Brains

My brain fails. I had an idea for a blog I wanted to do, but I forgot it. Soooo... Imma do something else instead.

Me and my friend are playing this game where we get a random story prompt from this website and then just write a short story to it real quick. Then we compare what we ended up with. This is the first one, and it's from last night. At like 1 am. The idea of the game is to just spit out whatever comes. No editing, except for like fixing a small typo or whatever. And no extensive thinking and brainstorming. Just start writing, and that's it.

I thought it was fun and kind of cool. But by no means is this like Newberry award winning or anything. Don't judge me.

This is the story idea from the generator:

8-24-2010 The theme of this story: noir horror. The main characters: pious smuggler and courageous martial artist. The start of the story: delusion. The end of the story: conspiracy.

And this is the story:

The mist wafted through the yard, causing the temperature to drop. It was a full moon. He hated that. His job was bad enough without fearing the supernatural. Not for the first time, he questioned his occupation. Tomorrow he would sit in the box wondering what to confess to the priest, just as he did every time he had a job. But he knew that, in the end, he wouldn’t mention this. He never did.

The shovel hit something, and he realized that he had been digging for much longer than he had thought. He cleared the dirt away from the pine boards, and fastened the ropes. The next bit was always the hardest. If he had an assistant everything would be so much faster, and he could get out of there. But he didn’t dare tell anyone how he made his money.

Not that it was wrong. He was working for the good of many people. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. He felt that his conscience was clear, but there was always a nagging sense of guilt. Just the tiniest uncertainty, hanging in the back of his mind like a cobweb.

No, he thought. He needed the money. And they needed the parts. The students couldn’t learn as well without them. And this one would be especially useful. It was very fresh. The dirt hadn’t even settled yet.

Sweating and covered in grime, he climbed from the hole and heaved on the ropes. Heavy. Heavier than usual. This one must have been big. All the better. He could charge more.

An owl hooted and startled him. He nearly let go of the ropes, but caught them just in time. Just an owl. Nothing scary. Nothing unusual. He kept at it until the box was clear of the hole. Then he tied the ropes off, and reached out to pull the thing over to the solid ground. It really was much heavier than usual.

He turned away quickly. He didn’t like to look at those things too long. It started to give him ideas. She shook off a shudder, and started for the cart. A sudden loud crack rang through the empty grounds. He froze, pulse racing so fast that it pounded in his ears.

It was a full minute before he dared to move. After such a long silence, he wasn’t quite sure he had actually heard anything. His mind was probably playing tricks with him. It often did at the full moon. Summoning his courage, he took another step for the cart. The horse whinnied nervously, and stamped a foot.

He backed the cart toward the hole. He didn’t want to handle the thing any more than he had to. He suppressed another shudder and patted the horse on the neck to calm him. He took a deep breath before walking around to the back of the cart.

His stomach lurched, and felt as though he had just swallowed a bucketful of lead. The box was right where he had left it, but there was a wide crack running the entire length of the lid. His knees started to shake. It was only his imagination. Only imagination. The full moon was making him see things that weren’t there.

Slowly he stepped toward it, intending the raise it to the back of the cart with the ropes. He took tiny steps, all the while avoiding the sight of the cracked lid. As much as he was terrified of it, he couldn’t keep his eyes from sliding back.

He bent down to untie the ropes, preparing himself to lift the weight once again. He gave a mighty heave, and the box flew into the air. The lightness shocked him and he let go, causing the pine planking to slam into the ground. The lid was on the ground nearby. The box was completely empty.

He backed into the tree, hyperventilating and muttering at the same time. More mist swirled around him, chilling him to the bone. He closed his eyes and opened them again, hoping to wake up. But the box was still empty.

He couldn’t get any air. His lungs wouldn’t let him breathe. A shadow flew past in the mist. He screamed and dropped to his knees. He grabbed his crucifix and held it tight. Leave me alone. Leave me alone.

A form appeared in front of him, looking like an acrobat. It flipped and leaped past the headstones, coming right for him. He couldn’t look. He bent double, crying harder than he ever had. Never again. He would never come here again. He would spend days in the chapel. He would tell the priest everything.

“Don’t hurt me!” He whimpered in a high pitched voice, while covering his head with his hands.

Cold metal closed around his wrists. He knew he was done for. This was the end. He would never get a chance to live past thirty.

“I won’t.” Said a voice, made ethereal by the cold, wet night. “If you confess.”

“Anything.” He squeaked.

Lights flooded the area as torches flared to life. Lanterns were uncovered, and pistols were cocked. Glancing up, he saw a ring of policemen advancing on him. He found his wrists to be handcuffed. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that he was under arrest. He knew that this had been an elaborate trap, set just for him. But he was too terrified to care.

The dark, shadowy figure slipped away into the night, unnoticed by anyone but him.