Ivan Hunt Profile

Silver Writer BadgeBronze Writer BadgeBronze Writer BadgeBronze Writer BadgeBronze Writer BadgeBronze Writer BadgeBronze Writer BadgeBronze Writer BadgeBronze Writer Badge


Ivan Hunt

Location: Garrison, United States

Member Since: August 2014

Open for read requests: Yes

Subscribe to Ivan Hunt's portfolio via RSS

Profile Information

     The hell do you want me to put here? I really cannot think of a single person that actually reads the Biographies of ANYONE on the internet.

 

     With that said let me tell you my life's story. I was born in the cool and comfortable shade of the oncoming malevolent atrocity  behemoth storm which was named after it's discoverer, Charles Malevolence Atrocioutis Behemoth, who later ironically died wearing a suit of armor for a midnight stroll during the storm which comes but once every 73 1/4 years. During the storm it was traditional for the local branch of clergy in my town, a small pitstop in Idaho, to sacrifice 11 goats, 2 potatos, and 5 virgins of whom before the festival would feast upon the finest Belgium Tofu in the land. Ironically, my parents were both chosen to be sacrificed as the potatos. It wasn't a long 2 weeks before the village had decided that i must have a caretaker before i disturbed the goat stable next door with my constant caterwauling and longingful wailing. I (along with all the other children who had lost their parents during the storm, thus proving the sacrifices ineffective, [oh well i suppose they are traditional folk]) was auctioned off to the nearby caravan of Canadian gypsies of whom I worked for as an indentured servent milking their yaks and whipping the out of season mulberry shrubs apon my bare buttocks, the pain was as excrutiating as it was invigorating. I spent the rest of my early childhood pickpocketing the lint from the pockets of the Russian Mafia from local motels secretly run by Canadian Gypsies, but I suppose if you look into it deep enough the Canadian Gypsies run everything. They wouldn't allow me to sleep in their tents as a test of patientce and parental bond, they often showed their affection towards me by calling me "moron" or "demon of the unsulked maelstrom that lies within the very deepest pits of pandemonium waiting only to strike when humanity has lost all grace and hope from our saviour", they were such kidders. I slept outside naked in the spot of the woods where it always rains, through all irony, in the dry season. One chill and brisk November night when we had done a job shucking oysters in a local barbershop for their gel, they had hitched their wagons to a Walnut tree in the middle of a park and I was done with my eighth and final daily beating I was wandering the streets aimlessly in search of some Church or Mosque or whatever the hell Zoroastrians have when I came across a library. Now this Library was recently bought by a young couple from an old Jewish woman who had complained about the "constant devil's wailing of the dark hounds known only by the highest of sinners who hope ever to see only light again." that, and the mildew. There was no inherent way of getting into the building as both the doors and windows were locked, naturally I climbed into the nearest manhole, climbed up their pipes, and came out into the sink. It wasn't much of a library yet, there were only 3 books, The Myth of Sisyphus, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, and The Meditations. I read them all overnight. Later I heard the cheering and celebrations of my Canadian comrades, oh how they must miss me. I had taken quite a liking to the place which really wasn't so much of a library so much as it was just a maze of empty shelves, but I had found a small attic in which was a collection of fine furniture, a grandfather clock, and several hundred candles. Upon hearing the new owners walk back in I was afraid they would hand me back to the Gypsies, and so I hurried back up into the attic locking myself inside. They were good, upright, decent moral people. Far better then anyone else who had ever met the likes of myself they took the library from the hag for only $500, and the condition that they must offer a little food and clothing to the dyybuk living there every now and then. They promptly agreed at such a low price but scoffed at the idea that there should be a ghost haunting the library, they obliged anyway and were amazed at how their offering left right by the attic, did in-fact dissapear. It was I that took them. I am their ghost. Over time they accumulated more books to feed their every-growing library and became quite prosperous, part of which they atributed to good tidings from their friendly library spirit and left more and more generous sacrifices. When the local papers came in to ask about their newfound success they gave great thanks to the ghost watching them, that's when the rumors started flying. Since then mindless conspiracy theorists wander into my new home to ask the librarians when they started hearing voices in the ceiling, they are "shooed" away. I live quite comfortably here. I climb down the attic from the second story in an unseen corner, and read about 4 books a day and I can tell you, ... book stuff. One day as I was walking along the Baltimore sidewalks, I notice an old, rundown, laptop being sold in a nearby shop window for a mere $20. I, having no job as I mooch food, clothes, and living space off the librarians, had no concept of money and worked in the shop dusting floors and waxing bottlecaps for 3 hours until the owner generously gave me the laptop. I ran back to the library with my findings and that alone had been one of the happiest days of my life. This of course happened about 15 years ago. Since then, national rumors of the "Maryland library ghost" have ceased but more local sightings have been kept in hushed tones. I speak to you now, merely trying to entertain and share my literary value as another internet artist.

 

 

                                                                                                                          Until then,

                                                                                                                                             - Ivan Hunt.

Quickees

This is where you can leave a short message for the writer. All Quickees are public. To leave a private message, use the private messaging system.

If you want to write a quickee (a remark or a hint for example) on this writer's profile, please sign in.

Booksie 2019 Short Story Contest

Ivan Hunt is a Fan of:

Ivan Hunt is a member of: