His outdoor plants had grown admirably, which was nice. His indoor plants..not so much. I’ll give them a bit longer, he thought. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll wake up and they’ll all be touching the ceiling.
He peered down into his mine, which seemed to stretch down into infinity. I’ve probably gone exactly the worst way, he thought. He had visions of his tunnel just missing everything important and interesting thing on the way down, probably beelining for some nest of spiders that would swarm up and paralyze him before he could get away, feeding on him in a gangbang of horror that would last for weeks until mercifuclly, he would run out of blood.
He debated taking his mine in a new direction, but he was a completitionist, and having started going this way, he figured he’d damn well go until he couldn’t go anymore.
But he’d hardly been mining for ten minutes when he came across the tell-tale silvery shimmer of something special. He execavated it, and pried it from the rock. Iron!
A flurry of digging resumed and by the end he’d gotten himself a nice little haul, six or seven little ores in his hand. He bounced up the stairs, whistling, carefree, and tried to think about what, exactly, he was going to do with this stuff.
I really out to make some armor, he thought. Something to keep a creeper from blowing me to bits, or stop an arrow embedding itself in my stomach. Something that could let him go out and night and make the creatures fear him, and not the other way around.
But he listened to a few seconds to the noises around his house, the moaning and scratching and veiled hisses. he didn’t really want to go out. It wasn’t worth it. Nope, he was perfectly content to stay here and play around in his little stone sandbox.
Instead, he made himself some shiny new tools, had some dinner, and went straight back down and kept digging.
Hours later and he stumbled back up. He hadn’t found shit, just a lump of coal here and there and some flint in the gravel pit he’d carefully stumbled through.
It was near sun up, and figuring it was probably safe, he popped outside and boldly strode around the corner to get a look at his plants. Two were done!
With a whoop he raced forward, and cut them down, greedily picking through them to see what they’d give him. From one he got a bushel of wheat, and from the other…more seeds.
Yay.
Well, that was disappointing. Even as he stood there, he watched a sheep come bounding down the hill, and as if he wasn’t there, it started jumping up and down on the plants, killing them.
He watched it for a while, in disbelief, then looked over his wheat bushel. Man, how much work do I gotta do to make you grow? He’d have to put in a proper garden somewhere, with high walls…maybe one down by the water. Maybe he could irrigate it somehow? He wasn’t sure, but he’d figure it in the morning. He gave the sheep a hard knock on the face, driving it away, and forcing it’s wool to explode off of it, leaving it tantalizingly naked. He stared at it, mouth agape, and then turned right around and headed inside.
He almost made it, when freakishly strong, clawed hands dug into his shoulder, breaking the skin. He yelped and twisted around, freeing himself and jumping back.
There was a man here, attacking him! Matheson backed away, hands up entreatingly, as the man let out a low, horrible moan that he recognized all too well.
“ Look, I don’t want to fight!’ He said. “I’ve heard you out here, what do you want? What are you doing?”
The man stopped, and raised his hand, pointing at Matheson. A cloud moved, and moonlight illuminated him for the first time. His flesh was green and sunken, covered with wounds and lesions that should have been bleeding, but long since dried out. His clothes were filthy, when they weren't ripped to shreds, and his fingernails had grown long and sharp, caked with much. That wounds probably infected, he thought, glancing at his shoulder.
‘Brrraaaaaaaainsssssss.” Said the creature, and then resumed shuffling toward him, arms forward, grasping.
You've obviously got no depth perception, Matheson thought, I’m like ten feet away.
But it didn’t matter, the creature still advancing and groping at the air like it’d get him any moment.
Matheson drew his new iron sword, feeling a surge of pride as the blade glinted in the moonlight, and then lunged and drove it straight into the creatures chest.
If the zombie felt it, it didn’t make a noise or stop, or do anything, just kept reaching for him and stumbling forward. He tried to draw the sword out, but it was stuck fast in the zombie’s rotted guts, and he had to abandon it for a few seconds lest he let the thing get a hold of him again.
The zombie stopped, and without taking his eyes off of Matheson’s, reached down, grabbed the sword, and yanked it out. Think green fluids and chunks of organs leaked out of the hole, forming a pile on the ground at the zombies feet.
The zombie raised the sword up, like it was going to advance on Matheson and try and cut him down. Great, he thought, I’m going to get killed by my own sword. But the zombie, after pausing for a second, simply threw the sword to the side and resumed slowly walking forward, arms outstretched.
You’re not so bad at all. This is like keeping a candy bar from a sleepwalking binge-eater. He let the zombie come to him for a bit, then dodged sideways, retrieved his sword, and readied it calmly.
First he sliced off it’s hands, which didn’t phase the zombie one bit. Then he got the left leg, which flew to the side, leaking entrails and filling the air the a sickly, egg-salad like stench. Yet, it continued to hop after him.
H figured this had gone on long enough, and with a roll of his eyes sliced off it’s head, which rolled to the ground and glared at him, jaw working overtime as it tried to move along the ground by opening it’s mouth really fast.
Matheson took a few steps back. The zombie was still coming for him, in pieces, really ineffectually, and the motions were kind of funny (in a pitiful way) but it was also kind of unsettling. What, do I have to burn you, too?
But as he watched, one by one the pieces stopped moving, and turned a dark grey colour, even unhealthier looking then they’d looked before. Then, they poofed out of existence. The head was the last to go, not giving up it’s absurd quest until the last, attempt to growl at Matheson, though it’s lack of vocal chords could only manage a pitiful, painful hiss.
When it vanished, he looked around to make sure nothing else was coming for him, and went inside, in high spirits, but a little shaken.
Continue to the next post.
He peered down into his mine, which seemed to stretch down into infinity. I’ve probably gone exactly the worst way, he thought. He had visions of his tunnel just missing everything important and interesting thing on the way down, probably beelining for some nest of spiders that would swarm up and paralyze him before he could get away, feeding on him in a gangbang of horror that would last for weeks until mercifuclly, he would run out of blood.
He debated taking his mine in a new direction, but he was a completitionist, and having started going this way, he figured he’d damn well go until he couldn’t go anymore.
But he’d hardly been mining for ten minutes when he came across the tell-tale silvery shimmer of something special. He execavated it, and pried it from the rock. Iron!
A flurry of digging resumed and by the end he’d gotten himself a nice little haul, six or seven little ores in his hand. He bounced up the stairs, whistling, carefree, and tried to think about what, exactly, he was going to do with this stuff.
I really out to make some armor, he thought. Something to keep a creeper from blowing me to bits, or stop an arrow embedding itself in my stomach. Something that could let him go out and night and make the creatures fear him, and not the other way around.
But he listened to a few seconds to the noises around his house, the moaning and scratching and veiled hisses. he didn’t really want to go out. It wasn’t worth it. Nope, he was perfectly content to stay here and play around in his little stone sandbox.
Instead, he made himself some shiny new tools, had some dinner, and went straight back down and kept digging.
Hours later and he stumbled back up. He hadn’t found shit, just a lump of coal here and there and some flint in the gravel pit he’d carefully stumbled through.
It was near sun up, and figuring it was probably safe, he popped outside and boldly strode around the corner to get a look at his plants. Two were done!
With a whoop he raced forward, and cut them down, greedily picking through them to see what they’d give him. From one he got a bushel of wheat, and from the other…more seeds.
Yay.
Well, that was disappointing. Even as he stood there, he watched a sheep come bounding down the hill, and as if he wasn’t there, it started jumping up and down on the plants, killing them.
He watched it for a while, in disbelief, then looked over his wheat bushel. Man, how much work do I gotta do to make you grow? He’d have to put in a proper garden somewhere, with high walls…maybe one down by the water. Maybe he could irrigate it somehow? He wasn’t sure, but he’d figure it in the morning. He gave the sheep a hard knock on the face, driving it away, and forcing it’s wool to explode off of it, leaving it tantalizingly naked. He stared at it, mouth agape, and then turned right around and headed inside.
He almost made it, when freakishly strong, clawed hands dug into his shoulder, breaking the skin. He yelped and twisted around, freeing himself and jumping back.
There was a man here, attacking him! Matheson backed away, hands up entreatingly, as the man let out a low, horrible moan that he recognized all too well.
“ Look, I don’t want to fight!’ He said. “I’ve heard you out here, what do you want? What are you doing?”
The man stopped, and raised his hand, pointing at Matheson. A cloud moved, and moonlight illuminated him for the first time. His flesh was green and sunken, covered with wounds and lesions that should have been bleeding, but long since dried out. His clothes were filthy, when they weren't ripped to shreds, and his fingernails had grown long and sharp, caked with much. That wounds probably infected, he thought, glancing at his shoulder.
‘Brrraaaaaaaainsssssss.” Said the creature, and then resumed shuffling toward him, arms forward, grasping.
You've obviously got no depth perception, Matheson thought, I’m like ten feet away.
But it didn’t matter, the creature still advancing and groping at the air like it’d get him any moment.
Matheson drew his new iron sword, feeling a surge of pride as the blade glinted in the moonlight, and then lunged and drove it straight into the creatures chest.
If the zombie felt it, it didn’t make a noise or stop, or do anything, just kept reaching for him and stumbling forward. He tried to draw the sword out, but it was stuck fast in the zombie’s rotted guts, and he had to abandon it for a few seconds lest he let the thing get a hold of him again.
The zombie stopped, and without taking his eyes off of Matheson’s, reached down, grabbed the sword, and yanked it out. Think green fluids and chunks of organs leaked out of the hole, forming a pile on the ground at the zombies feet.
The zombie raised the sword up, like it was going to advance on Matheson and try and cut him down. Great, he thought, I’m going to get killed by my own sword. But the zombie, after pausing for a second, simply threw the sword to the side and resumed slowly walking forward, arms outstretched.
You’re not so bad at all. This is like keeping a candy bar from a sleepwalking binge-eater. He let the zombie come to him for a bit, then dodged sideways, retrieved his sword, and readied it calmly.
First he sliced off it’s hands, which didn’t phase the zombie one bit. Then he got the left leg, which flew to the side, leaking entrails and filling the air the a sickly, egg-salad like stench. Yet, it continued to hop after him.
H figured this had gone on long enough, and with a roll of his eyes sliced off it’s head, which rolled to the ground and glared at him, jaw working overtime as it tried to move along the ground by opening it’s mouth really fast.
Matheson took a few steps back. The zombie was still coming for him, in pieces, really ineffectually, and the motions were kind of funny (in a pitiful way) but it was also kind of unsettling. What, do I have to burn you, too?
But as he watched, one by one the pieces stopped moving, and turned a dark grey colour, even unhealthier looking then they’d looked before. Then, they poofed out of existence. The head was the last to go, not giving up it’s absurd quest until the last, attempt to growl at Matheson, though it’s lack of vocal chords could only manage a pitiful, painful hiss.
When it vanished, he looked around to make sure nothing else was coming for him, and went inside, in high spirits, but a little shaken.
Continue to the next post.
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