Write, write, write, the words ring through my mind like an unanswered phone call. I listen to music, and it does nothing, I try yoga, I only succeed in hurting my calf. Moo. I laugh out a silent chuckle in my mind as I picture a leg with a cow’s face.
There; there’s a story! A man with a face on his leg! Imagine the horror someone would go through trying to hid it, muffle the words of terror its lips push out, all while giving his best attempt to continue an ordinary life.
Of course, it would all be futile. In the end the supernatural always does more and more when ignored. But that’s a truth only inherent in my stories.
I woke with a start sitting in front of my desk, stories and drawings scattered about me; stories and drawings I don’t remember doing; all of them depicting a laughing face, a face of a man that granted wishes, but twisted them to his own hellish mischief. I read each story, and looked over every drawing. Why don’t I remember making these?!
A drop of sweat trickled down the bridge of my nose and went over my lip, leaving a salty aftertaste in my mouth. I’m freaking out. I go to get off of my chair, and tree roots snap as I pull myself from the seat. The roots were thick, connecting me to the chair, and pulling them off felt
The Voice of the Indian by ZachReynoldson, literature
Literature
The Voice of the Indian
Last summer, I went on an archeological dig an hour's drive away, one of the first controversial digs of the old Iowan Indian burial mounds. In one particular spot of mud, I fished into it with my hand and pulled out what looked like a gold coin.
What I was supposed to do was hand over any findings to the group leader, but I decided to pocket it for myself.
The rest of the dig went quite well; we found a few arrow heads and bits and pieces of Indian corpse, but apart from that, nothing especially valuable was officially found. Upon returning home, I phoned the head of the local museum, and found that he would buy the coin off of me for a fe
Write, write, write, the words ring through my mind like an unanswered phone call. I listen to music, and it does nothing, I try yoga, I only succeed in hurting my calf. Moo. I laugh out a silent chuckle in my mind as I picture a leg with a cow’s face.
There; there’s a story! A man with a face on his leg! Imagine the horror someone would go through trying to hid it, muffle the words of terror its lips push out, all while giving his best attempt to continue an ordinary life.
Of course, it would all be futile. In the end the supernatural always does more and more when ignored. But that’s a truth only inherent in my stories.
I woke with a start sitting in front of my desk, stories and drawings scattered about me; stories and drawings I don’t remember doing; all of them depicting a laughing face, a face of a man that granted wishes, but twisted them to his own hellish mischief. I read each story, and looked over every drawing. Why don’t I remember making these?!
A drop of sweat trickled down the bridge of my nose and went over my lip, leaving a salty aftertaste in my mouth. I’m freaking out. I go to get off of my chair, and tree roots snap as I pull myself from the seat. The roots were thick, connecting me to the chair, and pulling them off felt
The Voice of the Indian by ZachReynoldson, literature
Literature
The Voice of the Indian
Last summer, I went on an archeological dig an hour's drive away, one of the first controversial digs of the old Iowan Indian burial mounds. In one particular spot of mud, I fished into it with my hand and pulled out what looked like a gold coin.
What I was supposed to do was hand over any findings to the group leader, but I decided to pocket it for myself.
The rest of the dig went quite well; we found a few arrow heads and bits and pieces of Indian corpse, but apart from that, nothing especially valuable was officially found. Upon returning home, I phoned the head of the local museum, and found that he would buy the coin off of me for a fe
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