New story I wrote after witnessing a car crash that should have left 4+ people dead. Not a mythos story, but this is the only forum that I know of in which people might actually read and comment. There's plenty of and parts, but I'm to lazy to fix them up right here atm, I feel rather lousy. Let me know what you think!
You Servent, except to JP, whom I still like but will not serve under his tyranous hand,
Enkil
Chapter 1
Ray DeSusa sped along Route 495 listening to an audiobook of Kurt Vonnegut, Jrs’, The Children’s Crusade on his new iPod. He was late for a job installing a cable modem at a clients office in Quincy. He looked at the speedometer to see if he would make it on time, it read: HYPERSPEED ENGAGED, a brisk 85 miles-per-hour. This was none to fast for Ray, who put the petal to the metal and exploded out of the traffic gate with another 10 miles-per-hour under his belt. The cars behind him faded into the distance like stars when Captain Jean-Luc Picard ordered the Enterprise into hyperspace. Ray lit a Lucky Strike, took a thick stream of smoke into his pillaged lungs and exhaled a muted “nike.” Victory was his, he’d make it to the job on time, if not early, at this speed.
The second chapter of The Children’s Crusade had clicked onto his car stereo. “Listen:” said the narrator “Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.” I’m listening old man, thought Ray contentedly, when his front right tire became unstuck to its axis and escaped across the highway and into the woods. Rays truck hit the guardrail 3 lanes to the right, doughnuted once in the direction of incoming traffic and somersaulted 2 times, landing on his roof and grinding to a halt against a royal blue minivan in the same lane he had started in.
"So it Goes." Said Charon
Moderators: mgmirkin, Moderators
"So it Goes." Said Charon
"If you must break the law, do it to seize power: in all other cases observe it." ~ Caesar
[America] [Scotland] ||| The Truth will stand when the World is on fire.
[America] [Scotland] ||| The Truth will stand when the World is on fire.
Chapter 2
Ray DeSusa stood on the highway looking at his truck. Two of the tires were missing, one in the woods and the other in front of the guardrail he had hit. Glass covered all four lanes. It shallowly cut into his feet. The roof of the truck would have looked 2 feet lower than it should have if it was sitting upright and normally, and the underside of the truck, now the topside, was smoldering. He stood stunned, looking at the mess that was his boss’ property. Traffic screeched to a stand still, people jumping out of their cars dialing 911. A thin Italian looking man, with skin the hue of extra virgin olive oil and dirty money, greasy hair and a “Yankees Suck” t-shirt bounded across the open highway like an Iditarod sled-dog with a portable fire extinguisher and smothered the smoldering flame on what the Fates so abruptly decided should be the new roof of his truck.
The greasy Italian was the first to approach, soon after there were 10, and then 20 people on the scene. Ray walked over to the minivan the truck had hit (after all, he hadn’t hit it on purpose, best to blame the truck), glass shaving small filets of epidermis off the soles and heals of his foot. Everyone in the crowded minivan was alright, Thank God, a few would suffer whiplash or bruising but they were no worse for the wear.
Ray heard sirens. Three separate types of sirens, each with their own orchestras.
A man in a crimson Oxford dress shirt, cream Brooks Brothers vest and white linen pants came up to Ray.
“Ray DeSusa?” the man asked
“How’d you know my name.” Ray asked.
The man produced Ray’s drivers license.
“I’m a doctor, Ray,” the man hesitated, “If I may call you that.” Ray nodded his acquiescence and the man extruded a warm and pleasant smile, then continued. “I’m also a boatman of sorts. My name is Charon.”
“Like Ariel Sharon?” Ray asked, his ear was bleeding, he had a hard time hearing the mans voice.
“Not quite.” Replied Charon, “In any case…” He paused, he was still having trouble getting used to the new rules of his job, “Mr. DeSusa, I don’t know how to put this so I’m going to say as delicately as possible.” He took a cigarette out of his pocket, a Lucky Strike, and lit it with a Zippo lighter, then offered one to Ray who gladly accepted it.
“Mr. DeSusa, you’re dead.” Ray coughed violently, cigarette smoke exploding from his lungs like a bullet from a .44 magnum revolver, the kind Dirty Harry used to kill Scorpio. Charon grimaced, this was the part of the job he hated. In the old days he would simply ferry people across the River, and read Mark Twain in between (in Death every soul had access to each and every book ever written or ever to be written, whether published or not), but he never had to go to the souls and break the news. He sighed inwardly, the new religions changed everything. For the worse.
Ray stood stock-still, not seeing, comprehending or breathing. The irony was thick enough to eat with a knife and fork, dipped in a nice side of tartar or barbeque sauce. The man was only physically dead, but his soul lived on and all his vital functions still worked; and really, the “afterlife” was much better than the physical one if you crossed the River. It was the land of milk and honey for all. Heaven and Hell didn’t exist. Those were just power plays made by people who wanted control over the physical masses. There was no sickness, no death, all the pleasures of life could be enjoyed at any time, without the risks they carried in the physical world. The body remained, but in spirit, with every cell and organ intact, renewed and impenetrable to disease. A key point not many physical souls realized, and a point Charon had become to contemptuous to share with the newly dead. Who wouldn’t want to go? Many didn’t though, many were to obsessed with physical life and chose to remain on Earth after their death. This was why Charon had no love, or even respect for his job anymore, and he didn’t try very hard at it. Let the mortals choose for themselves, was his motto. It’s really none of my business anyways.
“You have two choices Ray, you can come with me, or you can stay here, a ghost.” A pause. “I’m obligated to remind you that as a ghost you’ll be confined to this stretch of highway for eternity.”
Ray sank to knees, his chest heaving in overexcited hyperventilation.
“I don’t believe it. I can’t be dead.” Ray said. The proverbial light bulb clicked on in his head and he laughed insanely. “Charon you old coot! I can’t be dead! Look!” He said pointing to his ear, “I’m bleeding and because of that I can’t hear well. And look at my feet, they’ve been cut by the glass!” Ray was overjoyed, he had proved that he was alive, that Charon was just fucking with his mind. A not very nice thing to do with a person that almost died. His joy turned the darkest anger a person can experience, the swirling darkness of a hurricane making landfall.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?! Why the fucking hell would you EVER play such a joke on anyone! Do you have any consideration for peoples feelings you cold hearted mother fucking Greek goat fucker!” Ray let out a few more minutes of unintelligible slang and curses. Charon tuned out Rays rant, immersed himself in a scathing rebuttal (which he would keep to himself, of course) and thoughtfully smoked his cigarette.
No, he had no consideration for peoples feelings, because they never had any consideration for his. He’d be doing this job for 30,000 years, he’d ferried Kings, Emperors, Warlords and Prophets across the River. He’d had 50 year conversations with geniuses: Kepler, Twain, da Vinci, Newton, Hawthorne, there was no end to the list, and he showed them all a thing or two about what they thought and how they practiced their professions. He was the most enlightened soul in Death, he could think of none other that rivaled his knowledge. He could probably even give the Deity a run for its money in a debate about anything, he might one of these days. And what did he get for all this knowledge? Was he granted reincarnation as a Prophet, a man who could change the physical world and end its mindless violence? Was he paid homage to by the billions of souls in Death? No, he was “promoted” by the Deity and now had to break the news of their deaths to these narcissistic, unappreciative sycophants. And they never, ever, took it well.
Sighing he pointed to the truck, which was smoldering again. Ray DeSusa stopped amid a particularly brusque and inventive cascade of curses that would put both sailors and school boys to shame and looked at the wreck. The fire department was busy making use of the Jaws of Life to cut their way into the twisted hulk. He couldn’t figure out why, he was standing right there and no one else was in the truck. The smoldering started to wisp it’s hot tongue across the engine and was soon a mediocre sized flame, gaining force steadily.
It was then that Ray DeSusa saw his right hand hanging out of the drivers seat, the distinctive Ying-Yang tattoo on his left hand sheered in half by a jagged piece of metal. Charon flicked his cigarette into the car and lit another one. The flames licked higher. The fire men could not control it.
“It’s going to blow!” Cried one. They all ran off, people who were standing and who were in cars ducked. Seconds later the truck exploded, and with it went Ray. Undeniably. The authorities cringed, on lookers cried, and Ray DeSusa stood silently.
It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining fiercely, a cool breeze rustled the trees along Route 495, in which the birds also sat silently.
“But… I bleed” Escaped the words from Rays faltering throat.
“So it goes.” Said Charon
“A Kurt Vonnegut fan?” Ray asked, peace rushing over him.
“Somewhat. So kid, what will it be?” Asked Charon.
“I bleed.” Replied Ray.
“Very well, kid.” Charon huffed off in a storm. Sycophant.
Ray DeSusa stood on the highway looking at his truck. Two of the tires were missing, one in the woods and the other in front of the guardrail he had hit. Glass covered all four lanes. It shallowly cut into his feet. The roof of the truck would have looked 2 feet lower than it should have if it was sitting upright and normally, and the underside of the truck, now the topside, was smoldering. He stood stunned, looking at the mess that was his boss’ property. Traffic screeched to a stand still, people jumping out of their cars dialing 911. A thin Italian looking man, with skin the hue of extra virgin olive oil and dirty money, greasy hair and a “Yankees Suck” t-shirt bounded across the open highway like an Iditarod sled-dog with a portable fire extinguisher and smothered the smoldering flame on what the Fates so abruptly decided should be the new roof of his truck.
The greasy Italian was the first to approach, soon after there were 10, and then 20 people on the scene. Ray walked over to the minivan the truck had hit (after all, he hadn’t hit it on purpose, best to blame the truck), glass shaving small filets of epidermis off the soles and heals of his foot. Everyone in the crowded minivan was alright, Thank God, a few would suffer whiplash or bruising but they were no worse for the wear.
Ray heard sirens. Three separate types of sirens, each with their own orchestras.
A man in a crimson Oxford dress shirt, cream Brooks Brothers vest and white linen pants came up to Ray.
“Ray DeSusa?” the man asked
“How’d you know my name.” Ray asked.
The man produced Ray’s drivers license.
“I’m a doctor, Ray,” the man hesitated, “If I may call you that.” Ray nodded his acquiescence and the man extruded a warm and pleasant smile, then continued. “I’m also a boatman of sorts. My name is Charon.”
“Like Ariel Sharon?” Ray asked, his ear was bleeding, he had a hard time hearing the mans voice.
“Not quite.” Replied Charon, “In any case…” He paused, he was still having trouble getting used to the new rules of his job, “Mr. DeSusa, I don’t know how to put this so I’m going to say as delicately as possible.” He took a cigarette out of his pocket, a Lucky Strike, and lit it with a Zippo lighter, then offered one to Ray who gladly accepted it.
“Mr. DeSusa, you’re dead.” Ray coughed violently, cigarette smoke exploding from his lungs like a bullet from a .44 magnum revolver, the kind Dirty Harry used to kill Scorpio. Charon grimaced, this was the part of the job he hated. In the old days he would simply ferry people across the River, and read Mark Twain in between (in Death every soul had access to each and every book ever written or ever to be written, whether published or not), but he never had to go to the souls and break the news. He sighed inwardly, the new religions changed everything. For the worse.
Ray stood stock-still, not seeing, comprehending or breathing. The irony was thick enough to eat with a knife and fork, dipped in a nice side of tartar or barbeque sauce. The man was only physically dead, but his soul lived on and all his vital functions still worked; and really, the “afterlife” was much better than the physical one if you crossed the River. It was the land of milk and honey for all. Heaven and Hell didn’t exist. Those were just power plays made by people who wanted control over the physical masses. There was no sickness, no death, all the pleasures of life could be enjoyed at any time, without the risks they carried in the physical world. The body remained, but in spirit, with every cell and organ intact, renewed and impenetrable to disease. A key point not many physical souls realized, and a point Charon had become to contemptuous to share with the newly dead. Who wouldn’t want to go? Many didn’t though, many were to obsessed with physical life and chose to remain on Earth after their death. This was why Charon had no love, or even respect for his job anymore, and he didn’t try very hard at it. Let the mortals choose for themselves, was his motto. It’s really none of my business anyways.
“You have two choices Ray, you can come with me, or you can stay here, a ghost.” A pause. “I’m obligated to remind you that as a ghost you’ll be confined to this stretch of highway for eternity.”
Ray sank to knees, his chest heaving in overexcited hyperventilation.
“I don’t believe it. I can’t be dead.” Ray said. The proverbial light bulb clicked on in his head and he laughed insanely. “Charon you old coot! I can’t be dead! Look!” He said pointing to his ear, “I’m bleeding and because of that I can’t hear well. And look at my feet, they’ve been cut by the glass!” Ray was overjoyed, he had proved that he was alive, that Charon was just fucking with his mind. A not very nice thing to do with a person that almost died. His joy turned the darkest anger a person can experience, the swirling darkness of a hurricane making landfall.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?! Why the fucking hell would you EVER play such a joke on anyone! Do you have any consideration for peoples feelings you cold hearted mother fucking Greek goat fucker!” Ray let out a few more minutes of unintelligible slang and curses. Charon tuned out Rays rant, immersed himself in a scathing rebuttal (which he would keep to himself, of course) and thoughtfully smoked his cigarette.
No, he had no consideration for peoples feelings, because they never had any consideration for his. He’d be doing this job for 30,000 years, he’d ferried Kings, Emperors, Warlords and Prophets across the River. He’d had 50 year conversations with geniuses: Kepler, Twain, da Vinci, Newton, Hawthorne, there was no end to the list, and he showed them all a thing or two about what they thought and how they practiced their professions. He was the most enlightened soul in Death, he could think of none other that rivaled his knowledge. He could probably even give the Deity a run for its money in a debate about anything, he might one of these days. And what did he get for all this knowledge? Was he granted reincarnation as a Prophet, a man who could change the physical world and end its mindless violence? Was he paid homage to by the billions of souls in Death? No, he was “promoted” by the Deity and now had to break the news of their deaths to these narcissistic, unappreciative sycophants. And they never, ever, took it well.
Sighing he pointed to the truck, which was smoldering again. Ray DeSusa stopped amid a particularly brusque and inventive cascade of curses that would put both sailors and school boys to shame and looked at the wreck. The fire department was busy making use of the Jaws of Life to cut their way into the twisted hulk. He couldn’t figure out why, he was standing right there and no one else was in the truck. The smoldering started to wisp it’s hot tongue across the engine and was soon a mediocre sized flame, gaining force steadily.
It was then that Ray DeSusa saw his right hand hanging out of the drivers seat, the distinctive Ying-Yang tattoo on his left hand sheered in half by a jagged piece of metal. Charon flicked his cigarette into the car and lit another one. The flames licked higher. The fire men could not control it.
“It’s going to blow!” Cried one. They all ran off, people who were standing and who were in cars ducked. Seconds later the truck exploded, and with it went Ray. Undeniably. The authorities cringed, on lookers cried, and Ray DeSusa stood silently.
It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining fiercely, a cool breeze rustled the trees along Route 495, in which the birds also sat silently.
“But… I bleed” Escaped the words from Rays faltering throat.
“So it goes.” Said Charon
“A Kurt Vonnegut fan?” Ray asked, peace rushing over him.
“Somewhat. So kid, what will it be?” Asked Charon.
“I bleed.” Replied Ray.
“Very well, kid.” Charon huffed off in a storm. Sycophant.
"If you must break the law, do it to seize power: in all other cases observe it." ~ Caesar
[America] [Scotland] ||| The Truth will stand when the World is on fire.
[America] [Scotland] ||| The Truth will stand when the World is on fire.
Chapter 3
Charon strolled towards me, and I towards him. We met not far from the crash, Charon walking in a listless, bored gait.
“As for you Mr. Milton. You’ve only had a heart attack from all this excitement, you’re dead but it’s not your time to go, soon the paramedics will defibrillate you and you’ll live.” He started to walk away. I called to him, bowed, and said “When my time comes I would most certainly like to have a long talk with you.” I smiled, and he gave me that enticing smile of his back.
“Soon enough Mr. Milton; and by the way sell that stock you have in Enron and invest in Halliburton. There’s good money to be made in there soon.” He laughed at his own pun. With a wink Charon disappeared and I was staring at the beating sun surrounded by paramedics.
Charon strolled towards me, and I towards him. We met not far from the crash, Charon walking in a listless, bored gait.
“As for you Mr. Milton. You’ve only had a heart attack from all this excitement, you’re dead but it’s not your time to go, soon the paramedics will defibrillate you and you’ll live.” He started to walk away. I called to him, bowed, and said “When my time comes I would most certainly like to have a long talk with you.” I smiled, and he gave me that enticing smile of his back.
“Soon enough Mr. Milton; and by the way sell that stock you have in Enron and invest in Halliburton. There’s good money to be made in there soon.” He laughed at his own pun. With a wink Charon disappeared and I was staring at the beating sun surrounded by paramedics.
"If you must break the law, do it to seize power: in all other cases observe it." ~ Caesar
[America] [Scotland] ||| The Truth will stand when the World is on fire.
[America] [Scotland] ||| The Truth will stand when the World is on fire.
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tsathoggua
- Primordial Evil
- Posts: 682
- Joined: Wed Mar 11, 2009 6:17 pm
- Location: Motueka, NZ
I also like write some small stroies, in the process of writing, i can get happy , the artical you write is a good one.
Follow the fashion is my dream. I like christian louboutin,which let me crazy. It is my world that is full of redsole shoes.Just be yourself!
wow..
thats great..
thank you for sharing your stories to us..
just continue writing stories..
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Make Money Online
thats great..
thank you for sharing your stories to us..
just continue writing stories..
______________
Make Money Online