#and the holy spirit is patrick stump | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pkmntrainergreyze · 6 years ago

Text

April 27th (Patrick Stump Imagine)

For mah boi Patrick, happy April 27.

---------------------------

This particular concert popped Patrick's bubble of personal tranquility. Not because it was timed exactly at his date of birth, rather, it's the guests who came.

Concerts usually put Patrick into a calm state. First, people wondered how he managed to do so, but the longer fans watch his shows, the more they realized how he seems to pretend the crowd's an unanimated flower meadow.

It wasn't a shocker. He admitted to having a twinge of stage fright at the beginning which best explains why Pete's the frontman. He rarely let the crowd sing for themselves, entertain their requests and most importantly he never once prolonged a two-second eye contact. Of course, the critics weren't pleased but there was only little the band could do to help since improvement depends on the person himself. So the three allowed the blonde to perform interaction-less for three albums.

April 27th is a date for one of their shows. Everyone on stage was splotched with heavy sweat, most of which glossed their faces and pricked their eyes. Good thing they considered it not a hindrance for the fifth song on the setlist: Sugar, We're Going Down...

Andy initiated the song using his beats, soon followed Pete then Joe. While they busied hyping the crowd Patrick stomped his feet and clapped his hands.

"...Am I more than you bargained for yet?"

His voice resonated inside the venue like it was his for the taking. The crowd cheered and flopped their arms up in the air, allowing themselves to be conquered by the music, but the blue-eyed man dared not to stare at the wondrous effects of his actions. Strange how the voice of the king belonged to a shy guy.

The opposite was said for one of the audience, (Y/n) (L/n). She only discovered them a month ago after her best friend handpicked a record. The cover only depicted four men sitting down but she opted it had an ineffable aura and bought it.

Although she's a recent fan, that didn't stop her from screeching and flailing around nonstop. When she heard the transition for Sugar she immediately shook her friend Brendon's shoulder into a smoothie. Fortunately, before the brunette could mutter a glimpse of a complaint, Patrick sang the first line and began seizing like her.

If it wasn't obvious, (Y/n) couldn't take her eyes off the lead singer, and it's not because singers are placed in the middle. She's scared to admit, but the reason she bought the record is that his seafoam eyes drowned her in.

Sadly, those ocean orbs never stared back to anyone.

As the song reached its last chorus, the crowd got predominantly louder. At first (Y/n) thought it was because Pete licked his bass, but it was for a different reason.

Let's be honest, it wasn't her fault she didn't know. But it sure felt embarrassing as hell, seeing banners and face cutouts for Patrick's birthday.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY PATRICK!!" The front row yelled spontaneously, then the lower box, upper, until it reached gen ad. The masses displayed all their love and affection, so Patrick couldn't help but smile and shrug sheepishly. He appreciates the gesture, unlike Pete however, he doesn't know how to act in this situation.

On the other hand, (Y/n) looked at her friend in disappointment, as if saying they could've made something for him like the others. It's a good thing that instead of moping, they'd rather scream their love from the top of their lungs in unison, and they decided it was the right time to do so when the noise was about to settle down.

"I LOVE YOU!!"

Patrick flinched so hard it nearly cost him a neck fracture. That voice was so familiar it blocked out all others. When he found what might be the source of the yell, time halted.

The stunning hair and soul-penetrating eyes definitely brought more life to such an exquisite sound. She flooded Patrick with both pleasure and sadness at once. He was almost sure it'll leave a bitter aftertaste.

She looks much like (N/n).

(N/n) was Patrick's biggest love whom he admired at school. She had his heart ever since she helped him create a sand castle back in kindergarten and nurtured his feelings as time flew by. Everyone knew this except the girl herself, which made things a bit more complicated. His feelings were so strong to the point it's used for blackmail. It's a shameful example but when he was at the age of nine he still drank milk from a sippy cup. He wouldn't budge and none of his parent's attempts worked until they threatened him that they'll snitch and tell (N/n). He stopped in fear of lowering the way she thought of him after. When he told the story, the band laughed. Even Andy, who's usually empathetic, wheezed and labeled him a lovesick idiot.

Fate, however, made things worse as he had to move places and leave both Chicago and her alone. But his feelings for her never faltered, in fact, it proved the saying absence makes the heart grow fonder. His devotion earned him some snarky remark and failed blind dates. He just couldn't help but compare them to the one everytime. Good thing his bandmates respected his decision to take a break from dating.

Now, nearly a decade later they locked eyes, making (Y/n) the first audience Patrick truly acknowledged and wished to impress.

His breath hitched and hers did too. Holy Smokes he was nervous.

A strange aura connected them the minute she got a clear picture of his face. She was puzzled instantly, she couldn't differentiate whether it's oh nostalgia or she's just starstruck-ed.

It didn't matter at the moment, because they've been snared by each other's eyes.

Oh God Patrick! Breathe in, breathe out!

Joe was the first one who caught up, having to nudge him back to reality and Brendon had to check (Y/n) if she needed water.

"Hey (Y/n), dude you okay?" He asked causing her to cackle "I-I literally made eye contact with Patrick Stump how am I fine??"

He chuckled "Good point"

He looked back on stage and caught a glimpse of Patrick staring at his friend before quickly turning away "Man, this guy gets the best surprise parties. Meanwhile I didn't even got a fanfic written for my birthday"

(a/n: sorry bren)

For the rest of the concert, the lead couldn't take his eyes off of her, at least he tried for three songs before he completely lost control. She's simply irresistible. And, breathtaking. Literally

But she's also accompanied by an equally handsome boy. The fact tempered his spirits, especially when the stranger wrapped his arm around her. Why wasn't it him instead?

Oh, because he had to move out.

By the end of the show, Patrick had been dead set on finding the "(N/n) lookalike" and dashed to the exit before anyone else.

He coasted through the group of fans. Once he was in an acceptable distance to yell her name, he was dogged tired.

Brendon inserted his car keys and (Y/n) placed her head against the Chevrolet's window with both eyes closed.

"(N/n)!!"

She looked up and the two gawked as they saw Patrick Stumph waltz towards them.

She furrowed her eyebrows, tired and dazed. His speaking voice is as angelic as his singing voice.

"How did you know my name?" She asked sedately, unlike on the inside, she's screaming questions like the aforementioned and some about how unpredictably calm she is 4ft away from him.

He smiled sadly.

"I... just heard it from when you were talking earlier— not that I eavesdropped I just happen to walk by!... Umm, God, I sound like a creep"

She giggled and his heart surged up his throat. She didn't expect a conversation with one of the band members would be so calm, especially seeing how wild they perform, and he didn't expect her not to "remember" him either. So in his logic, it's kind of a tie.

"Happy birthday by the way" She greeted. Patrick grinned and tipped his hat "Thanks"

"Is there anything we can help you with?" Her friend asked.

"Yeah" The blonde nodded his head "D-Do you guys wanna come with us in (restaurant name)? We're celebrating my birthday there since it's been a while since I been in Chicago and thought the more the merrier..."

'Really Patrick? That's your excuse?' He shrugged off his internal monologue

Although (Y/n) is sick of eating pizza daily in that place she couldn't help but accept the second he invited her.

He glanced up "Your boyfriend can come too if you'd like"

The boy laughs "Sure, but I'm not her boyfriend. My name's Brendon,"

He shook his hand and gave a genuine smile. Patrick wanted to do a victory dance on the spot so bad

"Great!" Patrick clapped. "Not great as in you're-not-in-a-relationship great. The I'm-glad-you-guys are coming great, I mean" he flushed

Brendon raised an eyebrow but laughed anyway.

"We'll pick you guys at 7" Patrick muttered and left. The time was 6:44 so they have to wait for about 6 minutes.

The two friends leaned on the van, left alone. It was silent for a while before her friend began to talk.

"When was the last time people called you (N/n)? I haven't heard anyone called you that at all..."

"They use to back in high school, but only people who are super close to me get to say that without getting kicked where the sun don't shine"

"So that means...?"

She sighed and finger combed her hair.

"He was the one that got away"

58 notes · View notes

alchemisland · 5 years ago

Text

Moors Mutt IV - Old Stone

Lar had set plates of milk and egg on the exterior ledge in tribute to the fae folk said to inhabit the ancient mounds. Ah, how rugged tradition. Despite innumerable era-defining events happening daily across the world, for the village of Sperrin it was just another day when the sun rose and, with luck, set again in the evening. They hadn't time for dullards in tailed suits dictating tastes, but they had still team to tend the interspecies relations their ancestors cherished. By all accounts I have heard, to spurn the giving of tributes and gifts incurs great penalty from these entities, with many a workman rising with thorns in his bed after rooting out on the old Hawthorns, which are so revered entire networks and key routeways, which I say should serve to modernise this place a bit, are diverted from their course to leave the old fairy trees in peace. Even now I puzzle at this strange practice, at the contrast between past and present evident in all things once you leave the big cities. The fae, I have since learned, are a race of otherworldy beings driven beneath the furrows as the plague of mankind spread; its boils gaping swordwounds, its pus the belch of industry, and always fatal. Thackeray's 'Sketchbook 1842' spake thusly on the practice; "Crude as their barn religion seems to the imperial beholder, there is yet intricacy in this practices and archaic wisdom therein. If a faith's claim to true institutional status is the number of adherents, there are more worshippers in these bog towns, who bear saints names, than ever had Patrick driven toward the tide." Thackeray made no mention of an egg dish though.

A scarred moggy had the scent hot on his nostrils, thought he what fine folks we to leave a sup for me. I watched him furtively take the decking and slink toward the dish. First he tapped the rim to glean what consequence he might incur, but seeing the clear craned and began to lap its contents delightedly, soaking its whiskers. Fergus thundered out the door, beelining towards the cat which he had spied through the window. He lifted a knee with all grace of rusted Talos and swung the appendage toward the hissing feline. Bold, but not careless, the moggy bailed, zipping from sight before Fergus' hobnail hit. I supposed it a tad overreactive, but when one considers the fae as a true belief system, that cat was essentially gobbling up our good faith, and I thought with another opportunity I'd have done the same.

Lar seemed smaller inside. The barframe served to deemphasize his ample stature, a kingly six foot one stood stock straight; more kingdom keep than tavern keep, and a fur mantle he wore most Heraclean. He took great stomping strides, as in a childhood tale my mother fireside imparted of a giant who wore seven league boots. His ever-bailed fists hung like cudgels by his side, two loyal hounds never stumped for purpose. In his great shadow, one felt a gratitude for civilisation; a concept voluntary for men like Lar. Every second a short man, like me, spent not being torn limb from limb by a man like him was a second lived by his decree.

I swanned to his side, eager for revelation, suddenly taken by the spirit of adventure. Not quite the long walk to the docks before an age on the high seas, for indeed the only thing Sperrin had to resemble the rippling sails of farbound triremes were the sad slanted fabric roofs in the central square still hanging from the Christmas Market, but it was no less a proud moment and a little death; the death of office and oath, of duty, of tedium; for that day I was no longer a swaddled urbanite, good only for council meetings and book reviews, I was reborn in renown; I set off toward the unknown with all the zeal of a whorebound sailor, as of old heroes had.

'Lar, a moment if I could. In the house yesterday I found a bill of sale for an old church somewhere in the demesne. Do you know it?' I asked.

'Know it? Took my first communion there. As did he.' Lar nodded toward Fergus who jostled delightedly, pulling the second of three bags across his vast flank. 'Everyone did. Before she got her toxic claws in.'

'You're joking? I didn't think to ask last night, I thought you wouldn't be interested. This is most fortuitous. Oh, lash me for assuming. What age were you when it closed?'

'After first Communion.' Lar said, concealing his question.

'I'm not Roman Catholic. Happy? My father was a man of intense private faith. Very distrustful of institutions. He encouraged us, and others, to think for ourselves, not to puzzle overmuch the mysteries of man's making.'

'That explains a lot.' said Lar, papist to the root.

'I'm no heathen.' I exhaled my irriation. 'I know my bible well as any bishop; better even. My father wanted to join the priesthood, alas it was not to be. A noble ambition, even unfulfilled. Does that satisfy your piety?'

'What stopped him?' said Lar, unsatisfied. I saw glinting around his neck a pendant freshly clad, its chain lightly linked, an effigy of holy Saint Anthony sun-crowned acentre against a gold rondure.

I shrugged my shoulders. 'Insitutions? He didn't talk about it. So enlighten me if you will; what age is Communion? Twelve - or is that Consternation?'

'It's Confirmation.' Lar spat through gritted teeth. 'Communion is the unleavened bread. Usually the ceremony takes place when the child is seven or eight.'

'Right. And Lady Sizemore, you would not deny she was a woman of means?'

Lar scoffed, loosening phlegm. 'I would not.'

'I had presumed so. Her estate is vast, her house lavish, its contents irreplaceable, its memories priceless, but she was not ostentatious in herself. Lar, I know we're out for the beast and don't worry, I still intend keeping up with the thing, but my heart is really set on figuring this church business. See, I have had cause to see her financial records, public and private. Aside from maintenance costs and the occasional queenly feast, she seemed positively a pincher of pennys, a scrimper.' When our eyes met Lar squinted suspiciously, waiting for more. 'I mean to say Lady Sizemore seemed modest despite her earnings, yet enormous costs were incurred purchasing the church and moving the cairn. I want to know why it's so special.'

'You'll soon find out. Where do you think we're going?'

'Truly? An angel. Art thou an angel? Thou art, truly. Who else so cherubim in cheek and lobe!' I nearly clicked my heels. 'How serendipitous I should inquire. Let me ask another question; what's there now?' We had slowed, each of us, in anticipation of local colour. If trips to the outdoors had purpose, twas this, tramping blind and giving life to what has passed, and perhaps in gratitude, if a higher place exists than this, the dead will bid us good fortune.

'Nothing much anymore. There's been a church on that ground since before any Bishop in Rome ever lied. The first Christians arrived, little more than farmers, armed with twisted staves. Stone by stone they built a temple for their desert god, refuse from the cold of the islands. The Gods of ancient Albion were not of the sun, blithe were they to effulgence. Came they from beneath the clod. Slithered out from eel bores and swam the narrow estuaries like boneless longships. Worshippers twisted as their idols took every chance to spurn the advances of the interlopers, but such savagery cannot be upheld. Hate is not enough. Hate is the infernal speed, the thud of knuckles, the thunder at the antler crash of rutting stags, but it is a fickle thing, a false security, sapping and parasitic. By generations, these savage men became curious. They had killed so many, sundered their doings and mocked their skygod, yet still the missionaries adhered his tenets. Perhaps, they thought, this God is some powerful thing. And with that, the spell of the old ways was broken. Already as the tribesmen made their first ginger steps up the slopes, the slopes we ourselves will ascend, the suckered whips and shadowed protrusions of the old ones retracted to the otherworld, down into the deep dells and dark delvings and the dwindling darks of earth. Came they curious and unarmed, bid the missionaries impart this wisdom worth dying for. This site was not alone chosen for its useful vantage and strategic defensive position. The arriving zealots had observed natives worshipping standing stones, more ancient than the predeluvian cultures of hyborea and Tartaria. Such megaliths were known to hold great arcane power. The priests need only convince the tribes that power was theirs, a demonstration of their gospels infallibility, done easily within a generation. Priests controlled education, taste, oversaw cultural changes, discarded blasphemous and mysterious rites. Soon the brood knew nothing of the traditions held by their forebears. An epoch of strife began.'

'Ah. So the priests came, withstood the assault and incorporated existing idols into their own pantheon? How cunning, deceitful and a tragedy I should say too.'

'All-seeing though their God was, people will always do as they please. The old ways survive unchanged, even to this day the older townsfolk meet for the mysteries. When Fergus and I were bairns enormous crowds travelled from far afield to celebrate the imbolc, until she rooted out the cairn and left the church to rack and ruin. It shouldn't have been allowed.' Lar nodded, the ire of its sundering still upon him fresh, running like new fire in his veins and I saw with each clumping step he drove the point of his boot into the soft ground, like a knight's lance in a fallen pikeman's back, spending his annoyance in this manner.

When I saw his shoulders raise with tension lifted and gait restored, I probed further. 'Do you know the priest?'

'Er - yes. Tarbuck I think his name was.'

'What about Talbot - as in Talbot Church?'

Lar raised a suspicious brow, like a furtive otter arching from the swell, they were thin, brown and sleek, I'd say manicured if I didn't know him better, but I suppose I did not know him well at all. His mouth began to turn and I watched him, trying to clear my mind in anticipation of inquest. At last he spoke most considered, rising to be heard over Fergus' hyucking. 'Yes I suppose that sounds right. Talbot. Couldn't tell you more. Why are you asking if you already know? If I didn't know better, I'd say you're withholding information, partner.'

'You wouldn't believe me if I told you.' What could I tell him? That I had seen a faceless priest with mucky vestments out for a midnight walk? Where did I see him? Funny you should ask, in bed. In bed? Well, yes. I was in bed, but my mind was to the church called be the peal of silent bells. No, it was best to withhold until I knew more, and still all this time there was the beast, presumably furious at having been picked second.

I was met with silence. More space came between us. Knowing Lar and Fergus would soon disappear from sight, I was forced to shout over the wind, 'Why did she move the Cairn?'

Lar shrugged again. True to his word, he could not tell more than that. 'Winter.'

I had thought much since waking from the dream, about the church and lady Sizemore, about the familiar priest and the sympathetic plight implied in his step and dimmed blue eyes. I had forgotten much of the dream's stark imagery. Only this impression of the man burying his secrets and his spade daubed in clay remained. I found most curious the cairn's relocation. Lar had not seemed confident imparting the reason for its transfer, that Lady Sizemore was told the house wouldn't stand another winter despite having done so two hundred years; to me, that seemed a spurious motive and something worth inquiry.

Dawnflame pulsed in seductive ruby, splintering to a prism that dazzled in its royal array, from bold scarlet to princely vermilion, and in that sanguine bank we found hopeful portent. Other larks stirred from roadside redoubts to wave passage. Husbandmen mostly, any whose labours were bound to the rueful star's whim. Breaking from the road we made for pasture, cutting due Northwest across the plain. Dawn's jewels, stars of morning which are night's silver sisters, sundered underfoot, brittle things past season returning to aether.

Lar and Fergus scouted ahead, rudely parading superior vigour. They whispered among themselves. Fifty years old the pair of them, they still moved like Herne the hunter through all terrains. Fergus gave credence to the theory empty vessels howl loudest, guffawing at every ribaldry Lar conjured from the sewer he called a brain. With spare breath I might have cursed them, but my fury came a decliate whisper, peeling like nighttime bells; loudly and to no one. I wished barren the bellies of the sows that held them.

Ego as engine, for a furious mile I kept pace, propelled solely by a need for petty victory. Predictably, for those bones had long been cast, I quickly slowed back to a sad trudge, slower than my previous languid pace.

Themselves ramblers taking long walks for leisure, Lar and Fergus waited at each fence feigning to check their watches, teasing with so many rests between arrivals a man might never tire. Gladly I obliged, quipping Aesop's lessons were lost to them. What else had I but meek agreement. Nod and smile, chaste to make a Roman wife blush, icily injecting scorn where possible unnoticed.

At length the naked path yielded to thick woodland more typical of the region. We pushed through the system of unbowed oaks, which cast snake haired shadows where light could penetrate. Further the branches enclosed to a dome, stealing our brave shadows. Little rest we took in the maze's darkest sectors. Badger, fox and mole strode brazen, unfamiliar and unafraid. At the helm, Lar thought himself Alexander in Hanyson, immortal thirst his guiding star. I remembered how ended that tale.

How hard it seemed rising after only a moment stilled. How quickly a hard-earned graceful step replaced by rhythmless clomping. It was not until several minutes treading passed that semblance of form returned, and soon after, the next reluctant stop, the mossy bank where last we halted still visible shortly behind.

For a time there was sun. Golden fire, faint and pale beyond a tattered veil. The aperture seized before our eyes until only A crescent of light remained, the golden torc of Ulaid.

This terse land existed long before man's dominion and would reign unchanged in the wake of our expiry. Here she gave no quarter. Gaia dressed for war in all her plate. All twisted briar and stinging barbs, long tunnels of night giving to treacherous muddy groves where a man might be taken by the bog and the old things therein.

'Where in jezebel's saucehole are we?" I planted myself. Thought I of Ephialtes leading Persians through the pass, cursed by the gods to wear his inner treachery outwardly.

Fergus deferred to Lar's judgement. Solomon-like, Lar waved our wagons halted. He tossed the empty skins to Fergus. 'Fill these' he said, miming drinking.

While the Giant fetched pales Lar prodded the scant briar. 'Say Lar.' He bid me sit upon a raised bank.

'You look like shit.'

'Not so bad yourself' I wheezed. 'Truly do we have to go so fast? Is it so far we can't mosey, even just for a mile? I've done walking but this is hoplite stuff.'

'Deal.' Lar wanted to sit but he didn't. He stood, knees taxed, breath compromised, but he stood. Nothing to prove and still at attention. One could not deny his character.

We watched Fergus' return, arms extended like some horror out of Jotunheim. Wet cloth clung to his forearms like setting plaster, arousing suspicions he had endured some minor aquatic tragedy. My dry mouth prevented inquiry. I snatched the skin and quaffed generously, muttering thanks. Quite unsympathetically, I had to force myself not to ask 'Water we going to do now?' or comment that it was growing colder the further we went up, in fact 'ri-very cold.'

I produced a flask. Cursed with muteness, Fergus could not explain what manner of calamity had befallen him. Louder his teeth clacked. A mirror pool formed about his feet, spreading wider until he stood aft a glass plinth. I offered a lash. The whiskey shot fire through his veins. His eyes bulged as the water of life reignited the dampened kindling of his passions.

Lar, hitherto predisposed with watering of a different sort, emerged fastening his trousers and immediately noted something awry. He lifted his chin an inch, gave us the once over and bounded towards Fergus. He took a clump of wet tweed and squeezed until it wept through his clenched fist. 'Christ. What happened?'

Lar claimed little of Fergus remained. A friendly shade of what once he was. He assured me what others perceived as emotion was mere instinct. Nerves and twitches, mimicked gestures. Still I swore he had recognised his own foolishness at having fallen into the stream. How shyly he stared to his feet, if only for one moment of divine clarity.

Lar was concerned about Fergus' garments. Wet clothes would spell disaster for the burgeoning expedition. I offered my scarf. Lar followed suit. Like a freed condemned, he slipped the coarse rag from around his own neck. Flattened parallel, they formed a hugging shawl around his sodden shoulders. Gently, by degrees, we warmed Fergus. He took another swig from the flask. In his gargantuan hands, fingers like rolling pins splayed across its scratched surface, the flask appeared little more than a doll's trinket.

Upon imbibing the second drop, revelling its minor anaesthetic quality, his cheeks flashed pink, rouge to blush a whore. When great cities crumbled and ancient wisdoms were lost, when mankind regressed to a baser form, bestial and philistine, beloved of ignorance, the denizens of ancient Ireland had brewed this potent potable, and on its warmth resisted the great debasement. Fire exhumed ice in his veins. The fire of life; the fire of the elixir I had given him, which of old the anointed ones consumed seeking arcane knowledge, devolving their mind to its primal state, therein discovering secrets lost to time.

Ahead the vanguard, Lar spied him first. A shambling form moving quick through the trees. With a limp wave he halted us. Behind we mimed his stoop. On haunches he held the order with a trembling hand, for which we never blamed him. Everyone had reached the same conclusion; the beast was upon us. We had wished without proper consideration. Now our twisted desire was made flesh. From the underworld the beast reeking of acrid smoke had clawed, toxic miasma from the foundries of hell in heady tendrils about its paws.

Gradually the amorphous form revealed contours most corporeal; those of an older man, sweeping towards us at a markedly unsupernatural pace. He moved furtively, shoulders raised to his ears protectively, eyes deep set and impatient. Closer he came until he stood before us on the crest of a mossy embankment. He stood still for address, unsure if we were brigands, bounty hunters or worse. He cast a long glance over each of us in turn, tracing our brows, testing the mettle behind our eyes, down the chest to the navel, to our stained feet and upward again. He shoved a letter into his pocket and I saw on his ringfinger he wore an enormous golden signet, though I could not discern any detail in the dimness.

With his green gillet stained polkadot and wild sideburns adjoining beard and hair, he appeared more victorian eccentric than hiker. I soon learned that his name was Dalliard, a local with roots deeper than those from which his wiry gruaig sprang, a mad albino nest atop his wisened head. He spoke with a thick lilt, a strange medley of gaelic and slang, almost saxon sounding if I didn't know the name Dalliard wasn't Northon. He was assuredly a kill-your-son-and-live-with-your-wife-in silence-for-twenty-years-over-the-lend-of-a-spade type.

Beneath his snowy bristles lay zit red cheeks. I imagined his mouth when it moved as a bubbling postule, his tongue glorious pus emerging like a curious worm's head. As he elbowed past I caught his eye, or rather disturbed him rudely staring. Next I wondered whether the creases on his brow were newly formed, ever present or mere projections of my exhausted, possibly delirious state. No, unmistakably this Dalliard recognised me. Something he saw worried him. Probably some pervert up to no good in the old churchyard, worried we would stumble upon his vile derelictions. Perhaps some looter of antiquities, wondering if I'm here for the same. All this passed in a moment, soon he was long passed and speaking overshoulder.

'Up ahead' he panted, mopping his brow with an overworked handkerchief, 'it levels out. Push on. No more'n a mile. If the kirkyard is left, you've got it. If it steepens again, ye've strayed.'

'The light fades quick. Careful on your way. Don't dally.' Lar called after sardonically.

Emboldened by closeness we came on fast to devour the remaining track, leaping from ledge to mossy shelf with educated precision like trained fleas. How quickly one became accustomed to difficulty; it was not hard to see how we proliferated across every inch of the globe, until even the secret and sacred places of the world were sullied by our refuse; their tranquility strangled by our inanities. Without fire to christen me, mine had been a baptism by stone. Keeping in pace, I turned to Lar and Fergus. 'Know that Dalliard chap well, do you?'

'We don't send cards at Christmas. Lives on the other side of the valley. Different schools, different everything, same parish. Posh eccentric sort. Had some affiliations with the good lady. Why? I'm sure he'd love to take a lovely lass like you for a stew any evening of the year.' Lar bellowed.

'No, it's nothing. Curious

is all. Seemed a bit sketchy to me. Is he all there?'

'Oh yes, quite. Seemed sensible the few times we chanced to meet. Put it from your mind. We're almost there. I've thought of a question all of my own, fancy that, what's your name?'

'Aha.' I smiled. 'I thought you'd never ask.'

'Thought you'd never tell.' Lar smiled, for once unteasingly.

'It's Bastable.' I answered with surprising pride.

'What Bastable?' Lar asked.

'Mr. Bastable will suffice, thank you.'

#Folk horror #Folklore #Myths and legends #Horror #Horror writers #Horror writers of Tumblr #Writeblr #My words #WIP #Writing goals #Plot #Dialogue #Prose #Amwriting #Spilled ink #Writers of Tumblr #Irish writers #Writers of ireland

1 note · View note

wolfwordfall · 6 years ago

Text

[WP] After you die, your soul is in the void, without being able to see, hear, smell, think or feel but whenever somebody mentions your name, you get to witness what people say about you. After hundreds of years of not being mentioned, the world starts inexplicably talking about you.

Remember Me

The first time his name was uttered in who knows how long, something broke from the void, it was his conscious spirit. He remembered his life despite all odds with being long dead and not having a body. However, this existence was oddly fleeting, it was a fabric patchwork of millions consciousnesses he was experiencing with other people in real time that overlapped quite often, but he had no means of interacting with the individuals of said conscious experiences. If all throughout this world someone was not talking about him and uttering his name, he experienced the void again. It was like a sleep, but rather one he did not choose to experience. Since the world even now was a big place, it was hardly ever he felt a pause in all those populations talking about him, so the sleep was rare. All in all he had grown accustomed to the flooding, simultaneous sensations bombarding him with most every second.

He remembered the first time a historian discovered his name. It was a single consciousness, then a small group, then his name grew and grew until more of the world knew. It was sickening at first being bombarded by sensation altogether at once, but alas he didn't have a body and all the recoil was a phantom sensation of his consciousness. It was something he was forced to get used to with time, and there was plenty of it now. Not that he couldn't wait for many, many years for the sweet release of his consciousness back to the void, this type of existence was very exhausting, after all.

The year was 2102 when he was rediscovered. His first awakening and the scene he remembered most, A historian from the Luostisorieent University of the United World was delving into the last remaining documents that survived what was apparently a worldwide fallout. It was a woman with a doctorate in historical studies tasked with one of the most important jobs of the last 50 to 100 years, recovering the lost history from the nuclear fusion wars. In fact, all scientists were recovering the technological advancements of the bygone era. He watched as the woman carefully deciphered a slip of paper, to him it appeared to be a folded slip of paper with all the names of his songs from his discography, and a brief biography of him, his band, and his band mates. He was quickly starting to realize, however, that she was not interpreting all the details properly. He watched as she went through extensive research about him, built reports and research papers, conferred with associates of the University, and eventually more and more of the patchwork consciousness sprung forward and he now found himself thrust into many different parts of the world at any given time.

Here is one of his most recent experiences, a classroom of this future area much farther into the future. The year was 2161, and he was in a technologically advanced classroom. He was always astounded at how much humanity picked themselves up from the brink of loss of apocalyptic proportions, the wartime apocalypse which caused a wide destruction of population and culture for several years made the world go into darkness, until a period of enlightenment reawakened everything and there was a mad dash of scholars to recover lost information, leading to modern full scale knowledge of the past and an influx of technological advancement.

His consciousness distracted by his own memory recovered from the scenes he experienced jolted back to his current scene. A human teacher was teaching at the front of classroom, though she was made of light and not physically present. A hologram, she stood there interacting with a screen, another hologram made of light replaced a whiteboard of the old ages. Students sat in arranged desks, their surfaces were touch-screens as well, with programs opened on it's surfaces that had e-book applications of their textbooks for this specific course at hand. He watched with a kid as they looked out the window, finding himself to be in one of the buildings located on the mars colony, seeing the red dirt for miles out the window and all the buildings sprung up on it's rocky surface. He then peered over the shoulder of one particularly bored kid, cybernetic hand to his cheek as his glazed eyes watched the front. The text read on the e-book's top margin read 'Influential neo-classical music of the 2000's'

He watched as a message flitted on the desk, the student controlling conversational abilities with his mind, the typed out message said I phlishing hate neo-classical music! When can we learn the good stuff already? I want to learn about my favorite bands! He sent the message to another student across the classroom, a nerdier student who sent back a response Well you've got to learn the basics before you learn the cooler stuff! I'm actually quite interested in this stuff, they paved the way for the music of today He beamed down at his table, this was a college student who was going to be studying for his career in the musical arts.

Back to the other kid with the cybernetic limb Oh yeah I get that, it's just so boring, it sounds nothing like the multidimensional soundscape of today that caters to all seven senses, it's very bland! I really want to start learning more about Hissschambul Olango and his impact into modern Psysoriuumcore Metallicgrind

Back to the holographic teacher, who waved a hand to the classroom, "So a question, of these four influential musicians of the 2000's, which of these was in a band that was formed as a protest to the impending fallout that led to the mass loss of our current knowledge of the past we have today.

The nerdy kid that was just messaged by the bored one submitted his response to the holoboard at the front of the classroom, he was one of the few in the classroom who submitted his message to the public screen, and the only one that got it right.

Being the only correct one, his response on the screen read: PATRICK STUMP

'Holy Shit!!' thought Patrick, as it occurred to him on a whim after a really long time of this going on 'I really was remembered for centuries!'

#writingprompt #writing #creativewriting #creative writing #fiction #future #futurism #apocalypse #scifi #pop punk #fall out boy #falloutboy #patrick stump

1 note · View note

alchemisland · 5 years ago

Text

The Moors Mutt IV: Old Stone

'Lar, a moment if I could. In the house yesterday I found a bill of sale for an old church somewhere in the demesne. Do you know it?' I asked.

'You're joking? I didn't think to ask last night, I thought you wouldn't be interested. This is most fortuitous. Oh, lash me for assuming. What age were you when it closed?'

'After first Communion.' Lar said, concealing his question.

'That explains a lot.' said Lar, papist to the root.

'What stopped him?' said Lar, unsatisfied. I saw glinting around his neck a pendant freshly clad, its chain lightly linked, an effigy of holy Saint Anthony sun-crowned acentre against a gold rondure.

I shrugged my shoulders. 'Insitutions? He didn't talk about it. So enlighten me if you will; what age is Communion? Twelve - or is that Consternation?'

'It's Confirmation.' Lar spat through gritted teeth. 'Communion is the unleavened bread. Usually the ceremony takes place when the child is seven or eight.'

'Right. And Lady Sizemore, you would not deny she was a woman of means?'

Lar scoffed, loosening phlegm. 'I would not.'

'You'll soon find out. Where do you think we're going?'

'Ah. So the priests came, withstood the assault and incorporated existing idols into their own pantheon? How cunning, deceitful and a tragedy I should say too.'

When I saw his shoulders raise with tension lifted and gait restored, I probed further. 'Do you know the priest?'

'Er - yes. Tarbuck I think his name was.'

'What about Talbot - as in Talbot Church?'

I was met with silence. More space came between us. Knowing Lar and Fergus would soon disappear from sight, I was forced to shout over the wind, 'Why did she move the Cairn?'

Lar shrugged again. True to his word, he could not tell more than that. 'Winter.'

For a time there was sun. Golden fire, faint and pale beyond a tattered veil. The aperture seized before our eyes until only A crescent of light remained, the golden torc of Ulaid.

'Where in jezebel's saucehole are we?" I planted myself. Thought I of Ephialtes leading Persians through the pass, cursed by the gods to wear his inner treachery outwardly.

Fergus deferred to Lar's judgement. Solomon-like, Lar waved our wagons halted. He tossed the empty skins to Fergus. 'Fill these' he said, miming drinking.

While the Giant fetched pales Lar prodded the scant briar. 'Say Lar.' He bid me sit upon a raised bank.

'You look like shit.'

'Not so bad yourself' I wheezed. 'Truly do we have to go so fast? Is it so far we can't mosey, even just for a mile? I've done walking but this is hoplite stuff.'

'Deal.' Lar wanted to sit but he didn't. He stood, knees taxed, breath compromised, but he stood. Nothing to prove and still at attention. One could not deny his character.

'Up ahead' he panted, mopping his brow with an overworked handkerchief, 'it levels out. Push on. No more'n a mile. If the kirkyard is left, you've got it. If it steepens again, ye've strayed.'

'The light fades quick. Careful on your way. Don't dally.' Lar called after sardonically.

'No, it's nothing. Curious

is all. Seemed a bit sketchy to me. Is he all there?'

'Oh yes, quite. Seemed sensible the few times we chanced to meet. Put it from your mind. We're almost there. I've thought of a question all of my own, fancy that, what's your name?'

'Aha.' I smiled. 'I thought you'd never ask.'

'Thought you'd never tell.' Lar smiled, for once unteasingly.

'It's Bastable.' I answered with surprising pride.

'What Bastable?' Lar asked.

'Mr. Bastable will suffice, thank you.'

0 notes