Crooked Rambler
02-14-2012, 10:29 PM
Hello! I've posted some of these stories on other sites, but didn't receive much feedback, so I'm hoping I'll get a little help from you guys. Constructive criticism certainly welcome, I want to try and better myself. I don't know if these stories will be your cup of tea, but they will be short (each post will be a single story) and strange. Cheers!
---
Boatman
Well, I was standing on the edge of the dock. There was a few tumbledown houses here and there, but not a single soul. Literally!
The Boatman pulls up in this old boat, obviously, and says “Come on, get in.”
Of course, I oblige, despite his unappreciative tone, and we travel down this black river.
I ask “Where are we going?” He says to me “Are you dim-witted, pilgrim? You're going to a place where the dead are many.”
“Jolly good,” I say. “Jolly good.”
Anyway, we stop off at this other place. Now, this dock is like a battleground; its burning, there's smoke obscuring my view, and there are two soldiers in tattered uniforms standing on the edge. One with bandages around his head and an arm in a sling, the other with a slashed throat.
“Oh dear.” I say.
“Get in.” The Boatman barks, covering his face with that overhanging hood. He says this in an uncivil manner, more so than he did with me!
The slashed man croaks. Not again, of course! I simply mean the sound. The other says nothing and they both clamber in, rocking the boat unsteadily.
“Careful, chaps!” I say as I almost dip my hand into the dark waters. It scared me for some reason.
They sit behind me, and I ask the Boatman “What happened to those two?”
“They tried to kill one another during battle.” He said, pushing the boat away from the dock and onwards.
“Well, isn't that the point of war?” I chuckle, quite amused.
“No.” He replies sharply. “These men were on the same side.”
“Oh.” I say, and I turn behind me to look at the men, tutting. I even shake my finger at them. The one with the slashed throat just smiles.
“Hmm.” I ponder, and return my view to the back of the Boatman's robes. “Why did he smile at me?”
“Its because he knows.”
“Knows what, exactly?” I ask, clearly confused.
“Silence.” He hisses, and then I don't feel like talking for a while.
After this time, we arrive at another dock. This one looks very queer: the dock is made of metal, and the tumbledown hovels aren't tumbledown hovels at all! They're built straight and tall, with multicoloured stone. A man stands on the edge, wearing a smart, black jacket and white shirt.
I whistle, signifying that I'm impressed. “What'd he do, Boatman?”
“He did something you wouldn't understand.”
Trying not to be insulted, I ask another question.
“Why does he come from such a strange place?”
“It's beyond your time, pilgrim.”
The man steps onto the boat with no need for instruction, and sits in front of me. This annoyed me, as I couldn't see the Boatman properly.
“Excuse me,” I say to him, tapping his shoulder. “Would you mind moving over slightly?”
“**** off, ****-face.” He replies, without even looking at me! I swallow my pride and remain silent.
Eventually, we reach our stop. The two soldiers and the smart-looking foul-mouthed man get off and step onto the dull sand. They walk away towards a tall, very pleasant-on-the-eye building, so I try to follow.
Well, this Boatman stops me, saying “Sit down.”
“Why? I can't stay with you all day!” I answer, slightly amused, but not as amused as I was previously.
“Do you remember that child? Do you remember Misty?”
The colour drains from my face as I look into the black of his hood.
My stop wasn't for a while yet, but I had all of eternity to endure it once I was there.
God help me.
---
Boatman
Well, I was standing on the edge of the dock. There was a few tumbledown houses here and there, but not a single soul. Literally!
The Boatman pulls up in this old boat, obviously, and says “Come on, get in.”
Of course, I oblige, despite his unappreciative tone, and we travel down this black river.
I ask “Where are we going?” He says to me “Are you dim-witted, pilgrim? You're going to a place where the dead are many.”
“Jolly good,” I say. “Jolly good.”
Anyway, we stop off at this other place. Now, this dock is like a battleground; its burning, there's smoke obscuring my view, and there are two soldiers in tattered uniforms standing on the edge. One with bandages around his head and an arm in a sling, the other with a slashed throat.
“Oh dear.” I say.
“Get in.” The Boatman barks, covering his face with that overhanging hood. He says this in an uncivil manner, more so than he did with me!
The slashed man croaks. Not again, of course! I simply mean the sound. The other says nothing and they both clamber in, rocking the boat unsteadily.
“Careful, chaps!” I say as I almost dip my hand into the dark waters. It scared me for some reason.
They sit behind me, and I ask the Boatman “What happened to those two?”
“They tried to kill one another during battle.” He said, pushing the boat away from the dock and onwards.
“Well, isn't that the point of war?” I chuckle, quite amused.
“No.” He replies sharply. “These men were on the same side.”
“Oh.” I say, and I turn behind me to look at the men, tutting. I even shake my finger at them. The one with the slashed throat just smiles.
“Hmm.” I ponder, and return my view to the back of the Boatman's robes. “Why did he smile at me?”
“Its because he knows.”
“Knows what, exactly?” I ask, clearly confused.
“Silence.” He hisses, and then I don't feel like talking for a while.
After this time, we arrive at another dock. This one looks very queer: the dock is made of metal, and the tumbledown hovels aren't tumbledown hovels at all! They're built straight and tall, with multicoloured stone. A man stands on the edge, wearing a smart, black jacket and white shirt.
I whistle, signifying that I'm impressed. “What'd he do, Boatman?”
“He did something you wouldn't understand.”
Trying not to be insulted, I ask another question.
“Why does he come from such a strange place?”
“It's beyond your time, pilgrim.”
The man steps onto the boat with no need for instruction, and sits in front of me. This annoyed me, as I couldn't see the Boatman properly.
“Excuse me,” I say to him, tapping his shoulder. “Would you mind moving over slightly?”
“**** off, ****-face.” He replies, without even looking at me! I swallow my pride and remain silent.
Eventually, we reach our stop. The two soldiers and the smart-looking foul-mouthed man get off and step onto the dull sand. They walk away towards a tall, very pleasant-on-the-eye building, so I try to follow.
Well, this Boatman stops me, saying “Sit down.”
“Why? I can't stay with you all day!” I answer, slightly amused, but not as amused as I was previously.
“Do you remember that child? Do you remember Misty?”
The colour drains from my face as I look into the black of his hood.
My stop wasn't for a while yet, but I had all of eternity to endure it once I was there.
God help me.