The Extortion

Life is fickle as the house-cat. One man it treats as a friend, another it toys with in cruel sport until he succumbs to his wounds and expires. It rewards those who demand little of it and escapes those who chase it. Life does as it pleases when it pleases, and all a man can do is to presume nothing of it.

I was that man once.

My name is Vethaniel Affencombe, and many years ago I was personally stricken by the vagaries of life. Much I lost to its inscrutable whims, but even more I learnt from its strange teachings. It all began with a letter in the postbox…

Before the troubles began, life was pleasantly stagnant and not much changed from day to day, save for the passing of seasons and the this-and-that’s of the War. I had lived for some time on Cleat Street. The estate of my grandfather (bless his soul), once divided among my family, had left me in possession of a quaint villa and some money for my hobbies. It was not much, but it was enough for a man of my temperament. I enjoyed the simple life. I tended my hortensias in morning and played the piano – or cello, if I was feeling particularly adventurous – in the evening. I enjoyed solitary lunches, and in the afternoon I would stroll into town to chat up some old friends from bucket school, or peruse some magazine in the café by Trilton square.

It had never occured to me that a sudden break from normalcy could take place on any such day, yet that is precisely what happened.

One Wednesday morning I found that my postbox had overfilled. This time of year, the postbox was exceedingly difficult to approach, as any day could be the day that spelled the arrival of the tax inquiries. Such cumbersome paperwork always gave me a headache, and as such I was, more often than not, happy to avoid the issue altogether. Eventually, when the accumulated bulk of mail would cause the postbox to overfill, I would have to handle the matter by necessity. So, this Wednesday, it was time for the matter to be handled.

I was intent on sorting my mail and filing my taxes first thing in the morning. And so, I carried the hefty heap of postcards and newspapers to my writing desk and got to work. As I searched the heap for the dreaded tax inquiries, I discovered a black envelope that sparked my curiosity. I did not recognize the handwriting that spelled out my address, and the numerous stamps suggested that it had traveled quite far. When I opened the envelope, I did not yet know that its contents would bring my life to ruin…

The letter inside was not very long, and seemed to have been written in quite some haste on a faulty typewriter: irregular dots of ink were scattered across the sheet and there were even some creases in the paper. Despite that, the first sentence immediately captured my total attention.

vethaniel.affencombe I need your total attention for the next Twenty-four hrs, or I will make sure that you live out of guilt for the rest of your life.

Was this from the Pastor? I kept reading.

Hi, you don’t know me. But I know a lot of things about you. Your current facebook contact list, mobile phone contacts along with all the online activity in your computer from previous 162 days.

I furrowed my brow in consternation. This was no congregational matter. Whoever sent it was a stranger, or claimed to be so at least.

Consisting of, your masturbation video, which brings me to the main motive why I ‘m writing this specific e-mail to you.
Well the last time you went to the porn material web sites, my malware ended up being triggered in your personal computer which ended up shooting a eye-catching video of your masturbation play simply by activating your cam.
(you got a unquestionably odd preference by the way haha)

Even though I was all alone by my writing desk, I blushed with chagrin. While I enjoyed my solitary activities in the privacy of my own home, I was nonetheless unhappy to learn that my indulgences were being monitored by some faceless stranger, let alone a stranger rude enough to record my vices in ink and deliver the testimony to my front door! The letter struck me as thoroughly lacking in etiquette. And what of this video?

I own the complete recording. If you feel I ‘m fooling around, just reply ‘proof’ and I will be forwarding the particular recording randomly to 10 people you know.
It may end up being your friend, co workers, boss, mother and father (I don’t know! My software program will randomly pick the contact details). Would you be capable to gaze into anyone’s eyes again after it? I doubt it…

As I kept reading the mysterious letter sent to me on the most inconspicious of days, my face reddened with fear rather than embarrassment. The letter had moved from delivering cryptic statements to asserting an outright threat! It was one thing that my unknown pen-pal spied on and recorded my most intimate pastime – if the letter had been penned with more kindness and attention to proper spelling, such information could have intrigued me, even. But who could possibly be intrigued by the idea of having such a record distributed amongst their peers? If that were to happen, I would be the laughingstock of the neighborhood, the bucket school gang, Bridge club… But this miscreant was not content to stop at that – they claimed to be prepared to send it to my very own parents! Who could even conceive of such maliciousness? I remembered the time my father sternly expressed his disappointment at the state of the hortensias in the front yard. What would he think of me if my secret vices were brought to his attention? And my dear old mother – the shock of it all would reduce her to ashes!

What, if anything, could I do to check this miscreant? Surely, some arrangement could be made?

Nonetheless, it does not need to be that route.
I would like to make you a one time, no negotiable offer.
Buy 0.5 (Around $3500 United states dollar) bitcoin and send it on the down below address:

(The stated address was a jumbled string of digits and letters that made no sense to me at all.)

Embarrassment and fear gave in to indignation. My face was as red as the time Mrs. Burdock in the house across the street forgot to attend to the mess her Pomeranian had left by my picket-fence. This stranger was trying to blackmail me for currency by portending to expose my most private activities to the world! I no longer withheld any judgment in regard to the character of my enigmatic pen-pal. He or she was without any doubt a most impish, most cunning, most ill-disposed and deleterious good-for-nothing!

(If you do not understand how, google how to purchase bitcoin. Do not waste my precious time)
If you send this particular ‘donation’ (let us call this that?). Right after that, I will go away a nd never get in touch with you again. I will delete everything I have in relation to you. You may keep on living your current regular day to day life with absolutely no fear.

I slammed my fist into the table. Anger assaulted my cognizance from every corner of my brain. My finances and my reputation were being toyed with by some foreigner, intent on making me, myself, choose one over the other. A fair choice indeed! Spare your reputation, and forfeit your very means of survival. Save your pocketbook, and doom yourself to a life trapped within the confines of your residence, the facades of which would surely be despoiled by uncouth writings of gossips and brats. The hortensias left to fend for themselves. How could the world let an honest, decent man fall victim to the plots of a capracious reprobate?

I placed both my arms over the letter – to be spared the sight – and sank my head into them. Despondent and overwhelmed, I remained like this for a long while before I could muster enough courage to read the final words of this misadventurous delivery.

You’ve got 1 day to do so. Your time begins as soon you check out this e mail. I have an o ne of a kind program code that will notify me once you read this e-mail therefore don’t try to play smart.

With bitterness seeping into my every vein, artery and capillary, I started weighing my options.  Should I swallow my pride for the sake of my material comfort? Resign myself to a life of solitude – a life, perhaps ultimately befitting a man who had indulged… Or was it better to sack my savings, and live off the generosity of my friends? Should I pay the price my reputation now required? The choice was mine, but the spoils were hers. Or his.

What will our poor protagonist make of this dilemma? Tune in on November 31 to find out!

I Bloodied My Hands At The Behest Of A Big Spider

I once knew nothing of grief and remorse. My life was as bright as the sunlight’s own source. In carefree sport I would frolic alive, nothing but cheer on my innocent mind. But that was before I bloodied my hands at the behest of a big spider.

It all began when a spider beseeched me to bloody my hands at her behest. My face turns pale at the thought of that day, that baleful day in the stormy woods. Those stormy woods where it all began. Thus she spoke:

“At my behest, must thou bloody thy hands. Bloody thy hands at the behest of me.”

In stormy woods we stood as she spoke these odious words that would spell my demise.

“I can’t!” I screamed upon hearing these words. Forget I will never, her dreadful response.

“Thou must.”

My spirit as struck by a bolt from the skies, by hearing the words of her dreadful response. My heartstrings in jar as the floundering winds, by thought of the deeds that the spider beseeched. My eyes as wet as the showering clouds, by grieving the peace I would lose to these deeds.

“Bloody them, I beseech thee, bloody thy hands. Bloody thy hands at the behest of me, a big spider.”

My fist I shook in futile dissent. My life I had destined for merrier plans. I never wanted to bloody my hands. But the imperious spider was not to relent. My fate was entangled in the latticework of silk from which the spider had made its descent.

to be continued

Author’s personal reflections

A few months into the current global debacle I have, after much deliberation, reached some objective conclusions as regards the nature of a perfect society.

1) Street and fast food would not be greasy or sticky. It would not taste blandly of salt and animal fats. It would not come with just one (or zero!) napkins as though people – eating in public! – don’t need to wipe their mouth

2)

between every bite or thoroughly purge their fingers after they’ve touched greasy foods so that no unclean sensation can remind them of that awful day in middle school when it finally dawned on them that the human body actually does secrete gross greasy fat from its skin and hair and if you think about it you can barely type anything because the nausea makes your fingers weak. This is a universal need needed by everybody.

Servers of street and fast food would never, by default, destroy something otherwise OK or even good with horrible pink goo. Or mayonnaise. I have started to suspect that the horrible pink goo is in fact mayonnaise-based. The street and fast food culture would not work out of the Godless idea that bland animal fat-flavored things go well with other bland animal fat-flavored things.

Mayonnaise would have a restraining order from anything resembling a french fry and be reserved as a – sparsely used – condiment for properly balanced, vegetabluous dishes. Also hamburgers, which have a pink dressing that can be dangerous at times but should not be confused with the horrible pink goo of other kinds of fast food. The horrible pink goo would be thrown into the deepest pit of Hell and scream in agony as the white-hot flames obliterate its very conceptual fabric. Not even a single memory of the horrible pink goo will remain. Those who cooperated with its ignominious designs will bow their head in shame nonetheless.

After french fries have been safeguarded from mayonnaise and coupled with Heinz ketchup as is proper and good, they will too be banished.

The most common street or fast food would be thinly sliced squash or zucchini or even courgette that’s been just briefly fried in very little oil and then served with just a slight drizzle of hoisin or oyster sauce or nothing at all. Innovative serving methods would allow people to safely and fearlessly consume these zucchini slices without touching them with their fingers. There would be plenty of napkins just in case.

This would in fact be the only available street or fast food. And the nicest street or fast food places would even provide an after-dinner ammonium chloride. The zucchini slices could also come in a chili-flavored variant.

Confessions of a broken man

I first met him in the bustling train terminal of College Cross, waiting for my connection to Castleford-by-Sea. The morning fog had just begun to dissipate, and I was attending to breakfast on a bench as I waited for my twenty-minute sojourn to pass. I didn’t even notice him beside me on the bench until I heard him draw a heavy, weary sigh.

I turned my head to the right and saw a haggard man in worn-out clothes. He was mumbling restlessly to himself and shaking his head as though he disagreed with his own musings.

“Is everything quite all right?” I asked. He did not look at me as he replied.

“Pay no mind to rueful banter, for beside you sits – a broken man.”

At first I did not believe him. But then I heard his twisted tale. Then I believed him. So began his story:

“I confess to this: always one to flee my duties, I left my virtues out to spoil. No dues I paid to higher beauty, no coin I gained from honest toil.

“Much money spent on foolish pleasure, to partake of drink for fleeting glee. To partake of drink is now my measure – to drown my guilt in witless sea. To this I must also confess.” He still spoke into the empty hall, never looking straight at me.

“By idle hands in reckless labor, the devil’s deeds take shape on Earth. I turned to crime and on my neighbor, and sold my soul for twice its worth.

“My hand and soul I sold – to the devil! To this… I must… also… confess!” He planted his palms upon his face and whimpered in exhaustion – exhaustion from a lifetime of struggle with his spirit’s heavy burdens. Overcome by compassion, I wrapped my arms around his shaking body and urged him resolutely, desperately:

“No man can be beyond redemption, no soul beyond the grace of Saints. Have hope you may undo this tension, and live in pride and joy again.”

But as I gazed upon his weathered countenance, I could see in his eyes a man that was broken beyond hope – even hope for hope itself. He drew another heavy, weary sigh. This time, he faced me when he spoke:

“By strength alone no man can muster, leave from what his habits wrought. And wit alone can bring no luster, a moment’s peace from morseful thought. Knees and toes and head and shoulders, ears and legs and arms and hands. Though time may salve a wounded soldier, no years can mend a broken man.

“And broken I am.”

Then he said no more. I held his hand as he passed away. Sunset placed its gentle light upon the brick and marble of College Cross, painting the terminal in mournful hues. As the evening train from Castleford-by-Sea came to a halt outside, so did the beating of his troubled heart.

I buried him by the old church on Harbor Hill.

 

Written today. Never posted on that godawful hookup site, because it sucks and Darryl blocked me.

On Floor Mops

Floor mops are rudimentary tools applicable to many general and specific purposes, but are mainly used to wash floors to the effect of making those floors clean. The floor mop is applied as such that the floor mop manner, traditionally a human being, firmly presses the flat end of the floor mop against a floor of their choosing and drags it forward and back – or sideways – in wide, sweeping movements. Consequently, dirt and similar undesirable features of the floorscape are removed.

A common and effective work strategy is to initially dip the floor mop into a solution of water and detergent, before the previously described method is applied. Such strategies have been critically acclaimed, and several prominent historians have documented how these methods engender significant increases in both labor efficacy and quality of life. Why would water and detergent act as performance enhancers in this particular context? The intricacies of concurrent applications of mechanical force and chemical agents onto solid surfaces are still poorly understood by science. During the late 20th century, many divergent hypotheses concerning floor mops vis-à-vis liquid detergent were assurgent, but a cohesive theory of the detergent-floor mop convergence is yet to be emergent. Niche interest groups have exploited this vacancy of knowledge by proposing understandings of domestic sanitation rooted in folk wisdom or establishment religion, often asserting that such understanding is beyond the scope of the scientific method.

Even though some may disagree, the floor mop has been empirically proven to be a somewhat useful tool, especially for the cleaning of dirty floors. Studies show that the wielder of the floor mop benefits from physical strength, which allows for the proper application of force. For optimal results, sufficient functionality of the skeletal muscles are of paramount importance. The licensed or casual housecleaner should therefore engage in physical exercise for at least 30 minutes a day and eat a varied and balanced diet rich in proteins.

Gertrude is one of several owners of a floor mop. In accordance with conventional approaches, she primarily applies this sanitary tool on dirty, rather than clean, surfaces. Places Gertrude has personally cleaned with her particular floor mop include the kitchen, the living room and the bedroom. When cleaning these rooms, the floor mop chiefly figures as a tool for cleaning, because floor mops are in fact designed for such tasks. Floor mops are effective for the ablution of wooden, linoleum and glazed tile floors. Gertrude is presently considering some refurbishment of the bedroom floor, which is wooden. Refurbishment, as a process, differs from everyday cleaning in many significant respects, which means that tools intended for usage in everyday cleaning are sometimes rendered redundant in regard to such ventures. Furthermore, some experts find it advisable to execute sanitary operations before and after – but not during – refurbishings. As such, the utility of floor mops during refurbishment projects appears limited. Floor mop operators, both professional and dilettante, are recommended to confine their activities to more stable environments.

Getrude’s floor mop is a synthetic consumer product, which are commonly artificially created in an industrial setting by a process of mass production in which basic components are refined, prepared or assembled. To fabricate these components a plethora of natural resources – extracted from their respective resource’s natural source – are processed in a process of synthetic processing. This way a number of end products are manufactured, such as refined sugar, benzoyl peroxide and personal computers – end products largely irrelevant for the purposes of this article, as floor mops are principally composed of components other than refined sugar, benzoyl peroxide and personal computers, and are seldom used to clean them. This insight also rings true for Getrude’s floor mop, which belongs to her.

As previously stated, the floor mop is typically used to sanitize domestic and industrial floors, example given: inside household residences and factory buildings. There are many epistemological tools at hand for the inquirer that craves a deeper understanding of floor cleaning within a broader historical context. An individualist perspective would stress the conscientiousness and personal integrity of Getrude as the driving forces behind sparkling clean surfaces. A materialist would instead highlight the means of cleaning, such as a floor mop, and the complex political/economic structures necessary to provide Getrude with this commodity. An eclectic narrative has the potential to combine both these philosophies of understanding, as well as others. Consequently, the eclectic narrative is viewed by many as superior. However, some challenge this view. These detractors often contend that the eclectic narrative is, in fact, inferior. The academic community has yet to reach consensus on this issue.

Although exceptions have occured at particular instances, the scientific community has mainly confined its material on floor mops to practical descriptions of its utility. University activists during the early 2000’s challenged this approach, and extended the subject matter into the fields of literary criticism, astronomy and theology. Interdisciplinary efforts were made to address antecedent inadequacies. One comprehensive study on the cultural impact of floor mops concluded that late 19th – early 20th century classical music largely ignored the issue, while a statistical analysis of commercial music, film and television between 2001-2011 reported scant references to the cleaning tool in popular entertainment. While several explanations have been proposed, scholars remain divided on the root cause of the floor mop’s marginal recognition within media and the arts.

References
Käferstein, 2012: Mop, or: My journey through sexual transcendences
Shivaputra & associates, 1978: Spring cleaning in 5 easy steps
hooks, 1997: Voices of Power

 

Originally written – in another language – sometime in 2013 and published on a kinda grimy hookup site. Translated into English and revised in 2017. Revised and embellished upon today.

 

A POTFUL OF SNOT: the untold tale of terror

“BLAAAAAAAAAARRRGH!” shrieked Bartholomew out of utter revulsion and agony when he laid his eyes upon a potful of snot. The entire household hurried to the bathroom to find out what had caused the commotion.

“What ails you, o Bartholomew, my beloved son?” asked Bartholomew’s mother.

“What ails you, o Bartholomew, my fluent friend?” asked Bartholomew’s brother.

“Glarf?” asked Esta, the dog.

“What ails you, o Bartholomew, my heart’s jewel?” asked Bartholomew’s one true love.

“I’ve found a POTFUL OF SNOT!!!!” explained Bartholomew and pointed at the snot-filled pot.

“BLAAAAAAAAAARRRGH!” shrieked the whole family out of utter revulsion and agony, beholding this chamberpot, which was filled with snot.

“Alas!” lamented Bartholomew’s mother. “What a gruesome fate, to encounter such a phlegmacious artifact in the midst of our happy home.”

“Alas!” lamented Bartholomew’s brother. “As I examine the slugly shimmer of this blasphemous nose-spew, I am overcome with revulsion.”

“Alas!” lamented Bartholomew’s one true love. “As I inhale its musty odors, I am overcome with agony!”

“Glarf!” lamented Esta, the dog, as Bartholomew clung to her in utter despondency, preventing her from approaching the pot and sampling its sinful contents.

Amidst mortified wails, the scandalized family lifted up the gob-sullied vessel and tossed it out the window, straight into the morose drink of Heartbreak River. With grave countenances they held vigil as this abhorrent crucible sank its way to the bottom of the stream.

“We must never speak of it again,” said Bartholomew, and the entire household bitterly concurred. That night, Esta the dog howled by the pale light of the full moon.

Originally written in my native lickadilly and posted on a somewhat saucy hookup site on 2013-05-07. Meticulously translated over the course of a week, as to, to the best of my abilities, preserve its message.

Doomed to live forever in fear

It was a dark and stormy night. Grethilda had just finished her supper, and was trudging through the stables, drearily concluding her evening cow-inspection. The rain clattered, like so many pebbles, upon the stable’s copper-sheet roofing, and Grethilda shuddered, looking forward to the warm and cozy bed that awaited her inside the cottage.

A sudden flash of lightning lit up the murky corridors, revealing to her eyes a phantom shape by the door. It was Harold the Grievous.

“But it cannot be!” exclaimed Grethilda in some alarm. The fearsome rumbling of thunder resounded throughout the stables, arousing the cattle unto mooful agitation.

“I have come for your blood,” wheezed Harold the Grievous and produced an axe. “The moment of vengeance approaches!”

“Uh-oh!” said Grethilda and threw herself out the window. Then she ran, she ran like wind itself, she ran through the stormy woodlands to escape the vengeance of Harold the Grievous. After three days of fugitive locomotion, she arrived at the harbor and purchased a one-way ticket to the faraway realms. As the ships set sail upon sunrise, she watched the shores of her homeland fade into the horizon.

 

But she knew within her heart that she was doomed to live forever in fear.

Originally written in un-Anglic parlance and posted on a decidedly shoddy hookup site on 2013-01-13. Translated into Anglic parlance (and slightly embellished upon) today. Phregoopinated in accordance with current international standards.

 

The Laceration of Chester Wumpherlittle

The kitchen knife rested its sharp edge hesitantly on the firm, golden crust of the baguette, as though unconvinced by the force I was applying onto it. Then, with sudden acuteness the knife glissaded forward – across the entire length of the baguette, then beyond its breadly boundaries, straight towards my hand. In less than a second, the skin of my left index finger had been split into a centimeter-long gash, just by the fingernail.

I was probably too far into shock to feel anything, because my brain registered no pain at all, even though my anatomy had been rended at its very edge. As though in hypnosis, I watched the blood creep out of the wound, spewing like a tidal wave in a canyon of skin. Within moments, an entire third of the fingertip was submerged in my body’s own blood. Somehow, I managed to produce a paper towel from somewhere on the countertop, and make use of its absorbent fibers to abate the gushing outflow of vital fluid. Red against white: lost innocence, lost hope.

The vegetables were neatly minced and arranged on the cutting board, beside the baguette. They had instilled me with seductive promises, promises of savory goodness, but now everything had ended in tragedy and deceit. I remembered the words my parents had whispered to me in my infancy: that the treacherous surface of a baguette’s crust would yield to the serrated blade of a bread knife. Why hadn’t I used the appropriate cutlery? I wept regretfully, tears of a martyr trickling gently down my cheek as I stared incredulously at the fickle knife that had betrayed me at my most vulnerable moment.

Still in my state of trauma, in this stupefying haze, I willed myself to the bathroom, searching desperately for a band-aid. But when I finally found one, I couldn’t even bear to wrap it around my victimized digit – the band-aid would only prove to remind me of the debacle that had befallen me. Deep within my heart of hearts, I was overcome with despair – why me? What had I done to deserve this?

Originally written in my endemic speechmode and published on a rather lewd hookup website on 2013-05-27. Translated and maybe 30 % rewritten/embellished upon/gluflaglimated today.

The somber fate of Ulrich

I light my evening cigarette by the kitchen window, looking down at Dapperstream Street. As usual, it’s void of people, haunted by nothing but crisp autumn leaves and dead magpies. Five months have passed since everything was torn asunder. I ask myself: wherefore?

No matter how deep I dig into my own past, I find no answer. In my studio apartment, hundreds of documents and photographs are scattered across the floor. But the connections I educe from the dates, the diagrams, the faces – they only prove to further confound me.

I know there’s no explanation, I know there’s nothing left to find. Still, I keep on searching.

What I miss most of all was the future laid out before me, the countless possibilities. All the doors that stood open, doors which are now closed, locked – and the keys tossed into a tomb of my own making. I was going to be a railway operator. But now, instead, I stand here by the kitchen window, looking down at Dapperstream Street, living in exile and in squalor, forsaken and forgotten.

The thin line of cigarette smoke sails away on a cool evening’s breeze. I close the kitchen window and head towards the archives for another night of febrile and futile foraging for clues. And yet again, I ask myself: wherefore?

Originally written in my mother tongue and published on an ever so naughty hookup website on 2013-01-15. Translated (and slightly embellished upon) today.

THE DAY I FOUND A HUMAN BRAIN IN MY BASEMENT

My name is Eulalie, and this is my story.

It all started on a perfectly ordinary Thursday in February. The weather: cloudy.
I woke up to the birdsong of winter thrushes and the restless vocalizations of my housecat, Molly. She preferred to have me out of bed by seven o’ clock, and now it was a quarter past that. I yawned sluggishly, my night’s dream of Paris still wavering in my mind. Then it struck me: the interview was today!

I hastily threw myself into an off-white bathrobe and headed down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. First, oatmeal for myself. Nothing fancy, just regular thick-rolled oats, a pinch of cinnamon, and a handful of coconut shreds for variety. Five minutes in the microwave would do, and meanwhile I could placate the housecat’s urgent cravings. Molly stared intently at me as I produced an aluminium tin from the pantry. Her whiskers trembled with anticipation as I opened the tin and the room was filled with the smell of pickled tuna. And that was when everything suddenly got very dark.

The microwave abruptly suspended its harmonious buzzing, the oatmeal inside it quite unfinished. I felt the cortisol surging through my veins: there was no time for a blackout today! The interview, this very important interview that could land me my dream job, was in less than two hours! The drive would take around thirty-five minutes, and I needed to drop off the cat at my neighbor’s before that, and I hadn’t decided on an outfit yet… My stomach growled. I simply had to have breakfast before the interview, or the nausea would ruin everything.

Hopefully, it was just a matter of flipping a switch on the fuse box, down in the basement. I silently thanked myself for cleaning out the cellar last week – getting to that fuse box could have become quite the ordeal if I hadn’t. I’m quite the hoarder, always finding some silly reason to keep stuff I actually don’t need at all, but I have to admit it was rather cathartic to weed through the clutter of old shoes, broken appliances and unopened boxes of regifted ornaments and then unceremoniously dump it all at the landfill.

Anyhow, when I opened the cellardoor I was surprised to be met by light – electric light. What about the blackout? I had passed both the living room and the entrance hall on my way to the basement, and none of those rooms had been lit. Yet the basement was apparently unaffected! And didn’t I always make sure to turn the lights off down there? I was puzzled. Why was the cellar exempt from the blackout?  But there was something different about this light… This wasn’t the sharp, faintly yellow glow of a lightbulb, but a strange form of green glimmer, somehow thicker than regular light. And as I, with some apprehension, walked down the narrow stairway to investigate, I noticed something else: a weird buzzing sound. The microwave? No, this wasn’t the microwave – it was a feeble sound, the sound of a wasp on the other side of a window.

That’s when I saw it for the first time. The big, circular glass tank with a human brain inside it – a huge, pulsating pink brain, writhing about in viscous pale-blue liquid. I shuddered with discomfort. What was this thing doing in my basement? Who had left it here?

I felt something rub against my leg. Considering the situation, I’m not embarrassed to say that I screamed, completely terrified. Looking down, I sighed in relief when I saw the cat gently nudging at me for attention. Then Molly turned her face towards me and gazed directly into my eyes. The strange green light, reflected in her eyes, was almost hypnotic. I had to lean against the wall, my mind starting to unravel. The feeble buzzing intensified into an ominous, almost human-like humming. I could almost feel the sound prickling against my skin. And I suddenly realized what was happening. And I whispered:

“Lucretia – she’s back…”

Originally written in my native language and posted on a family-unfriendly hookup website on 2013-01-10. Translated into English (and more or less rewritten) today. Most certainly not proofread. Vigorously edited, also today.