Curbita, or Bita, as most people called her, had a father that was a Chilean farmer, and a mother that was a pumpkin. Yes, A PUMPKIN. The orange things that my family enjoys defacing every week before Halloween.
In most cases, the seed of a man and the inner workings of a pumpkin, were never meant to produce offspring. But in Bita’s case, this impossible had become possible, since her father’s unnatural romance had been the magic the pumpkin needed to bear him his only child. The pumpkin, Bita’s mother, exploded immediately after delivering Bita to the world. Her father wept for hours, as he ate what was left of his first true love.
I was on my back now, wondering what this girl would do to me next. We were in an abandoned barn by the woods, a place she had lead me to right after the Halloween dance at school. Her curly green vines of hair tickled my bare chest as she dry humped me, her hard orange shelled skin pressing against my open fly.
She stopped, then asked me, “Do you like this?”
I hesitated before replying, “Yeah, yeah, I like it.”
“I’m not! I’m not!”
“Then why aren’t you moaning?”
“I don’t know…is that what I’m supposed to do?”
“Duh! Maybe this’ll help.”
She quickly took off her purple rubber clamshell bra; she had dressed up as a mermaid for the dance. Two pomegranate-sized mini-pumpkins were there, but where the stems would be, were green, fuzzy nipples.
She took my hands, and rubbed them on her green teats. They felt like crushed velvet. I let out a barely audible moan.
“Take off your costume,” she said, before getting off of me. She stood a foot away, watching me anxiously tear off my SpongeBob costume. As I threw off the yellow foam covered box I’d made, I wondered why at my age, seventeen, that I thought it was such a good idea to make something better suited for someone who hadn’t already hit puberty.
Bita walked up to me, completely unclothed; she had tossed the mermaid tail on the far side of the barn while I was working up a sweat trying to get that damned yellow box off of me.
She had curly green pubes that matched her hair, except they weren’t as loose. If no one knew any better, they may have thought that Bita was growing her own version of a Chia Pet. Her smooth and slim orange-shelled body looked amazing against the slivers of moonlight shining through the cracks of the old barn. All of her head vines hung past her shoulders, cascading over her mini-pumpkin breasts. She gazed at me with hungry yellow eyes, her red painted lips pouted, and head tilted to the right. It was amazing how gorgeous she looked with that pumpkin head and figure of hers. Never in a million years would I have imagined that a fruit could look so good.
She climbed back on me, and lowered her body onto my naked one, which was damp with sweat. She lifted her head, and looked into my inky eyes. Even though I’m not a pumpkin person, I am my own oddity: a human guy with black eyes; my irises and pupils are indistinguishable.
She kissed my lips gently, then slipped her tongue inside my mouth. I jabbed mine at hers, and they sparred for a moment, until I felt a cool hand cup my testicles. The hand gently massaged them, then moved on to my massive erection. As Bita kissed and stroked me, I couldn’t help but moan, and think about how this couldn’t get any better, until she sat up, and inserted me inside of her warm flesh. We both sighed as our bodies connected, my penis enveloped by her warm, sweet pulp.
She rode me for a while, then I positioned her doggy style, pulling her rounded orange bottom towards my belly. She screamed, a lot. I guess it was her first time too.
I came after about a minute, and I felt embarrassed. I had hoped losing my virginity would’ve lasted longer, but I guess you shouldn’t expect to be a stud right off the bat. Bita looked a little disappointed, but she lay there next to me, looking into my night eyes, as if to ask me, “Is that it?”
After a few seconds of cuddling, I said, ”Sorry.”
Bita looked confused, “For what?”
“For not…holding out.”
She chuckled, which confused me, and made me a little angry.
She stopped laughing long enough to notice the frown on my face.
“Hey! Chill. I know how you can make it up to me.”
My face perked up a bit. “How?”
“You like apple pie?”
“My pumpkin pie is better. Taste it,” she said, after spreading her legs, and exposing her greenery.
I looked at her vaginal vines, then at her moonlit face, and inched my way downward. I’d never performed oral sex on anyone, and I was nervous about trying it.
Bita whispered, “Go ahead, it won’t bite.”
I closed my eyes, and darted my tongue inside the orange crevice of a foreign territory.
The next morning, I woke up in the barn. The early sunrays stung my eyes into awakening. I looked on each side of myself, then stood up and searched the barn, but only saw pieces of the discarded mermaid ensemble Bita wore the night before. No way she walked home naked. Did she?
I dug through the hay, hoping to find a note, anything that might’ve told me why she left without telling me.
As I uncovered the hay, trying to ignore the agony of having a swollen belly, I noticed bits of pumpkin everywhere. I felt something fall off of my face into the hay–a pumpkin seed. I wiped my mouth, and more pumpkin seeds hit the hay.
I guess I really do enjoy the taste of pumpkin.
It’s that time again writers! Time for our annual Halloween Writing Contest. Aren’t you just a little creeped out by that thought?
The story topic must be about Halloween. It can be a poem, nonfiction, or fiction piece. The genre must be: fantasy, comedy, horror, and/or erotica. All submissions must be a minimum of 500 words, maximum of 2000.
Winners will receive a MyMS t-shirt to slap their black cat with (or anyone or anything else they want) along with a copy of a MyMS publication of their choice: Let It Break or Morning Stories: The Beginning.
All entries are due on Monday October 29th at midnight EST. The winner will be announced on Halloween night!
Happy writing ghouls and gals!
Submissions that don’t follow the contest guidelines will be submitted to the site for viewing, but not for consideration in the contest.
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And I’ll quilt you passion
Stitch away my broken heart
And I’ll quote you fashion
Hem the edges of my soul
And Aspire fulfill your every desire
Fix the Inseam of my pants
And I’ll zip you into ecstasy
Pivot my body at a 45 degree angle
And I’ll sew you up like a triangle
Backstitch me to anchor my seam in place
And I’ll pattern you with zig zags per every inch of your garment
French seam my blouse
And I’ll Iron you a crease on each leg with starch
Alter my fabric and call me couture
And I’ll shower you with unlimited attention from my mandible
For the story goes
A thief betrayed the Mistress of the night
Shadowed in the palm of fate
He wooed her with his might
Showered her with loves embrace
And flowered her with passion but just a little taste
For little did she know
That beneath that loving exterior
Dwelled a charming thief
Who saw her as inferior
To rule the skies at night
His goal to make her fall in love with him
Then steal away her kingdom in the sky
But she new he was no regular guy
So when he tried to pull a rug over her eye
She nearly lost her shine
But being the Mistress of the night she didn’t surrender without a fight
She gathered all her power and imprisoned him in moon light
She listened to the dream speak. In its voice she heard every person’s laughter, every child’s scream, every unfaithful lover’s lie. She heard the sorrow of every parent losing a child, and the bitterness of every brother or sister losing a sibling. She listened to all of the emotions she would vocalize, as well as the ones she couldn’t, or wouldn’t. . .
Looking into the dream’s eyes she saw every first crushes broken heart, every first love’s disappointment, every first-born’s wonderment. She saw the motivation on the face of a boy told he’s not good enough, and the nervousness of a boy afraid of rejection. She saw every crushed hope, every broken dream of a son, a daughter, a father, mother, friend, lover, who only wanted more for. . . someone. And in those eyes she saw all the men she would love and every inner-child she would hate. Every person that would love her but she couldn’t love back. She saw the people she loved and wondered if they loved her. . .
Inhaling her dreams breath she smelled the waste of a person alone, the desperation of a woman falling apart but trying to hold herself together. She smelled the sweetness of a teenage boy’s whisper, and the tartness of that whispers impure intentions. She smelled the odor of two bodies entangled as she let her body be taken by that whisper. And she smelled alcohol. . .
She tasted her dreams tongue and in that the flavor of tears lost in a public bathroom in some city somewhere and the drugs taken to forget those tears. She tasted the sweat falling off the faces, arms, legs of children and their parents working to survive. She tasted the blood lost in a hospital room for being human. Of blood lost on the street for being a different shade of skin. Of blood lost on the battlefield for being young. Of blood lost in the bedroom for grasping at innocence. . .
She reached out, and touching her dreams hand felt the goose bumps of a nightmare or fantasy realized. She felt the panic and guilt of a wrong-doing, and the tightened fist of a person done wrong. She felt every bruised, broken, bleeding wrist of a person who gave up on nothing but themselves. She felt the sting of a missed opportunity, and of a missed friend. She felt herself falling into this moment of self-actualization, self-awareness, self-realization, self. . . self. . . selflessness.
She had heard, seen, smelled, tasted and felt everything she was, is, and could become. Anyone could become. And she wondered, “Is this all there is?”
The pain was horrendous, unbearable. Hot wet tears rolled from his eyes. Trying to roll, so many hands held him down as others tried to save him. A constant ringing in his ears, his eyes blurry from crying, he knew where he was, but couldn’t make out anything that was going on around him.
He could remember had happened. He been standing outside his home, just watching the two kids fighting, thinking about how he had been just like them in his youth. The two boys were only teenagers, no older than sixteen, maybe seventeen. Other boys stood around them, watching, waiting for the first of the boys to throw a punch.
And then, for some reason, out of his pocket, one of the boys pulled a gun. Not believing what he was seeing, Nick was in shock. What the hell are you doing kid? Nick thought to himself, praying it was an airsoft gun, or a very realistic toy.
Watching the other boys around step back, and the kid that the gun holder had been arguing with instantly scared, his hands up, Nick began to approach, still hoping the gun was not real. Hoping it wasn’t loaded.
“Come on kid, what the hell are you doing?” Nick said, trying to catch the boy’s attention so if anyone was going to get hurt, it was going to be Nick. “Put that down before some is seriously hurt.” Approaching slowly, Nick had gotten the boy’s attention, but the boy still kept the weapon pointed at the kid he had been arguing with.
“Mind your own business!” the boy yelled, his hand slightly shaking, making Nick even more nervous. Nick, looking to the boy that the gun was pointed at, could see tears forming in the boy’s eyes, scared out of his mind, not knowing that the argument was going to take that dramatic of a turn.
“Put the gun down,” Nick, pausing, had to get the kid to calm down and come to reason. “What’s your name?”
“What’s it matter? This is none of your business!” Inching the gun closer to the boy he had been arguing with, the boy was openly crying, and the other teen’s were tense, not sure of what was going to happened.
“Put the gun down Dave,” one of the other teen’s said, standing closer to the boy with the gun.
“Shut your damn mouth! I’ll put it down if I feel like it! Scared,” the boy, apparently named Dave mocked, waving the gun in the crying boy’s face. “Crying like a baby, scared.”
“Put the damn gun down Dave. You think that makes you a man?” Nick mocked right back at the teen. He knew that Dave was trying to appear tough to his friends, trying to be a man, not backing down, suffering further humiliation from them. Nick knew that the teen was foolishly worried about his image. “Do you Dave? You think that makes you a man?”
Dave, now not so mad at the boy he had been arguing with, turned the gun towards Nick, just what Nick had been hoping, but the moment he was staring down the barrel, realized the carelessness of his decision.
“Do I think it makes me a man? Who the hell are you, man?” Pulling back the hammer of the gun, Dave held it steady, eyes narrowed, many of the other boys taking more steps back, worried of what their friend might do.
“I’m just a guy trying to keep a kid from making a very stupid decision.” Taking a few steps closer, Nick just had to get close enough to grab the gun. If he had to punch the kid out, so be it, but he couldn’t let anyone get hurt because of one stupid kid’s ego.
“You think you’re a man,” Dave said, “walking up here, trying to stop me from blasting him,” Dave motioned with his head to the teen he had pulled the gun on. “Walking up here, asking me if I think I’m a man. Yeah. As a matter of fact…” Pulling the trigger, Nick heard the second shot before he even felt the first bullet hit him. Three bullets before the group of teens jumped on Dave, fighting the gun away from him. Looking at them, none of them were hurt.
Falling to his knees, the wounds burned, all of them in his chest. Looking to Dave, fear was in the teen’s eyes. Dave had pulled the trigger, but after the act, couldn’t believe what he had done.
“Call an ambulance,” Nick whispered, not sure if anyone had heard him. He was looking around, watching the teen’s hold Dave down, some pulling their cell phones out, neighbors coming out to see what the noise had been, one man running up to Nick.
In no time he was in an ambulance, and then the hospital. His eyes burned from the white light coming from the ceiling, the ringing in his ears gave him a headache, and his chest ached with such intensity with each and every breath.
He knew the doctors and nurses were talking to him. But he couldn’t hear them. Closing his eyes, he couldn’t see them anyways, and he was tired of the burning ceiling light. A sudden cold coming over him, Nick knew he wasn’t going to make. It was obvious. The damn kid had shot him three times in the chest. God damn kid.
A heavy darkness coming with the sudden cold, Nick’s eyes shot open suddenly, a sudden bolt of energy flowing through him. Looking around, the light from the ceiling, the bright white light from the florescent bulbs was gone, instead a ceiling fan, spinning slowly, a beige ceiling.
His eyes forced shut again, his body’s muscles tensing, Nick forced them open, looking all around, the florescent ceiling light back, the blurriness difficult to see through. Trying his damndest to see through it, at the nurses, the doctors, the machines, he knew he was still in the hospital, wondering what the hell he had just seen.
Trying to take a deep breath, not able too, the jolt of energy rocked him his body once more, eyes slamming shut. This time when they opened, Nick’s head turned to his side, he was staring at an alarm clock on a side table, a lamp behind it. 4:13. That was what the clock said. Trying to turn his head to see more, his eyes shut once again before he could, the last jolt of energy passing through him with white-hot intensity.
Suddenly comfortable, suddenly calm, the ringing was gone, no noise at all. No doctors speaking, no nurses, no noise. And his body, relaxed, no pain, no one holding him down. Opening his eyes, the ceiling fan above him off, the beige ceiling illuminated by what little moon light spilled into the room from the window, curtains drawn back, the sky outside clear, stars very visible.
Looking to his alarm clock, it read 4:13. Blinking a few times, his eyes still heavy with sleep, he closed them, took a deep breath and slid his hand under his pillow, the coolness it promised welcoming.
That was one helluva damn nightmare, Nick thought, preparing to fall back to sleep.
A bachelor once woke from a midday nap later than he had intended. He looked out his bedroom window to get an idea of what time it was, and was shocked to see how dark the sky had become. The dull green landscape outside had begun to blend into the moonstricken clouds.
He felt that he must have left some of his soul in his dream, since he only felt half-awake, so he threw on his petticoat and walked outside to breathe the cool wintry air. When he crossed the threshold of the house, he found that his house had been transported to the edge of a steep bluff overlooking a narrow valley of marshlands stretching into the horizon. The sun was setting into the crevice of the valley, turning the space between land and darkness peach and pink. The air felt bodily warm.
– Such beauty and wonder, so much in this sight, and also in the oddity of my being here. I want to get closer.
The bachelor jogged up to the bluff, and more of the valley came into view. First, entire worlds presented themselves to him with each step. Then, a few new features at a time became visible. Finally, as he edged up to the precipice, all that was left to see was what was directly beneath. He knelt down and peaked over, and saw and elderly couple, a man and a woman, laying in two bathtubs filled with water, holding hands and bathing in the sun’s last rays.
– This might have been an odd thing to see, but it makes sense. Now I understand why the sun, this valley, these marshlands, and this bluff all had to make their way to my house, and push away the suburbs and roads. Luckily, I don’t need to drive anywhere today, and all of this scenery will let the roads and the suburbs come back when these two leave.
The bachelor returned to his house, now feeling wide-awake, and fully refreshed. The half of him that was still sleeping had returned to him while he was outside, and he commended himself on his designs. He forgot the detail of what he saw outside. It became a blur in his mind. He could only remember that the sun was beautiful, and how lovely the sun made the head of that elderly woman. He distinctly remembered that, because she was so far below him, the shine of her hair had become distorted, like a halo. He could not think about the sun without thinking about the couple, and vice-versa.
The bachelor especially fixated his remembrance on the woman, and when he realized what he wanted from her, he ran outside. All was dark except for a sliver of red on the horizon. The moon burned hot on his back. He rushed up to the ledge and halted himself, for fear that he might throw himself over. He dropped his legs and wrapped his left hand round the edge, and scrambled down the near-vertical bluff, halting completely whenever he thought himself in danger of throwing himself into the ground. When he reached the bottom, he found the woman alone and naked. She was standing in the marsh water up to her thighs. The wrinkles of her face dripped into her neck. Her slender stomach, despite her petite build, slouched so much as to cover her genitals. Her pupils reflected the white of the fiery full moon.
– Who are you? What are you doing in my house? I don’t need you!
She sundered up to the bachelor, and his stomach came a milky rush into his mouth. The vile floated on the murky water like an algae, and the woman produced a long piece of driftwood from the below the vomit and thrust it into the young man’s neck, breaking both the wood and the neck. 150 pounds of dead weight collapsed into the water, except the head, which struck against some elevated mud. All of his feeling was gone fun but for the wet sensations on the back of his scalp and the thistle crowning his face. He was merely a head looking up at a near-black sky draped with gray green curtains. The elderly man appeared in his vision, and spoke in a deep, authoritative, calm voice while the last flagellum of maroon slipped from his sight.
– Oh, to be young again! The man said this to himself, and in a whisper.
The man popped a capsule into the bachelor’s mouth and covered the horrified face with his wrinkled, oozing hand. The man removed his jeans while covering the bachelor’s mouth and showed them to him, seemingly so that he would know what the woman was about to do, since he could not see her. The man held onto them and looked. The young man mouthed some words while the man stared him in the eyes with a glare powerful enough to crack open a coconut from a thousand meters. The elderly couple continued their show until the suburbs and the roads returned, all at once, annihilating everyone and everything, except for the house of course.
His lantern low on oil, the killer knew he had to get to his home quickly. Rumors had recently been abound about the ancient vampiress Arianna having been reawakened from her deep and supposedly endless slumber. News was also being spread that there was a high bounty on him: he was wanted dead or alive for murder. Crouching low through the hanging weeping willow branches to remain on the path in the already twisted and rocky trek, he saw a soft yellow light emanating from a window in the dense foliage of the woods.
“At last, home is in sight,” he thought. He had already traveled over many miles of mountains, plains and moors, and finally seeing home after 3 years had seemed like a relief, but it was only short-lived. He knew the armies of the king had already searched numerous houses and villages for him.
The killer stopped abruptly at the sound of rustling leaves nearby. He stopped, his pulse raced, and he fell into a cold sweat, and the gloomy feeling of fear begun to set in. Was he being followed? Watched? He heard another sound, and quickly turned his head in the direction of the sound. Nothing. His shaking hands slowly rose the lantern, its flame burning even lower. Wiping sweat from his brow, he struggled to see who- or what- was following him.
In the blink of an eye, and without warning, someone emerged from the shadows and grabbed him from behind. After a short struggle, the killer managed to free himself from the seemingly impossible beast of a grip and started to run towards the house in the edge of the woods. He managed to outrun the unknown stranger for a short time until his foot caught on some vines, and he crashed to the ground with a breathtaking thud. The footsteps in the leaves and twigs from behind him were gaining on him quickly. As he stumbled to his feet to run, he was caught once again by the shadowy figure. This time, no matter how hard the killer struggled to break loose, he couldn’t free himself from the grasp. Thrashing his arms and legs with all his might, he suddenly heard a young woman’s soft voice: “Good-bye.” Then everything went black.
eph you see kay etouffee if you see Kay tell her a catawampus catahoula hound hog dog crossed bayou levee last night all right what did you say if you see Kay tell her a catawampus catahoula hog dog crossed the levee last night all right i heard what you said the first time why you got to repeat eph you see kay you fucking fucker fuck what? what did you say you fucking fucker fuck heard you the first time you suck a dick a prick a dildo hello stop end begin believe conceive create no thank you i already ate what? what did you say begin believe conceive create no thank you i already ate quit fucking repeating yourself you fucking fuck hole hello stop end begin believe conceive create eph you see kay etouffee if you see Kay tell her a catawampus catahoula hog dog crossed the levee last night all right
the renown physicist dressed in brown wool suit brown leather laced shoes white shirt burgundy knitted tie wild curly graying hair climbed the stairs walked across the stage stood at the lectern adjusted narrow support pole height reached down into brown leather briefcase retrieved his thesis concerning the relative theory of everything tapped microphone composed his posture made a guttural sound clearing his throat looked out at packed full auditorium it became evident to the distinguished audience the renown physicist’s fly was open and his penis hanging out it was unanimously dismissed as a case of professorial absent-mindedness
all the creatures of the earth (excluding humans) convened for an emergency session the bigger creatures talked first grizzly bears stood upright explaining demand for gallbladders bile paws make us more valuable dead than alive sharks testified Asian fisherman cut off our fins for soup then throw us back into the sea to die elephants thumping heavy feet stepped forward yeah poachers kill us for our tusks rhinos concurred yes they kill us for our horns wild Mustang horses neighed about violent round-ups then slaughtered processed for cat food whales complained of going deaf from submarine sonar tests then sold for meat many dolphins sea turtles tuna swordfish sea bass smaller fish swam forward pleading about getting caught in long line nets barbed baited hooks over-fished colonies chimpanzees described nightmares of being stolen from their mom’s when they are very young then used in research labs for horrible tests song birds chirped about loss of their habitats land tortoises spoke in gentle voices about being wiped out for housing developments saguaro cactuses dropped their arms in discouragement masses of penguins solemnly marched in suicidal unison to edge of melting icebergs polar bears and seals wept honey bees buzzed colony collapse disorder bats flapped about white nose syndrome coyotes and wolves howled lonesome prairie laments the session grew gloomy with heart-wrenching unbearable sadness sobbing crying then a black mutt dog spoke up my greyhound brothers and sisters and all my family of creatures i sympathize with your hurt but it is important to realize there are people who care love us want to protect us not all humans are ravenous carnivores or heartless profiteers a calico cat crept alongside black dog and rubbed her head against his chest an old gray mare admitted her love for a race horse jockey who died years ago a bluebird sang a song suddenly lots more creatures advanced with stories of human kindness Captain Paul Watson Madeleine Pickens Jane Goodall a redwood tree named Luna testified about Julia Butterfly Hill the winds clouds sky discussed concerns by Al Gore lots and lots of other names were mentioned and the whole tone of the meeting changed every one agreed they needed to wait and see what the next generation of people would do whether humans would acknowledge the cruelties threats of extinction and learn grow figure out ways to sustain mother earth father sky then the meeting let out just as the sun was rising on a new day
there is a cemetery in Paris named Père Lachaise buried there are the remains of Jim Morrison Oscar Wilde Richard Wright Karl Appel Guillaume Apollinaire Honoré de Balzac Sarah Bernhardt the empty urn of Maria Callas Frédéric Chopin Colette Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot Nancy Clara Cunard Honoré Daumier Jacques-Louis David Eugène Delacroix Isadora Duncan Paul Éluard Max Ernst Suzanne Flon Loie Fuller Théodore Géricault Yvette Guilbert Jean Ingres Clarence Laughlin Pierre Levegh Jean-François Lyotard Marcel Marceau Amedeo Modigliani Molière Yves Montand Pascale Ogier Christine Pascal Édith Piaf Marcel Proust Georges Seurat Simone Signoret Gertrude Stein Louis Visconti Maria Countess Walewska and many other extraordinary souls it is rumored at late dusk their ghosts climb from graves gather drink fine brandy from costly crystal glasses smoke fragrant cigars and once a year on November 2 party hard all night culminating in deliriously promiscuous sexual orgy it’s difficult to know what the truth is since the dead don’t talk or do they
BUTTERFLY (turning away glances over shoulder) excuse me
CATERPILLAR i’m you before you transformed
BUTTERFLY get away you sleazy worm
CATERPILLAR you can’t be serious look at me i’m you
BUTTERFLY look at you? euwwwh you’re a sticky slug with too many legs (pause) i’m exquisite fluttering colorful poetry a celebrity with huge fan base wherever i fly people recognize admire me Full Story
While gallivanting along early one morning, a pair of friends stumbled upon a box. A similar box on the side of the road wouldn’t have garnered their attention, nor would an identical box in a dump or recycling facility. It was ordinary, to say the least. The box was intended as a cooler, all Styrofoam with protrusions bellied by hollows on either side of the box, presumably to act as handles, and a lid which fit snugly on top of the box. It appeared to have been left there for some period of time. The stickers were long decayed away, and there were smudges of dirt where there ought not be any. The location however did seem odd for such a box. It was top-up near a fallen tree and many more not-fallen trees. There was little brush around, as the not-fallen trees had shaded the ground so thoroughly that no sun-loving organism would be beneath them.
Their first instinct had been, obviously, to assume that there was a chopped-up, soupified dead body inside. Years of watching CSI: Miami and similar shows had told them to disturb as little evidence as humanly possible, and so they tiptoed their way towards the box. Being human however, they disturbed quite a bit of evidence; or would have if there had been any evidence. Trying to ply the lid off with a stick, they discovered the relative weightlessness of the cooler-box. The friends had foolishly jumped to the most extreme conclusion, as they so often did, but they weren’t entirely fools and knew now that there was no body in this particular box. Disappointed but not discouraged they forged on trying to open the box, with no intentions of touching it with their hands for fear of some disease the Styrofoam may be carrying. They soon succeeded by kicking downward on the lower, more boxy part of the box a few times and shoving up under the lid with a stick. To their mild disappointment, the box was filled only with stale air and a few pine needles.
Pushing the box over yielded far more exciting results. The space between the Styrofoam cooler and the fallen tree was occupied by a large cluster of slender-stemmed, blue-bruising, and fairly edible smelling mushrooms. Seizing the opportunity to snap a few pictures before settling down to their lunch of turkey sandwiches (sans mayo) and yogurt, they sat down and pulled out their cameras and brown paper bags.
The completion of their turkey sandwiches and the satisfaction they had taken enough pictures to have a few acceptable ones in there somewhere signaled to them it was time to leave. And indeed, they would have left at that time were it not for a chipmunk which came crawling inexplicably out of the hollow Styrofoam cube. This was a rather odd contrast to the plain scene of two plain girls discussing innumerable plain things.
“I didn’t know there were fucking chipmunks here?” said one of the pair, a girl who was given to cursing frequently and generally the more outspoken of the two.
“Uhm… I didn’t either… maybe it wasn’t a chipmunk? It was probably a mongoose or something. I don’t know,” replied the other girl, who was slightly more reserved and who swore with only slightly less frequency.
They could have continued pondering the possible identities of the animal were it not for the fact their attention was once again stolen by the box producing increasingly curious oddities. Not the most curious of which was a spattering of washed out colors seeping themselves lacily around their now too-vibrant world. Soon thereafter, a man came crawling out of the box. The man would have seemed a welcome and normal addition to the web and other objects now surrounding them, if he was not so remarkable in appearance alone as to make both of the girls wonder if they had been victims of the murder they had previously suspected and were now facing god himself. As the mangod began walking ethereally towards the girls, they were struck by how ludicrous the idea of God crawling out of a Styrofoam cooler was and promptly burst into laughter. Brushing himself off in a rather haughty and condescending manner; the pine needles in the bottom of the cooler had apparently stuck to him on his way out; and frowning only slightly, he instructed the girls to watch out for something which may or may not be coming out of the box after him. He instructed them to tell him if such a thing were to appear, and helpfully added that they would know, without a doubt, when such a thing was to come out because it was his something. He then moved on, stepping along the webbing laid down earlier by the box.
“Well how the hell are we supposed to tell you if something comes if your leaving? We can’t call you or we don’t even know your name or whatever. Hello? Hello??” yelled the outspoken girl after the man, slightly annoyed by his assumptions they would follow his directions without question. For whatever reason, he seemed completely uninterested in elaborating, and continued walking over and around the web. The girls followed him with their eyes for a time, but this even became hard as the web kept swallowing him up and spitting him out elsewhere.
After giving up on keeping track of the man, the quieter girl began to ponder the wisdom of calling this thing a web, for fear of offending it if it were in fact something else. It resembled a web only in its hue and translucency. Other than that it resembled a vaguely paisley pattern in some places, and in others something more akin to the chaos of a carnival, and sometimes faded and opened and closed up into nothing and other times became another object entirely. While trying to decide whether this pattern had always existed and she could only now see it or if the box was explaining the pattern of the world to her by way of a web, her reverie was interrupted by that box once again incessantly producing random objects. The box was appearing to be more and more indiscriminate about what it brought into the world, seeing as this particular object was a pillow. A couch pillow, in fact; one with a palm tree stitched on the front of its tan surface.
Once the girls were thoroughly puzzled with the newest oddity produced by the not-so-ordinary box, their confusion was intensified by the chipmunk, now half the size of a human, seizing the pillow and scurrying in the other direction.
“Uhm, sir? I’m not sure whether this is what you wanted or not, but that..er… squirrel just came and got a pillow from this box. It wasn’t yours, was it?” More-given-to-cursing girl asked the man who was currently out of sight, thinking he must be near enough to hear her, and leaving out her usual swearwords due to more to shock than respect. Sure enough, the man walked up and out of a nearby fissure in the web the girls hadn’t noticed before, possibly because it hadn’t existed only a moment before. Cocking his head to the side, he inquired as follows:
“My girls, do you have any clue as to what would signify something important? I’m certain a couch pillow is of no import where I am from, and I would assume it the same here. If you could kindly only alert me to the presence of something significant, preferably the something I am looking for, it would be greatly appreciated. Many thanks, and do not come calling again unless you have my something.”
“How will I know if it’s your something though? I can’t know if it’s someone’s something if I don’t know what that something is. It doesn’t have your name on it or something?”
“Yes! something. That’s exactly what I said. Now that you understand that, Good day. Tell me if my something comes, and only if my something comes.”
“Why did the squirrel want that couch pillow? And more importantly, why was he so big?”
“Did I not say ‘Good day’? I did not mean, ‘good day for asking questions’ I meant have a good day, and be on your merry way. Though since I’ve wasted so much breath already, I will tell you I certainly have no idea why Julian would have wanted an embroidered couch pillow. You really have no idea what’s important, do you? Why should it matter that Julian is so large? Ask him why he is so large. He’s perfectly capable of answering such trivialities, and much less preoccupied. Now Good Day. Not for asking questions.”
Now thoroughly puzzled, the girls turned their attention back towards the overgrown squirrel, apparently named Julian.
“Why would you want a couch pillow?”
“It reminds me of home. Since I got sucked into this world for the next couple hours.”
“Pfft, don’t be such a baby. It’s just a couple hours. I’m pretty sure you could have survived without the pillow. And wait, what? you got sucked into this world?thisworld?what?thereisonlythisworldandyou’retoobigforthisworld!Youdon’tmakesense!” Said the typically less outspoken girl, though since she was thoroughly confused and frustrated by this squirrel and recent happenings, she was voicing her opinions quite flusteredly and was coming across as making even less sense than the nonsensical squirrel.
“Silly girl, [incoherent mumblings]no concept of time.” Julian said under his breath as he clutched his pillow defensively and walked towards the tree he was nesting under.
“I have a perfectly good concept of time! I know that sixty minutes equal one hour, that twenty-four hours equals one day, that 365 days are equal to one year…”
“SHH! You do in fact have no idea of time. You are explaining trivial things. Where I am from we measure time in thoughts and discoveries and memories and creations. I’m going to rest now, and while away these hours in thoughts which may lead to productions so that they might pass faster.”
“You have that all backwards. You just think that the time passes faster when your preoccupied. It’s just… fucking childish to think just because you’re thinking you’re going to speed up time.”
Mumbling about how it was obviously just his perception and his perception had nothing to do with what was really happening, swearing-girl continued going on and on and on about how she perceived the world. Meanwhile, less outspoken girl contemplated what the squirrel had said. She was perceiving reality she thought. But what if her perceptions were an illusion? She dipped her consciousness towards when she was a little girl and everything moved so slowly when she was bored, and when she was in action or occupied, everything happened far too fast. She began to wonder if she could be doing something for reality to get on with itself, because she was perceiving reality very slowly at the moment.
“What if we want time to pass slower?” she decided to ask Julian, but he had fallen into a pouting sleep on his pillow, and did not respond to her inquisition. At this time, the box chose to produce a clock. Ironic, considering all of the hullabaloo over time in recent moments. Rather wary of the clock, and only vaguely aware that the clock might be someone’s something, both girls silently agreed to approach the clock and investigate it. Investigating should not be conducted by these girls, as demonstrated by the mess they had gotten themselves into by investigating a mere Styrofoam box. Someone only knows what kind of trouble they would be capable of with a clock, and one produced by said box at that.
Upon nearly approaching the clock, the girls were set down elsewhere by the web-pattern. Both rather startled by the newest development and thoroughly annoyed with their newly bruised asses (the web had not been gentle), they stood up and forged once again towards the box and the clock. The clock appeared to have changed from its previous incarnation of an ordinary black-and-white wall hanging clock to a perhaps even more ordinary red standalone clock with bells, presumably to act as alarms, situated on the top. Not entirely sure whether they were mistaken in this observation and having their brains feeling increasingly muddled, they came to the fairly sane conclusion that they were insane.
Just then gravity turned up the intensity and pulled them towards the ground which had somehow situated itself behind them instead of firmly under their feet as had previously been so reliable. Feeling immensely discouraged, they laid flat on the upright ground, and went through the various possibilities of how this story of their trip into the forest was going to resolve itself, or if the apparently increasing gravity would just flatten them and they would rot into the scenery. They thought of all the movies about insane asylums, about virtual realities, thought about the movies resolved in dreams. They thought about this for days within the hours they laid there, everything perceptionally more important, their thoughts racing along ten tracks at once at speeds unimaginable for those stuck in a world lacking webbing and horizontal gravity.
Whilst wandering back towards the thought of how their story may resolve itself, one of the girls recalled a time the two had gone to see a psychological thriller at the local cinema. In her mind, she turned around and passed her eyes over a cutesy movie cardboard cutout, another cutout of a more action-based film, an advertisement pushing various food and beverage products, and then settled upon an out of-focus poster, mostly blue, it appeared. The blurriness of the image had caught her eye, or her minds’ eye rather, and she began to sift through the thoughts in her head for what it might be. First she found the font of the title, a simultaneously scratchy and scrolly font, and her mind placed it squarely at the base of the poster, in white. Digging further into her mind yielded a girl in a blue dress with blonde hair and an inquisitive look on her face, fairly centered in the rectangular poster. She began to recognize the poster, and immediately [though incorrectly] placed a hookah smoking caterpillar and queen of hearts in the picture and filled the font with the words, “Alice in Wonderland”.
That was it! They were neither insane, nor had their world been turned sideways or cloaked in a web. They were tripping. The girl whose head had trapped all these thoughts voiced the realization that they weren’t insane, and the girls proceeded into giggle fits and an effortless enjoyment of their psilocybin trip before heading back to the car with a crop of mushrooms and their heads moving abstractly through their once again perceptionally same world.