Post by account_disabled on Dec 14, 2023 8:47:11 GMT 2
This Sunday's story is 4000 words long, i.e. around 25000 characters, so I preferred to publish it as a free ebook. The formats are always pdf and ePub. It's a fantasy story, with a slight horror tinge, that I wrote for the Highlander competition and was never published. The story is based on the sighting of a creature, which was called Mothman, which occurred in late 1966 in West Virginia, which gave rise to a series of other observations, sometimes quite colorful. A long line of destructive and deadly accidents and disasters have been attributed to these sightings. When Americans get something into their heads, no matter how absurd, it is difficult to change their minds.
I read these stories on various American sites and I wrote an essay about them which will be published on the La Tela Nera site. On that occasion, for the aforementioned competition, I wrote the story, imagining what started all that noise. Excerpt from the story Nothing moves beyond the fields, where the roast and the waste of old explosives have nourished Phone Number Data weeds and the kudzu has taken over chipped and stained walls. Under a sickly twilight the old abandoned buildings of the North Power Plant stand undisturbed, silent forms of a gloomy building that now stands as a monument of darkness. Mice and insects have made it their last refuge, scurrying among the columns and steel beams that intersect in the warehouse like a modern spider's web, slipping away into the interstices where no light will ever be able to touch them. And birds and bats nest there, distant examples of a bizarre nature, the only link in the ancient Linnaean taxonomy. There was silence, there, among the rotting voids of the building, under a new moon that makes the night even darker.
Dark. And foreign smells. A shadow darker than the others, a ghostly apparition of nightmares and unlikely stories. A gasp, the only sound in that sudden silence. Years of anguished suffering regurgitated in an alien body, somatic features implanted by daily poisons, where nothing of the primordial appearance is recognizable anymore. It's something new now. Wild soul born from failed experiments, miserable attempts to imitate the miracles of creation. Thrown between corroded sheet metal and rotten waste in that shell of concrete and steel, a kingdom of dust and soot and human waste, like a condom forgotten by a couple in heat who has cooled their instincts. Observe the sleeping countryside, from the top of that ruined human work. Observe the few lights of the city that appear like small stars in the night, an imposing figure without love or dreams. He throws himself into the void, headlong like a suicide. His form broadens into a whirring sound already heard. He doesn't touch the ground.
I read these stories on various American sites and I wrote an essay about them which will be published on the La Tela Nera site. On that occasion, for the aforementioned competition, I wrote the story, imagining what started all that noise. Excerpt from the story Nothing moves beyond the fields, where the roast and the waste of old explosives have nourished Phone Number Data weeds and the kudzu has taken over chipped and stained walls. Under a sickly twilight the old abandoned buildings of the North Power Plant stand undisturbed, silent forms of a gloomy building that now stands as a monument of darkness. Mice and insects have made it their last refuge, scurrying among the columns and steel beams that intersect in the warehouse like a modern spider's web, slipping away into the interstices where no light will ever be able to touch them. And birds and bats nest there, distant examples of a bizarre nature, the only link in the ancient Linnaean taxonomy. There was silence, there, among the rotting voids of the building, under a new moon that makes the night even darker.
Dark. And foreign smells. A shadow darker than the others, a ghostly apparition of nightmares and unlikely stories. A gasp, the only sound in that sudden silence. Years of anguished suffering regurgitated in an alien body, somatic features implanted by daily poisons, where nothing of the primordial appearance is recognizable anymore. It's something new now. Wild soul born from failed experiments, miserable attempts to imitate the miracles of creation. Thrown between corroded sheet metal and rotten waste in that shell of concrete and steel, a kingdom of dust and soot and human waste, like a condom forgotten by a couple in heat who has cooled their instincts. Observe the sleeping countryside, from the top of that ruined human work. Observe the few lights of the city that appear like small stars in the night, an imposing figure without love or dreams. He throws himself into the void, headlong like a suicide. His form broadens into a whirring sound already heard. He doesn't touch the ground.