MicroHorror

March 31, 2010

Rob the Rich, Feed the Hive

A long time ago in Merry England, there lived a flesh-eating parasite by the name of K’rd. In its native language on planet R’drock, K’rd translates as both “hate” and “collector of food.” Upon landing near Locksley, K’rd found its first food in question: a young babe in the cradle of a peasant. K’rd, being no longer than a needle to pull thread, let itself be swallowed by the babe, whereupon it took residence in its skull.

The child is known today as the famous Robin Hood, with an artificially enhanced psyche that made him the best shot with a longbow in all of England.

As K’rd replaced his bodily fluids with venom and eggs on an extremely slow daily basis, Robin formed a band of sevenscore merry men in Sherwood Forest, courted the beautiful Maid Marian, and defeated the greedy Sheriff of Nottingham.

After the king’s pardon, Robin’s mind began to deteriorate. He became less and less merry, and no longer delighted in archery contests and October ale. He started to see things that were not visible to the naked eye. Finally, on one sunny day in a cottage of Sherwood, Maid Marian remarked on the twitching black larvae visible beneath his wrist.

“’Tis the offspring of K’rd, my dear,” said Robin.

“Is it serious?” said Maid Marian.

“Aye, but you needn’t worry,” said Robin. With that, he extended a very long tendril from within his tongue and removed Maid Marian’s brain whole through her right nostril.

After laying an egg sac in her now empty skull and burying her under the cover of darkness, Robin then drenched her brain in his own periwinkle maggot-infested vomit and cured it for a month.

After his band of merry men searched all of the kingdom for Maid Marian, a meeting was arranged in which Robin presented her brain. It had now grown into a hideous crustacean five meters tall, and it bore no resemblance to a brain whatsoever.

Before the men of Sherwood could even draw their bows, the brainbeast doused them in a torrent of fertilized eggs, which promptly hatched, and the newborn brainbeasts infected the merry men with a terrible disease that hollowed out their bodies from the inside and made K’rd thousands upon thousands of brothers and sisters swarm out from within their corpses.

Little John, who had been off hunting, heard the screams and came running in from the woods. All he saw was a sea of screeching and twitching K’rdlings, the terrible brainbeast and its children, his barely recognizable dead comrades, and Robin Hood, who frolicked in a pool of his own vomit and eggs. Little John was then devoured by the hungry brainbeast.

In time the K’rdlings had swarmed all over Merry England and infected the brains of rich and poor alike. Herds of brainbeasts flooded the landscape, and Robin Hood had become the screeching king of a once-proud island now infested with periwinkle vomit and pulsating egg sacs. From then on, England was known as “The Hive,” and the army of aberrations spawned by K’rd began their quest to rid the world of humans so that the Earth would be more appetizing for the planet-eating deity who ruled the planet of R’drock, Orrv. We will leave Robin Hood here because Orrv is too horrible to be spoken of by mortal tongues.

October 6, 2009

Acre 101

SACRED NOTES OF HIGH PRIEST WINNIE-THE-POOH
ALL FOREIGN VIEW DENIED UNDER PENALTY OF AXE

- Transcript of Comrade Sacrifice of 5th full moon -

- Location: Acre 101 -

- Time: Midnight -

I. Invocation

Holy Lifefather Christopher Robin; thou who art giver of carefree life and games around Pooh Corner; thou who art the supplier of hugs and smiles; thou who 23 Autumns ago hath left the 100 Acre Wood to fight in flaming plains of forsaken land of School; thou who hath not returned once; we beseech your return with this gift of death, as our beloved brother Piglet ascends through flame into glory in hopes that once again we may experience the joys you giveth; grant us your presence and bring the 100 Acre Wood to eternal happiness, AMEN.

II. Status

Current population of 100 Acre Wood: 32 non-sentient trees with carved-out faces – 4 beehives with hostile populations incapable of speech – occasional visiting birds and other game, also incapable of speech – one His Holiness High Priest of Holy Lifefather Christopher Robin Winnie-the-Pooh – one Heavenly altruistic sacrificial page Piglet accordingly prepared for ascension.

Deceased:

Rabbit – first sacrifice borne to the flames of Christopher Robin.

Eeyore – second sacrifice borne to the flames of Christopher Robin.

Tigger – heathen killer of holy names – executed by beheading.
Attempted to dismantle sacrificial flaming Honey pot;
Questioned doctrine of High Priest, claiming it was not what Christopher Robin intended;
Physically attacked High Priest;
For the above crimes may he burn forever with the heffalumps and woozles of Gehenna.

Kanga – whore queen of heathens – executed by vivisection.
Openly opposed sacrificial rites;
Attempted to leave 100 Acre Wood;
For the above crimes may she burn forever with the heffalumps and woozles of Gehenna.

Roo – forsaken prince of heathens – fate unknown – assumed dead
Fled outside borders of woods upon whoremother Kanga’s death.
May he burn forever with the heffalumps and woozles of Gehenna.

Owl – third sacrifice borne to the flames of Christopher Robin.
Read dissenting literature; gave notable resistance to progression of sacrificial rite; worth only half value of regular sacrifice.

III. Vote to Spare Comrade, Vote of Sacrifice Uncounted

Final tally: 0 yea, 5* nay
*(note that one vote of the High Priest is worth five)

IV. Final Words of Sacrificial Comrade Piglet

“Really, Pooh, I don’t understand what’s gotten into you with this whole cult thing! I don’t want to die, and you don’t want me to die, either! I’m all you have left, and if you throw me in the pit you’ll be the only one left, without any friends!

“But I suppose I can’t change your decision either way, can I? So go ahead and kill me! If Christopher Robin comes back, I can guarantee you he won’t like it!”

V. Sacrificial Progress

Honey pot ignition: success
Condition of wooden statue of Christopher Robin: satisfactory, some ash across face
Recitation of sentence: perfect
Quickness in death of sacrifice: below average
Emotional neutrality of High Priest: below average
Death of sacrifice: yes
Pit extinguished: four tries
Overall: average

VI. Final Notes

- No immediate return of Holy Lifefather Christopher Robin.
- Shooting star observed. Possible sign of imminent return.
- In the near future.
- Maybe.
- He’s just taking a long time coming back.
- What the hell have I done.
- I’m sorry.
- I’m alone.
- Who’s listening?
- I’m sorry.
- I’m sorry.

October 5, 2009

The Truth About Scooby-Doo

June 12th
Last entry

To who sees diary if not burned upon maybe scheme fail: English not supergood, apparently I am being talking dog.

I say last entry upwards reasoning described: tonight leash-master Shaggy will be chopped up and put in bucket. Then Daphne joins him, then Velma, then Fred when he finished watching. It Fred’s idea to put on leash, drag bare feet along pointy ground to find scary people.

Five years exactly since taken from house. Still I have belt around neck like dog. I boy not dog. Still new grownups name myself as “Scooby-Doo,” as talking dog. Purebred talking dog apparently betterer to handle than inbred talking boy.

Still I have no idea as to exact motivation behind capture. I eat vegetables required, I do homework. Perhaps not pleased that I take second grade as 15-year-old. I scary to see in front of mommy. Mommy not describe myself as scary. Don’t know. Just put on black tights break into window and drive me far far far that <<< way for two days in green van.

Then we find ghost people and take off faces. I no want to find ghost people, take off faces. They make me. I tell jokes. “TELL JOKE SCOOBY. DO FUNNY THING SCOOBY. WE GIVE YOU SCOOBY SNACK.” Scooby snacks composed made with chicken bone plus old cereal.

Shaggy pull on leash. Acts like I obeying when not. Kicks face often.

Velma seem nice at first. I work out deal with Velma to go away. She lie, she tells Shaggy. Shaggy and Velma kick face more. Cut nose still sick. Scars in reflection pool now black and hurting.

Daphne angry a lot but mostly tell me things and not kick face too often. Makes me cry more than face kick. “FUCK YOU RETARDED DOG.” I be not dog. Not sure if other thing, but I know I be not dog. Fred likes her. They take off clothes for each other and refuse me sleep quiet.

Fred worst of all. Fred gets weird look across face back in van at night. Uses same rusty doctor things to fill my veins with things I can’t pronounce. Says I have rabies and needing shots. Shots burn like fire only skin not protect. Most of areas still brown underneath plus hurts to breathe. I get hurt and tired and I see things things I see not exist.

They keep hacksaw in van “IN CASE YOU GET TOO BAD SCOOBY!” They got too bad, they got too bad, I done being polite, I stronger. Tonight I go home after making stream in back woods red with the all four of them.

December 12, 2008

Blueberries

He smashed the dark oak desk into shards of stray wood strewn about the chamber with his sledgehammer. He couldn’t eat the whole thing in one bite.

As the veins in his eyes pulsed and his teeth ground for individual superiority over the others, he tried to think of something that didn’t involve what the guard outside the heavy door was going to watch him eat through the bulletproof glass.

Blueberries, they’re nice, I remember blueberries. The best ones came from the big bushes outside the McCoy house in Michigan. I’m going to eat a desk for a crime I didn’t commit. Blueberries.

He laid his hammer down, sat on the floor, and stared for a few minutes at the wall. He eventually picked up a dime-sized chip of wood. He held his nose and opened his mouth wide.

This is a blueberry. This is a McCoy blueberry. They’d always be happy to give me their blueberries, and this is one of them.

As he swallowed it whole, he gagged as he felt the edges of the chip cut the lining of his throat. He forced it into his stomach. The back of his mouth became sour with little drops of blood.

That was a blueberry, a very sweet blueberry, picked at just the right time. I probably liked it.

He choked down more chips. More blood came up, and nausea set in from the wood and its varnish. He couldn’t throw up; then he would have to start over.

He got to his feet and raised the sledgehammer high above his head to make more of these pieces out of the bigger ones.

I love blueberries, I’m going to eat a lot of blueberries.

The door flung open, and before he could say anything, the guard took his hammer and slammed the door.

Well, it looks like I’m going to be eating big blueberries.

He sat on the floor and grabbed a foot-long length of splintered oak. He tried to break it, but it would only break in half.

He pointed his face at the florescent light on the ceiling and opened his mouth wide.

This is a blueberry. I know it looks nothing like a blueberry, but it is. I’m a sword swallower, I can eat a sword, a sword made out of blueberries.

He nudged the wood past the opening of his throat. He felt it scrape, he felt it slide, gently, gently, gently.

This is a blueberry. It doesn’t taste like one, but it probably is.

He felt his mouth water, and in doing so he gagged. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to pull the wood out of his throat but the edges were caught on the inside of him.

With a long scream saturated by his torn throat, he ripped the stick out and threw it to the other side of the chamber. His mouth was a fountain of saliva and blood. His esophagus might as well have been on fire with the pain.

He turned his head, and saw a sturdy board that made the surface of the desk. He only split it in half with the hammer.

That is no blueberry.

Morning Routine

With gentle strokes, I brushed all my teeth out of their sockets that morning. I didn’t notice until I heard them fall one by one on the linoleum. I felt for any that remained, and my index finger went through my lower jaw with no effort. There was no pain.

I pulled away, but a broken sliver of jawbone caught the finger and it peeled off the knuckle. I checked with my tongue, and my finger was still there. In doing so, I wore my tongue to a flailing stump. There was no pain.

Blood was splattered all over the sink. I looked in the bathroom mirror, and my stained white robe sank as it cut into my shoulders. I held my hand out in front of me and looked at the finger stump. I heard my bones pop as my arms began to crumble at the shoulders. There was no pain.

I brought a hand to my forehead, and it lodged itself into my brain. The finger in my jaw had fallen out, cutting a long gash. The weight of my body was too much for my pelvis, and my torso fell between my legs. There was no pain.

When I hit the floor, the shock sent some of my bones flying to the corners of the floor. I darted my head around trying to find a possible solution, and in doing so, I broke my neck. I tried to scream, but my voice became a gurgling whisper as my larynx shriveled. There was no pain.

I stared at the high ceiling with my neck snapped backwards. The arm in my head obstructed my view, but somehow I could still see through my splitting eyes. As my lungs filled with blood I struggled to breathe. I should have been dead by then. The weight of the robe snapped whatever flesh was left on my torso and I fell in a twitching puddle. There was no pain.

I sat there decomposing, watching the sky change colors in the bathroom window. As the blood over what remained of my eyes coagulated and blinded me, I waited for anything. There had to be pain. There just had to be.

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