part One

Right, I'll cut to the chase from now on. I've begun the very first bit of the plans, to get his attention, it went like this...

Items:

  • One [1] spade taken from Dead-Cat-Man's garden.                      (That just died by the way.)
  • Tons [shitloads] of rope and string.
  • Black bin bags [this isn't working so well].
  • Two [2] rolls of duct tape.
  • One [1] big knife.
  • One [1] large tree growing precariously close to a drop.


Procedure:

  1. Dig around base of tree. Prolly not a beech tree like, he just fills in gaps in his knowledge with whatever. Thats for another time. Yeah so dig around base of tree. Dig as far as you can for as long as you can.
  2. Take out knife and carve away at it until you have the shape of a face. Knife snaps and you just have to use whatevers left.
  3. Fill bags with stone and soil. Don't give up halfway through! Fill all the bags.
  4. Tie ropes around bags, apply duct tape for extra security. 
  5. Now tie ropes around the tree.
  6. Haul bags off edge. Tree falls into water below.
Results:
It stops snowing. It starts to rain.

THIS is Anthroagast

He was a prick and walking across a rickety bridge. He looked over the side so I flicked on a river full of bodies. He doesn't know who they are, never does, incapably of it, so he passively walks across. The highlight of this was one of the, erm, "bridge bits" snapping like they do in the movies. He did that by thinking it would. He was still a knob jockey by the time he'd got across so I opened one of the doors and scarpered back to my Room.

This isn't a friend's joke, he hasn't got any. This isn't a hacker's take over bid, who'd care about a blog with four followers? This is Anthroagast = Anthro[human-like] x agast [shock] + gast[spirit] = Anthroagast.

Thats what the Boy called the feeling of seeing a monster. That sick twisted feeling of seeing a mockery of humanity, that torn mental state of knowing you can not fight or take flight. Where you can only cower frightened because that's all it wants you to do. That feeling of your soul being sucked out through your senses. He loved to make up words, he named everything. The Boy was a genius! He's dead now. I didn't do enough.


Do you want to read a story? Sure you do!
Once upon a time there was a Boy and he's dead now. I didn't do enough. But before that the Boy was chased by that horrible old fairy named Bonnywillow.
  Bonnywillow chased the Boy all through the willow wood, until the Boy turned and cried, "Why do you stalk me day and night?"
"..." was the reply.
  Bonnywillow chased the Boy all through the willow town, until the Boy turned and cried, "Why do you grasp at me with your many hands?"
"..." was the reply.
  Bonnywillow chased the Boy all through the willow house, until the Boy turned and cried, "Why do you take those I love from me? I have done you no wrong!"
"..." was the reply.
  So the Boy took to his willow crafted bed with a terrible illness, with only Bonnywillow for company. After many days without food or water the Boy began to see things that were not true, such as his long dead brothers, who would offer him goblin fruits, or his young love, masked by bandages and an uncanny look, writing sigils on his ceiling.
  At last Bonnywillow entered the Boy's willow mind. The Boy ran! Ran and ran and laughed at that old fairy!
  The Boy was smart, and knew that Bonnywillow would catch him soon enough, so as he ran he tore bits of himself off and molded them into little men. He called them his Shacklers. He set them to task as little builders of a labyrinth, each with as much material and means as they wanted, all they lacked was time. Many many Shacklers were made, many many were destroyed along with what they had built. Bonnywillow, at first, took these events in his stride, but soon his rage rocked the narrow passage-ways. The further he went into the labyrinth, the more he showed his true self, until he was more dragon than fairy. There was so little time!
  The Boy sat at the centre of his mind, now a incomprehensible puzzle, and asked for his most favoured Shacklers to help him build a machine.
"This machine," announced the Boy, "will make a brand new me, who will not know the meaning of strange shapes, or the fear of cold water."
"But what of you? Where will you be then?" called out the first and most scarred Shackler, who's heart pumped flame.
"I will be here with you. I have no place outside." aired the Boy, smiling, but with a twinge of sadness.
  This satisfied them all, so they set to work. With the best of the Shacklers occupied much of the labyrinth fell. The rumblings of Bonnywillow could be heard throughout, he was sure, so sure, that he was coming close to his illusive prey! His measured steps became a stride, his stride became a sprint, his sprint became many legged leaps!
But just as he came upon the gathering the machine fired up, whizzing and clanging! Out of it a new boy  appeared, fresh and empty of any knowledge!
  Bonnywillow looked about for the Boy, but saw no one. He grasped only his own head this time, lolling so it was, as if it were about to fall off! He stamped his feet and rolled across the floor, quietly cursing at everything there ever was, then up and vanished with a crackling pop!
It's said Bonnywillow is still out in the wider world, looking for the clever Boy, but he never found him. And that his how you can stop him, if you are so inclined. The Boy is dead now. I didn't do enough.


God damn it I'm writing too much, I've just never been able to do this. Take a smoke break.








The spineless wanker, who I will not grant a name, woke up and crawled down and into the kitchen, where he drank from the tap and ate whatever was left, weeks old cake mix, stuff like that. Shortly after the neighbours, who I can only guess where somehow blocked from the whole thing since they were an okay pair, turned up and rang for an ambulance, all that jazz. He was basically what you'd call a feral child, but being soft as washing he picked up talking, reading, writing etc. fairly well, but he never got around to body language and social cues. You might have noticed.

The parents of the Boy were somehow decided to be neglectful, oh yes, they'd definitely left this dumb kid on his own for months. I bet they were fraudsters and living it up in Spain! The brothers were hard on their mental cogs I bet, but since they were all sixteen and above they must of run off ages ago because of the bad treatment.


You've got to understand, I was fine with the prick running us into the ground. If the Boy was okay with this guy living a hermit's life, then so was I. But the Boy killed himself on November 5th. I didn't do enough, I should of made him more things, I should of made better things. I should of loved him more. He's dead now. I didn't do enough. So heres the deal, I'm going to run things now. I'm going to do things differently. The story didn't end happily, we're no where near the end, not any more. Hiding didn't save the Boy. So, I'm going to call the monster back for another round. I've had time to think, I have plans.

For now I can only take the helm when that empty headed ponce rolls a one, for one day, and even then only if I can make it to the door fast enough. But I will find other avenues, I am the eldest, I know this place better than them, I built most of it. They can't stop me.


This is Anthroagast.


Wednesday 1 December 2010

5. Theatre

Layers of poppy red curtain have been draped around the circumference of a raised stage, held aloft by a bronze hoop, which in turn is held in place by fine, spidery threads. It is rippled by some unfelt draft. There is a hushed murmur pervading the scene. I await with baited breathe some extraordinary performance.


I see before me, across and behind me, luxurious nobles. They shush each other playfully; I avert my gaze as partners touch each others hands, necks, thighs. Their mirth unnerves me, each smiles with full, toothy grin. I am seated to the east, at median distance from the stage, I can not view the exit.


...


The theatre dims suddenly, the audience begins to pounding their arm-rests to a plodding beat. Some uncontrollable members call out random words from behind clasped hand and bit lips, cheeks a-blush, eyes darting like naughty children. This contagious Tourettes unnerves me further. I sink into my seat and wait. I feel it will be worth it.


...


The curtains are pulled skywards in one swift, spinning movement, instantaneous applause rings out, which I absolutely must join in with. Much of the audience has risen, so I am unsure to whom I owe the ovation. This continues. My arms ache. This is going on for far too long, in my opinion.


...


At last; beautiful women lay upon the stage, in no particular pattern, as if thrown. I strain to listen as I detect the slight parting and closing of lips. I listen intently, grimacing at a rotund, elderly lady next to me who hums what must be an approximate of the tune. I note the buttons of her blouse have been buttoned incorrectly.


The women in contrast, the soulful nightingales, are dressed in Victorian best, royal blue (with pale yellow accents) dresses of sloping, gentle shoulders, bodices ending low about the waist, artful, but with embarrassingly large bell skirts. One shifts a leg, revealing barely anything, but causes most of the audience to bellow. They bring to mind sugar.


I find is so difficult to hear them as the crowd assembled jeers and whinnies; one man marches back and forth his aisle drumming his chest like an ape. I ask them for silence, but they are lost to common sensibilities.


...


Blinding light.


A boisterous young usher steps in front of me, flashing a torch to and fro, he speaks now, though he sounds like a recording,


"Have you looked at those girl's necks, sir?"


He turned on the spot, no movement of heel or toe. His light shone upon the stage.


My mind's eye hovered into the air and directly over the stage. Then down, down to the singers. Closer still I came, until it struck me like a hammer.


Their necks, from laryngeal prominence had fine piano cord passing from inside their throats and out onto queer growths issuing from their collar bones. Theses cords controlled their voice. I had no doubt beneath their clothing hid other appalling alterations.


...


The curtains dropped and there I was, sat in my seat as those around me clapped like seals. I attempted to wade through the ignobles, but the harder I pushed the more there seemed to be of them, until I was unable to move an inch. The usher blew out his torch as if it was a candle.


...
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