Short Stories-From the Death Himself

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Dankison Twirls


When the Death writes a story, it is never simple


The Curse

What has become the city?

The boy stumbled across the deserted street, the pavement crying beneath his feet. He hasn't eaten for the past few days, and his mind was filled with primitive thoughts of finding food... or anything edible. Rotten bodies rowed in the darkest corners of the sidewalks, and the city that had been so enchanting now was silent, dead. The air was heavy with dust and blood and the blinding sun shone no warmth.

As he passed by every store, he remembered how it was, how alive it was, with people's laughing traveled out by the opened doors. As he passed by the Three brother's he paused, even more, wimping for the older days where he and his family sit upon the Old Dumpley's chair, laughing at how the Old Dumpley dig his boogers and enjoying a classic Old Dumpley's bacon and beans. Wimping for the days where his biggest worries were not having enough money to buy a chocolate sundae at the Lina and Dairy Ice Cream Shop.

What has become the city?

He knew it, he knew the chief should have let that Gypsy's son go when that Gypsy warned him of a curse. Moreover, he knew that the Gypsy would put the curse anyway, whether he had his son or not.

They hated us, and we hated them. But we lost, hard.

The iconic penguin from Johnson Toys mocked silently at him with his big, idiotic joyful smile as he stopped by it. Its eyes were watching him, and it was happy. It was happy to see the kid that had bullied him, that had taken him as a target suffer. It was happy to see this whole town ruined.

See, this is what end's like, the shallow boy who put a stick in my mouth every Friday morning. This is what you get for being mean to the good old Gypsies. Suffer...suffer...

"Shut up, you fucking pig" he cursed loudly as he took a crooked branch from a nearby tree. With a broken grin, he stuffed its tip through the slight opening between its upper lips and its tongue. "There you go. Fuck your mouth with this. That's what you get for fucking with me. That's what you get, you "

So what? What can you change? What HAS changed? Your family's still dead, and you are dying too. You know that. You are desperate, and...

A hammer smashed into the penguin, breaking the twisted smile into crumbles of pieces

"I said shut up."

Giving it satisfied look, the boy put back the hammer into his backpack and said in a chilly voice

"I don't care. They died for a reason, and I'm alive for another one. So, keep you penguin mouth shut or the next time it won't be this easy."

  Kicking the penguin one last time, he left. It was almost noon and he still had a lot to do. He had to find food before dark. His baby must not be hungry.

  Strangely, as the boy's mope silhouette disappeared, the crushed head of the penguin began to move. The fallen pieces replaced itself as the final clues of a puzzle and slowly, the penguin regained its past glory.

  This has been going on, for years, and years, and years.


Submitted: November 11, 2017

© Copyright 2021 dankison twrils. All rights reserved.

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