my plans... I have decided to continue writing 'something that happened' after a break of some eight months. believe it or not (as it's not explicitly obvious from the first chapter) it's going to be a piece of philosophical horror in the vain of Poe, Lovecraft, Ligotti. so I would appreciate any feedback on the part posted so far as well as subsequent posts

Bromidic Subsistence She stared at me again today. The moment I entered the grimy little shop I felt that claustrophobic countenance rippling over my person. The tiny hairs on my arms danced as if desperately seeking shelter. Not wishing to give away anything that may be tactically beneficial to that hunched thing behind the counter, I casually put my arms behind my back, interlacing my fingers then made my way down the far, dim isle that runs almost the full circuit of the paper shop from door to counter and headed into the furthest corner in order to collect myself. Though no longer visible to me, I could still feel the drips of her decaying flesh as they slapped against the floor, the whole of the floor and most of the goods that adorned the shelves of that grimy little paper shop that is positioned at the end of a terrace comprising of many similarly dirty storefront retailers was veneered with the tacky residue of the decaying flesh and fat. It clung to everything, including myself, marked as all patrons of that grimy terrace storefront. The stress crippled my brain, making me unable to recall why it was I entered this place, no doubt some petty banality, cigarettes or soup maybe? The dim light became oppressive, almost to have weight like delicate grey folds of chain male, unable to bare the retching exhalations I rushed to the counter. I daren’t request anything from the shelves and cabinets situated behind the dripping hunched creature for fear of evoking that gelatinous drawl so I grabbed some small piece of confectionary from its place in a moulded plastic display rack. Dropping the little money I had on the counter I fled through the door and back to this room.

Something That Happened chapter one: She sat there under the willow, idly nibbling away at something, pondering the racing clock and her reluctance to go home. The sun played over her chocolate fur as it darted in between the gently swaying branches. The day was wearing on and movement would have to begin soon. It wasn't that there was cause to dread going home but still, why be there when the day could take you anywhere. Complacency and impatiens troubled her and so she sat, not going home and yet still not going anywhere else either. She didn’t mind though, she liked it here. The way the branches intertwined as they drooped all around her made her feel safe. Cocooned and protected with her #life a safe distance away. She had spent countless hours here under the willow in the five months since mother had deemed her old enough to leave the den alone. And if truth be told, many hours before then as well. Her head lolled, the warm, quiet afternoon had proven to be quite conducive to building dreys in the sky. There was a noise behind her, quiet rustling, well rustling isn't right, a rustle rather, for there had been only one sound. She froze, only her ears darting back. Before even the simplest thought of 'fuck, danger' could cross her mind she was engulfed by a hailstorm of dry leaves, knocking her to the ground. Spluttering she climbed to her feet, brushing the leaves off her coat. 'You're a propa dickhead you are sometimes,' she snarled, shooting the adolescent squirrel an evil look. He stood before her leaning back on his haunches with a tilted smirk across his face. 'Don't be grumpy, I was just playin,' he said, proffering a smile. 'Fuck off' Unperturbed he pushes on, 'I was expecting you to be home by now, you finished like an hour ago.' 'Meh' she mumbles. 'I don't wanna go back yet, the day is nice and I'd like to waste it here, at least for a little longer,' the melancholy tone of her voice drained the noise from the meadow and they stood in silence for a while. Not wanting to break the silence he brushed at his ears, awkwardly waiting for her to speak. Eventually she picked up her satchel and started off towards the bank of the stream some way west across the meadow, towards the failing sun. Jack trotted after her, noticing as he did the first drops of rain. The sky grew cold and the clouds grew grey, the speed stunned him. Catching up to Hazel he remarked, 'What’s going on with the sky? We best hurry before it pisses it down.' 'Oh my fur goes horrible in the rain, takes hours to straighten,' she sighed. The air seemed to crackle with electricity so thick they could taste the tart, metallic tang on their tongues. And the rains fell heavier and heavier with every passing moment. Abruptly the sky tore with light then almost instantly cracked with thunder, startling them both. ‘Thats really close,’ Jack said. A cacophony of squawking and the beatings of wings erupted around them as what seemed like all the birds in Fobdown took to the air at once. For a short time the sky was a chaotic mess of birds, crashing and flailing and fighting. Then as quickly as they came they were gone, all but the unlucky few whose #lifeless bodies now peppered the meadow. 'I wonder if it's the apocalypse,' Jack half joked. ‘The end of days,’ she chuckled, 'maybe they finally dropped the N bomb.' The ground beneath their feet was becoming sloppy and the rain fell in sheets as they picked up their pace to a gentle jog. Jack turned to Hazel 'This is horrible, I've never seen this much rain in my #life, we might end up swimming back,' he laughed nervously. He didn't want to panic her but he knew the ground was becoming untraversable and momentarily when the gradient of the field got much steeper they would most likely start falling. Hazel grabbed his paw, dragging him out of his head. He realised she was telling him something '...and remember don't let go of my hand, and try to keep your face up.' 'What are you talking about?' He asked bemused. 'We're gonna have to slide, if we're gonna make it to the bank before it gets too dangerous to cross the stream,' she shouted, straining to be heard over the drone of the rain. 'We're gonna sli.…' Before Jack could finish his question they hit the decline and Hazel dragged him to the floor. Instantly they began to slide down across the mud covered grass. Streams of sludge flew up behind them in fans as they gained momentum, speeding towards the bank. Jack screamed in pain as his face collided with stone, his head bouncing up with a crunching thump. Blood, already heavily diluted by the rain splattered across Hazels face, temporarily turning her vision a rosie hue. She desperately pulled him close, her fingers sliding over his soaked fur, digging her claws deep into his flesh she tugged as hard as she could pulling him up and over her. They both tumble, flailing and sliding, slowing to a stop in a wet crumpled heap. Untangling themselves they got to their feet, Hazel could now see the deep gash across Jacks left cheek, the torn glistening muscle below clearly visable. She brushed the fur out of his eyes and said, 'are you okay?' 'I'm fine, I'm fine. Are you okay thou? Are you hurt?' 'Just some bumps, I'll be okay, we best hurry,’ she said. ‘You come back to mine, it's too dangerous for you to go all the way back to yours. Mom must be worried sick.' Jack seized Hazel pulling her into a tight embrace, 'I'm so glad you’re okay.’ Hazel brushes him off and pulls him in the direction of the bridge. As they ascend the bank and the bridge became visible it soon becomes clear that crossing it was going to be difficult. The bridge stood essentially in ruins, reduced to just three strips of twine and only a few sparsely spaced slats left from the barrage it was taking from the churning stream below, below but getting closer. Occasionally crashing up in waves and smashing into the dwindling bridge. Jack worried, managed to get out 'We are so fucked!' 'It'll be okay, we can get over, but we gotta hurry!' Pleadingly Jack softened his voice, barely audible over the thundering rain 'I really don't think this is a good idea, there’s gotta be another way.' 'There isn't, we gotta go now! Before its too late, come on!' Hazel turning on the last word bounded towards the bridge, gripping the twine tightly she began to gingerly shuffle her way out across what was, until a little while ago a stream. The raging, rising waters beat across her legs. The twine writhed and jumped inside her paws. She recoils abruptly, cracking her neck as a large black bird shot past her so close it brushed her whiskers. The magpie screamed back at them, 'Run, run for your lives, the waters coming!' Jack, shouting back 'The waters already here,' as he ran to Hazel. Nimbly he climbed across the twine, wrapping his tail around it behind him, 'It's okay,' he said, 'just keep going, nearly there' A low rumbling begins to grow under the thundering rain, shaking the fragile bridge 'What's that?' Hazel shouts. Looking behind him up stream Jack saw the sauce of the noise. A giant wall of water was crashing its way down stream towards them, closing fast. 'Run!' Jack screams, 'run! Don't look, just move.' Franticly he pushes her on across the bridge, Hazel distressed, 'We're not gonna ma.…' Suddenly braking off her words as quickly as it broke the bridge from the bank, the wave collided with them. Like a wall of concrete, battering them and flinging them into the swirling mess of water. Jack and Hazel were churned around violently by the water, dragging them down then pushing them up but not quite reaching the surface before dragging them back down again. Hazel felt her chest tighten, her heart banging uncontrollably as her lungs heaved, struggled to squeeze out the final drops of oxygen. Phosphenes danced in front of her eyes as her head grew too light for her body and the black closed in. She drifted in the calming black wastes for what seemed like eternity, 'Is that my face?' She felt her face, no something against her face, her lungs began to fill. Jack was desperately breathing his last into hazels mouth. The next thing she knew Jack was pushing her up out of the water and onto one of the broken slats from the bridge. She heaved, sucking in all the air she could. But where was Jack, she looked around her and all she could see was his paw. Exhausted his paw was slipping from the slat, the stream was taking him back. She lunged grabbing at his paw and straining her back she managed to pull him atop the slat with her. Weary they both lay there, holding each other, not unconscious but incapable of any action. The water tossed them about and they sailed, for so long they drifted. The rain subsided and the waters grew calm and still they drifted as night drew in. In time eventually the slat came to a halt, beached slightly amongst strange flowers. Jack helped Hazel to her feet and together they mounted the bank. Looking around them they saw nothing but dense forest all around them. The shadows fell long and the#moonmade the trees glow pale blue. Jack took a few steps forwards, signaling to Hazel with his paw to be quiet. His nose twitched as he sniffed the air, ‘I don’t smell anyone, just those odd flowers,’ he said Hazel tiredly responded, 'We should eat some of those berries and find somewhere to sleep,' pointing at some bushes under one of the trees. The red berries looked glossy and sweet to their fatigued eyes. They filled Hazels satchel with the red fruit and then Jack leading, they both climbed the tree. Stopping at a large forked branch, Jack shaped the smaller branches and leaves into a bed of sorts. ‘This will have to do for tonight.’ They both lay down on the makeshift bed and got as comfy as it would allow. Hazel resting her head on his chest began to nibble the fruit. It seemed overly sweet, but beyond that it didn’t really taste of anything. She didn’t mind, bland felt good right now. After she ate her fill, which was surprisingly little, she looked up at Jack. 'How far away from home do you think we are?' she asked. 'Don't know, we floated for hours. To be honest I don't want to think about it,' he smiled. Hazel lowered her head back on to Jacks chest and nuzzled into his neck. ‘Do you think everyone at homes safe?’ She was a little saddened by the fact that she didn't really care all that much, after all she had wanted something to happen. And something had, something most definitely had, and this made her strangely happy. 'I'm not sure, the water was pretty bad but our dreys are in the trees so there probably okay. But the rabbits and other burrowers, well that's a different matter.' He left that thought lingering in the cool night air, the silence dragged on. He says quietly, 'Are you upset? I’m sorry.' And still she said nothing. He felt her breath deeply and realised she was asleep. Leaning his head down he gently kissed the back of her head and whispered 'night, night, pretty dreams my angel, tomorrow we have an adventure to start' He lay back down, staring up through the branches at the stars, Jack began to fall into sleep, happy in the broken moment.

There Are No Strings The bleakness I saw swirling madly about in the smooth glass of its eye, squeezed at my chest, disrupting the natural rhythm of my inhalations. The sensation was not wholly debilitating; that is to say that it was not consistent but persistent. In a few moments, with no small amount of incanting of long held understandings, my frame began to relinquish to me some rudimentary control of my limbs. In order to minimise any further symptoms caused by my proximity, I set myself in motion around the room. Unfortunately, all attempts to discerp the ocular connection between it and I were in vain. Irrespective of each newly attained position within the room, I was disquieted to discover the viewing relationship was still more than adequate to permit the churning chaos of those smooth glass eyes to fall upon me. The gaze of its chiselled and blandly degenerated countenance suffocated me. A contorted mocking effigy made in my own image or, more accurately, our own image. The spidery scrawl of the morning sun, threw every contour of its degenerate face into hideous relief. Conversely, the rest of the room with its washed out hues had acquired a dreamlike quality that only seemed to compound the hollow of my stomach and the tightness of my chest; instead of alleviating it, as you would imagine that any hope or delusion that it may be mere phantasm, infections of a fevered mind and not the horror so subtly woven into the banal drudgery of waking #life. That mocking, degenerate effigy made in our own image may, with skilful manipulations display to you all necessary illusions for classification as automata. Nevertheless, illusions they are, for all puppets have masters, however covertly concealed. Whether behind curtains or the bland diversions of a mind desperate not to devour itself, or maybe even the walls of drab little houses where, in the early hours you may be confronted by a degenerated mocking effigy with phosphorus smooth glass eyes. Given my evident inability to evade a confrontation, I resolved to put that mocking effigy out of existence, and thus out of the belly of my mind. Determined to capitalize upon my newfound conviction, I pushed forward and extended my arm. Midway through executing this unusually arduous, peculiarly elaborate action, it had come to my attention that the pivot of my arm seemed not anchored to my shoulder, as is its proper place but rather appeared now located at the elbow. This resulted in a jittered and unpredictable movement of spastic beauty and grace. My reflection, as perceived in the hopeless nullity of its smooth glass eye seemed to be reconfiguring, a slackening of joints, as the ceiling appeared to be retreating, or maybe the floor anxiously stumbling, came to meet me. All this seems inconsequential now, now that I see how misguided and inept my initial conclusions were. How the plicae of that absolute bleakness caress me, diverting me. I have no strings, I am no degenerate effigy, I have no smooth glass eyes, and there are no strings. There is nothing mocking me, I hear no degenerate jeering voices in the belly of my mind, for I have no strings. There is no curtain-shrouded manipulator, I am not pulled, I do not dance. I do not hear those mocking voices in the belly of my mind and feel no pulling at my strings. I am not a degenerated effigy made in their own image, and no one perceives there similitude, writhen and dancing, in the smooth glass of my eyes.