Compose a short story, a paragraph at a time!

FinsburyParkCarrots

Sgt. Jizzlewort P. Fumes stroked the shrunken head on his lap while squinting at the rescue planes veering off into the distance. How could they not see him here on this godforsaken island shore? The sky, so blue, so clear? Such perfect visibility? Fumes heard shouts in the bushes behind him and felt the skin on the back of his neck stand, each goosebump a blinded eye remembering the last sight of a pointed arrow. Ah, he realised. Those planes were unmanned. Drones? And from whence had they ventured? The shrunken head seemed to laugh at him, a coarse, hacking death rattle cackle on his frail, neglected loins.

olderman

Sgt. Fumes stared at the grotesque, smiling head. He raised the orb with both hands. Sound began to emanate from the head. The sound of it was like that of the night time mating call of the Silver Wolf. What had he eaten ? His heart raced as his mind flipped back through the memory of the roots and fruits he had consumed this past day. What was it he had told himself as he ate the delicious, strange red berries that grew on the dark green bush by the pool of fresh water that was surely fed by an underground spring? Too good to be good? The planes in the distance began to fly as if they had been equippped with hinged wings. Much like eagles they flew. And they were headed back towards the shore. And the shrunken head now screamed with a laughter more frightening than anything he had ever sounded before.

urbanhippie

And as the laughter grew louder and more terrifying, piercing the very edges of his sanity, Fumes became aware of another sound. A distant hum, in the distance. A low throbbing sound that he could feel in his guts. He tried to focus on it, to regain his conciousness from the madness that gripped his soul. The sound grew and he began to feel the vibrations in his extremities. The very ground he was stood upon seemed to be shuddering under his feet. Dimly he became aware of the pounding, as if from a distant, slow, yet unfathomably huge heart.

FinsburyParkCarrots

In beat with that heart, the head hissed "Give us a kiss", like a blood orange pierced by a cormorant's beak, or the wound of a lanced foot soldier in desert combat. "Give us a kiss, and I will get us out of here." Fumes blinked, slapped his calloused hand across his head, and shook the skull listening for the pea-like rattle of dead brain to anchor himself in reality. Reality? Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Earthpound. Woman, Memory. The laughing head. Metal sky bones careering into red horizon haze. A pocket fob. A watch that ticks another time. Inside: a faded photograph. Sepia: a woman, braids, arched angular jaw, haughty, betraying nothing of bedroom mysteries. Eyes faded by photo-paper creases, thumbnail marks not his own. Vultures whirling ahead. Give us a kiss.

justam

On the other side of the globe, a young boy woke up from a nightmare. He thought maybe it had something to do with his father, but then, he couldn't remember the details well enough to be sure. His heart was beating too fast, and he was perspiring as usual. Always running away from something sinister and unrelenting, in his nightmares, he couldn't see!! And, the air felt slimy or burned his nose so he couldn't smell either. The doctor his mom paid told him to turn around and look at the demon sometime, but he hadn't been able to yet. He held onto a vague fear that his heart might actually stop if he tried to.

FinsburyParkCarrots

The ceiling spun, the low-energy light-bulb swayed like a pendulum on a grandfather clock or the swinging blade nearer and nearer the throat, the train nearer and nearer the tied figure on the tracks, the boy on the bed, the boy on the bed ... delirious, delirious, playground laughter, echo-shimmering, devil masks and mad kazoos ... ahhh!!!! The wakefulness in sleeping, the sleeping in wakefulness: was he dreaming, lying, standing still?

dunkman

Next morning Toby stood at his bedroom window and watched as the sun rose like bile. "That's it" he said to no-one in particular "I'm off the fucking drugs!". He noticed his reflection in the mirror. Someone had drawn a Hitler moustache on him. "Again" he sighed at the mirror. Slothing his way back to the only source of light, other than the TV which was on pause showing a large pack of hyena devouring a gazelle, he squinted out of the window and noticed the sea of grey suits, like giant bull seals focusing only on their necessary mating march, trudging to their daily existence of accountancy and share deals. "Is this normality?" he wondered. His focus quickly returned upon hearing the phone ring. Toby answered. "Hello Toby" said the deep mahogany voice on the other end of the line. Toby instantly felt weaker than a haemophiliac who had fallen asleep in a tumble dryer. "Toby... it's your Dad".

FinsburyParkCarrots

"Toby, can you let me out of the coal bunker? Toby? Toby? Listen, I haven't got much credit on this thing ... it's dark -- your mother -- I -- mmmfffffffph", Toby heard his 'phone go dead, and wiped the squid blood from his bedroom window he used as a nightblind, to look down at the yard. There was the bunker, its corrugated mossy roofing an acrid green shimmering trails of gold in the light of dawn. He opened his window to the sounds of frantic banging and the screams of Mrs Sputum, the mad woman from no. 32, whom he'd locked in her bicycle shed last Tuesday evening. "Funny", he thought. "I thought she'd be quiet by now."

urbanhippie

When the noise came to an abrupt end, Toby became aware of his hunger. All the distractions and exertions had left their mark. He'd forgotten his daily dose of Weetabix. He trooped downstairs morosely and ventured into the squalid kitchen. He scanned the room, taking in the filth and stench. He made made his way across the debris-strewn linoleum, to the fridge. Opening the door, he peered into the dilapidated appliance, searching in vain for some milk that was only a few days past its sell-by date. Nothing.

justam

He stood staring at the mostly empty refrigerator with that blank look people get when their eyes lose focus. He didn't like that feeling. He shook his head and closed the door. He walked over to the sink and looked out the window at a pesky squirrel. It had craftily pulled something out of the garbage can and was chewing on it. "Stinkin' thief" he muttered, yet he couldn't help but laugh because it was eating that old bagel so daintily on the fence!

The sight of something stubbornly clinging to life broke into his dark mood and influenced him to get some clothes on and go for a walk. Yeah. Call the dog, grab the cigarettes, and get outside to clear his head. These nightmares were NOT going to take over his life. Since he was hungry, he'd buy some food. Who the hell was in charge here anyway?!

olderman

As Toby sank his teeth into the Boiled Pig’s Ear sandwich, his thoughts were of Natalya. What a sight she was. Toby enjoyed well rounded women who could speak Russian. All at once, as he ground his molars to mince his food, a bit of his cheek was pierced and Toby spit out pig's ear and screamed as a sow might scream (you know, as the animal is chased in the farm yard just before having to experience the final moment of life whereby the blood flows from the neck into the bucket for the blood sausage delicacy that would come of it.) Toby’s cheek was bleeding and he was in pain. His dog started to bark.

urbanhippie

'Shut up' Toby yelled, around the half-masticated remains of his porcine snack. Tenderly probing the torn skin with his tongue, he decided it was no worse than the time that his ex-girlfriend Michelle had hit him with the loofah, after one drunken late night argument. Thinking of Michelle ineveitably turned his thoughts again to Natalya... that alabaster skin, shot through with blue veins, like a good ripe Stilton. The breath from those crimson lips, redolent with cheese and onion crisps and old nicotine. Her hair, scraped back from that crinkled forehead and tied tightly with elastic bands, like a surprise parcel in the mail. How he wanted her...

justam

Thinking about Natalya reminded him of his nightmare. He realized that she must have been the inspiration for the talking shrunken head. Her hairstyle and demanding, shrill personality could have subconsciously been tweaked into that monstrous vision. He did have a tendency to want to subdue bitchy women by fucking them until they were nearly comatose. It pleased his sense of superiority and he enjoyed dominating them with his large body parts. Oh yes. He felt so strong at those moments when the object of his lust was limp from his efforts. So, if Natalya was the shrunken head, why would he be cast as a man lost on an island that needed to be rescued? It bothered him immensely that the symbols in his dreams were often not complimentary.

urbanhippie

The phone call from his father still bothered him immensely. Not least because he hadn't had a coal bunker since 1981. Mainly because he'd never met the man, or indeed either of his parents. He'd been left as a baby on the doorstep of the local Wimpy on a sweaty August night 27 years ago. Wrapped in a C&A blanket,in an old orange box, naked except for a nappy and some coleslaw orange booties onto which had been pinned a note. He'd been handed the note by his adopted mother, Tanya shortly after consuming his third bottle of cider on his 14th birthday. It read 'Pleez luk after my sun. Me n' his Da our of to follow the Inca Trail and should be back a week on Tuesday'.