(3 - Alpha) Allya v. Inkdrinker

[Kaez]

Horror. Noun. An intense feeling of fear, shock, or disgust. While the term might be used in conjunction with cartoonish images of cobwebs and mediocre Hollywood jump-scares, literature is one place where horror retains its original form: the establishment of genuine fear. This is no small task. Investing a reader in the story and world with enough immersion to actually provoke such a feeling requires sharp writing and intentional and deliberate pacing and story progression – but done well, horror in fiction literature establishes a bond between the reader and the world, makes them care about the events taking place, and proves the worth and validity of the place and its characters.

Since this particular genre restriction is rather difficult to pull off, I'm leaving the contents and style of the stories entirely up to you. No further restrictions beyond the genre requirement.

[Inkdrinker]

There was a moistness to the air. A fetid heat and a certain uneasy pressure. An intangible smother to clog the body and the mind. A scraping sound of rust, followed by terrible, unbreakable silence. Bound by darkness. Gagged by light. Alone. Afraid.

The man had forgotten his own name. He paced fervently from wall to wall of the small and barren room, trying desperately to remember it. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve, sallow and wilted. A fever was raging behind his eyes, his throat slick and brittle. Saliva, thick like honey, leaking from the corner of his mouth. Something rancid lurked under his tongue. He kneaded his pink, swollen knuckles, switching hands erratically every couple of seconds.

He could not recall anything. Not a syllable, not a sound. It disturbed the man to have something so basic lost to him. Had he lost it? Or had someone taken it from him? He could not remember, could not be sure. He began to claw at his chest, his long, filthy nails, shredding though the fabric of his shirt. Something too bright to look at had been stitched shallowly into the flesh of his left pectoral muscle. His body was rejecting it, whatever it was. Contorted, itching hives and endless blisters spiraling out from the dazzling epicenter. He tried many times to dig the thing out with his fingernails, but the pain was too great.

There was no door into the room, no entrance or exit of any kind. The man had not cared to notice this before, but now he threw himself against the rough, natural stone walls in frustration. He shouted, but the sound was not familiar. It was a wrong sound, a distorted echo of a panicked whisper. It disturbed him, a man should know his own voice, he thought.

Labyrinthine claustrophobia. Walls of flesh and stone. Hot, incurable light. Above and below and inside and everywhere. Parched throat, wet skin. Eyes turned inwards. Sickly, shattered teeth. Blackened, oozing gums. The pleasures of mastication rejected. Churning, tumbling nausea.

By all rights, it should have been a futile act, to throw one's fists into a stone wall. But the wall cracked under his assault, stone sizzling and dripping to the floor. The man inspected his fist for further damage, finding to his surprise that although skin was split, beneath there was no naked flesh, just impossible light.

He felt no pain in his hand, in fact, he felt nothing at all. A nervous void on the end of his arm. He could not look long into the light, but he did not need to. The man recognized it for what it was: a tool. A tool to breach beyond the threshold of his prison. He pressed his ragged knuckles against the wall and the light did the work for him. The stone retreated like a routed army, desperate to escape the wrath of the unnatural light.

The man was tunneling, but he was tunneling to nowhere and he wasn't getting there fast enough. He devised a grisly solution. Feeling no pain, he dug his fingernails into his right hand and scraped away what skin remained. He watched the final tatters of the sunken skin fall to the floor with a sense of foreboding satisfaction. The man looked upon his new hand, a hand of unfaltering, unadulterated light. Pride crept into the back of his mind.

He could move freely now, any barrier parting with a wave of his hand and the right amount of encouragement. Where he was or how he had gotten there was still unclear. He encountered no passageway not made from his own hand. Many times he found himself having unwittingly gone in circles, burrowing right into the empty space where he had been. Out of his prison, not to freedom, but merely to a larger cell.

Hand gone. Gnawed off. It was too hungry. So hungry. Consumed, but the shackle remained. Binding, bituminous bite. Under the skin, something foreign. Something alien. Something lonely and longing and wriggling and wrong.

W̷̡̛͔͖̯͎͎͕̬͖R͟͏̧̥͙̙̞͈̭̠̣ͅǪ̡̰̖̗̝̲̩̖̫N̶̤͇̦͔G̱̦͇͎͉͖̺ ̛̻͚͉͙̲W̡͇̱͚͚̤̦͓̪͞R͏̦̭͝O̤̱̩̱̞͎̣͍͠N̲̟͘G̸̭ ̸̻͕̲͞W̧̟̝̪̘͉̟͔͡R͉̻̕O̢͖̮̳͔̥͔͘͘N̥̭͈̭̜̙̪̯̪͞Ģ̢̙̟̫̥̳͚͔ ̵̻͎̖̗̰̪̱͟ͅW҉̪͕̰R̸͖̟̳͕͍̫̀Ǫ͚̱N̶̳̭̯͎G̵͎̹͢ ̣̰̳̪̘͟͡W̷͓͚̣̪͟Ŗ̲̺͎Ơ̖͖͇̠͚̮͖̭N̡͇̹̖̺̰̘͙̬G̭͞ ͎̬͉̼W̴̷̞̮̻̞̜͎͈͡ͅR̶̸̼̘̼̟̞͠O̫͔͈̞̥̯͔͢͞ͅN͎͍̼̦͙̮͕ͅǴ̸̙͇̲̞̣̼̰̞͓͡
̺̹͓͙͚́͟ͅ ͉͇̻̠̪̝͖͖ ̹̠͙̹̺̳̼ ̧̼̳̼͖̬̣͈̘̤́͝ ͙̗͎͟͞͝ͅ ͔̲̥̕̕W̵̩͚͞R͏̬͚̠̠̀O̸̴̜̫̼͕̯͍̯̰͘N̷̜̺̯̭̯̘͟G̸̷͎͙͇̰̤ ͉̝̤̮͕̩͝ͅ ̹͇̟̟̞̯͓̤́͞ ̧͈̬̝͞ ͢͏̬̦͔̗̖̮̠̣ ̷͖̹̯͉͍̙̙W̵͈̥̝͚̥R̻̲̮͎͎̀O̹͡͝N̴̯̞̺͓Ǵ̖̤̬̦͇̪͢͠ ͖͉̱̯͡ ̛̹̗̀ ̟̹̺̞͞ ҉͈͚̖ ҉͇͈̮̹͎͉̫W̶̱̲̣̤̖̘͟ͅŖ͍̺̖͡͞Ǫ͏͕͍͈̘͖͔̫̰͕N̥͍̙̹̲̦̜̲G̛̯̝̞ ̦̼͕͇̱̲ ̵̤̞̪́ ̰̬̘͈͙͠ͅ ̵̤̥̣̱̩ͅ ̛̳͇̗̳̝͎̤W̷̷͉̼͡R͏̴̶̞̖̱̖̝̹̩O͍͈͈͝Ņ̵҉̝͈̰G͠͏͍ͅ
̝̺̣͍͓͢͝ ̪͚̮̖̫̟̬͞ͅ ̀҉̼̘̙͕ͅ ̶̨̲̱̣͖ ̡̼̦̲̳̫͚̪͘͠ ̻̝̪̜̮ ̴͚̤͓̗͚́ ̵̞̖̫̥̘͙ ̞̥͇͍̲͢͝ ̹̬̣̰̱̱̟̪͟ ̴̛͎̰̭́ͅͅW҉̜͕͈̠̬R̮̘̥͎̰̠̼̣ͅO͍̯͖͎̜̦̜̺ͅN̛̩̮̹̠G͏͏̖̙̣̯͇͉̭͉̰ ̪̻̼̗͚ ̨͏̳͕̝͉ ̷̟̥̤̻͎̼̣͞ ̸̢̛̘̩̬̘͇ ̶̦͓́͝ ̶̪̘̰͎̖͜ ͇̦͍͘͞ ̴҉͎͍̪̲͓̤̣͝ͅ ̵̴̨͔̮̟͚͉̖ ̴͈͉̰̟͉̞͚Ẃ̵͉͔͎̞R̦͈͎̺͉̀͡Ó͍͙̗͕̺̦͝N̗̜̞̠̪̼̝͈̕͘G̲͚̳͔͖͚̼ ̩̭̹͎ ̵͈ ̢̼͠ ̻̜͙͞ ̵̴͙̦̖ ̢͏͍̝ ̶̢̪͙͉̮͇̘ ̸̼̯ ̜͉͔̱W̴̙̞Ŗ͍̭͘͟O̷̡̘̞N̳̣̯̜̲̲̫G̨̹̫͍̳̱̜̰͠
̢̘͚͙̞͙̹͉͞ͅ ̰͎̬ ̷̦̹̥͠ ҉͡͏͇̭̪ ̞͢͝ ͍̳͉̰̖͡ ̰̟͠ ͙̖̻͍͙́ͅ ̴̪̜̩̜̖̱ ҉̺̮̻̀͘ͅ ͏͓̮͍̫̱̣͕ ̡̖̲̻̪̱̹̩̤ ̡̗̙̜͎͕̭̤̪́ ҉̡̨̥̬̺̥̟ͅ ̵̖̻̲̹̗̦̝̯͝ ̢̨̤͠W̧̰̞̗̩͚̥̦͘ͅR̥̥̺̻̬͓͔͠Ó̧̭̫̙̲̣̣͓͢N̶̩̱ͅǴ̶̩̞̗̹͖͞ ̀͏̦̺ ̴͓͙̘̰̩̯̯̣͕ ̨̤͔͓̖ ̛̜̗͚͙̙̤̹͎ ̸̼͇̫̥́ͅ ̡͕̹̦͖̟̼̗ͅ ̧̘̳͉̤͙̰̗͘ ̦̖̳́ ̨͕̫̖̥̲̪͞ͅ ̫̳͇̱̗͟ͅ ̶͏̠̯̺̹̝͚̟͚ ̵̙̭̩̟ ̵̭̳̹͕̞̪̯̞ ̴̢̜̤͇ ̡̣͎̦̺̬̙Ẃ̳͚͕̼̖̦͟R̵̻͝O̥͙͓̼N̲̜̼̠̬ͅG̸̪̯͉̺̕
̩̝͍͙̱ ͓̳̤͕̙̭̣̰ ̤̳́ ̫̟̮̖̜͕̕ ̷̙̪̥͉̖̘̤ͅ ̮̯͚̕ ͙̠̻̭͜͞ ̛̭͓̪͠ ̸̭͈ ̶̪̻͔̳̮̪͚ ̶̡̩̖̤̱̭̖͜ͅ ͚͚̲̳͙̙̫̦͢͡ ̱̜͍̙̤͕̪͞ ̛̜̙̦͉ ̶͎̞̗͜ ͓̳̦̮̖͚̬̕͢ͅ ̸̬̭͘͞ ̙̞ ̶̙͇̱ ̡̡̣̪̤W̳R̤͍͎̹̜ͅO̴̤̠̞̼N͏͖͙͘G̺̺̮͕͚̙̥̙ ̷̴͚̘̼̥͓ͅ ̠̼̹̭̱̝͈͚̺ ̵̘͇̜͈͓̟͔̙ ̱̳͎͙͈͙̜͍͝ ̴̵͖̻

The jelly of the man's eyes grew weak. The light emanating from his own body was overstimulating, primeval.
He desired more and he knew how to get it. Again, using the fingernails of his left hand, he began to strip his right arm of its cloak of skin. Pain gave way to elation. Flesh gave way to light. This was how he was supposed to be, he thought. This was how everyone was supposed to be. Free to walk the stone as its master, not an intruder. To shape the world as one wanted. He began to wonder what else he was now capable of.

Endless meandering burrows and the man still appeared no closer to his goal. There would be no escape while he held on to his old form. He tore into his shoulder, his chest, his back, everything. With exquisite agony and perfect pleasure he unraveled himself. The eyes were the hardest to let go.

Undone. The parasite devoured the host from the inside out. Parts never meant to see stared blindly, discarded and forgotten. Sacred mutilation. Holy oblivion. Freedom from filth. The body perished. The mind eternal. Something else lingering, spiritual sinew.

[Matteo ((Taed))]

Something too bright to look at had been stitched shallowly into the flesh of his left pectoral muscle. His body was rejecting it, whatever it was. Contorted, itching hives and endless blisters spiraling out from the dazzling epicenter. He tried many times to dig the thing out with his fingernails, but the pain was too great .

Great image.

The man inspected his fist for further damage, finding to his surprise that although skin was split, beneath there was no naked flesh, just impossible light .

Also a really great image; I am totally sold


... This was kind of great. Seriously, there's some gorgeous imagery in here. I was fully engaged right from the get go. I don't know if I totally get it, and I actually prefer it that way. I think it's interesting that there's actually a pretty big question mark surrounding the "horror" component altogether. In some readings I think this could definitely be taken a different way. The initial ideas are definitely creepy: the psychological horror of imprisonment, the existential horror of the loss of self, the body horror of maiming and dismemberment, only the progression of those ideas could be viewed as almost ... hopeful. Transcendent even.

The use of the word parasite seems to suggest that the man was playing host to something that ate him from the inside out, but he seemed to enjoy releasing it. Was that intended as some sort of cordyceps brain hack, or was it genuinely freeing for him? On that note, the light seemed to be guiding the man to freedom, but it never actually led him out directly. Was that a bluff as well?

Really, really interesting stuff. First piece so far that I have nothing negative to talk about.

Oh! Wait! The dumb text formatting. Yeah, that was dumb.


Winner: Inkdrinker