New World - A Short Story

[Tylan]

(Despite his coming later than the period of our beloved Salem, Edgar Allen Poe who yesterday turned 207 has clearly been a great inspiration to Salem, its lore, and its general feel. I present to you all a work I have crafted in his honor, or at least the beginning. For the remainder of the tale, please feel free to purchase the book from the Popham bookseller, penned under the name Horace Scribbles)

January 19, 16XX

I pass no semblance of judgement on he who finds this missive, for by the time of its reading I will likely be dead. Still it stalks me from below, waiting for the moment when I no longer expect its clutches to wrench me from life. I do not ask that my words be believed. I hold no pretense of reliability and pass little mind to being held in any regard other than that of a raving lunatic. I write for writing’s sake, for the sake of what is left to me by the uncaring hand of fate that guides all woebegone sinners on this, our only stage.

Hardly a day passes that before my mind’s eye does not the flit the faint image of her, my once betrothed. So terribly quaint the notion has become, so tragically episodic as to be considered regular that I’m found in my darkened sitting room with lids shut to match the curtains (vile curtains, they which shed light on the vicious deed), despite the noon hour, recalling her in as vivid detail as my liquor-soaked mind can achieve. The disease of Alcohol weighs on me, like a feather pillow, almost a comfort were it not smothering my brain; that airway passage to the soul. I cry out for her, but she cannot hear me through the clouded barrier of the barrel’s tang, for it seems so clear to me that were it not for the drink, not a soul left wandering could help but feel my anguish, beckoned like moths to a blazing inferno in the midst of this dull, dank reality.

And yet perhaps they do hear me, do feel these flames of grief that consume my heart, leaving me charred and black from the inside out. Perhaps they watch me, my motley audience, casually observing the fool and his misery as a scientist may watch a mouse with a morsel of bread. The tingling waking nightmare that I find myself in leaves me feeling those dead sockets on my skin, laying down their gaze like the wet grip of cold, dead hands. The scent of the grave lingers all around and I am undone.

She was too young for this place we found ourselves in, this “new world” as it was so pedantically called by the snobs who funded its development or the poor laborers and craftsmen who tried desperately to hide the patina of filth beneath the polish of discovery and wonder. Wonder! What a lark. The idea that some uncivilized, uncultured, wild land could be a wonder. Raw nature is but a beast waiting to clamp its jaws around the neck of those unwitting enough to take a glimpse within. But yes, as I said, too young, and too bold to handle the realities of this life. Too helpless and innocent.
With the promise of youth we made our way beneath the stars, across a sea, and through the wilderness to a small cabin near a calm lake. There we aimed to spend our days toiling, raising a family, and finally expiring beneath the shade of the nearby old willow whose branches did whisper so sweetly to us on those first summer nights. They spoke of promises undreamt, unfathomed, unborn but so willing to bloom into existence with just the slightest effort. And so we took to the promises, we tilled the fields, we put up a fence, we dug a cellar.

And here I must give pause, dear reader, for you see it was this very action which directly corresponded to the downfall of our tale. All was merry and well until the reality of living in such a backwoods locale came dawning upon us both and we realized the desperate need for the cool darkness of a cellar in which to store a supply of food for the winter months. We had no idea when setting out to the task that it would be the thing to end us both. Such was our folly. How far man has come to stop fearing that which lies beneath surely marks the era of learnedness as one far deadlier than any that came before.

It was not large, perhaps a wagon’s breadth and length, with earthen walls and wooden shelves to store all manner of provisions. She was happy, at least then, my beauty. Her smile was a radiance to distract my senses from our coming doom, which now sat so close to our happy lives, clawing its wretched nails into strands of our fated tapestry. Worst of all was the happiness that immediately followed. The year of bliss, of well managed harvest and survival and hunting. Of a warm hearth, a warm bed, a warm damned life. When the year had passed, I was out in the field when the tinker called.

The man was bald, aging poorly for a settler, a group known to be more robust and healthful due to the physical demands of such a lifestyle. He was sitting upon an old cart pulled by an older ass, and the tinkling of pots and pans followed him. I rose on weary knees and marked the sun’s time, approaching warily as the lands were largely lawless in that day and age. He was a seller of many things, mostly metalwork, and allowed me to see his wares. For a few bits and a pig, I bought a new knife, a bag of salt, a locket, and a compact still for brewing. This, more than anything he had, fascinated me, for I had ever had an interest in the chemical makeup of the world and alcohol was in short supply in the land of savages and beasts. So I sacrificed a small corner of the cellar in which to experiment with the brewing of beverages.

Long hours would I spend, with the help of a distant neighbor with whom I corresponded who had been a Dutch brewer before he became a Dutch baker here in the new world. He lent me the ingredients and instructed me on the proper workings for the device so as to ensure I did not poison myself or cause the apparatus to explode. As it was, my first attempt was a success, and I was soon an addict to process. In the meantime, my sweet beloved obliged my fancy and encouraged me despite the work that went undone outside the cellar. Eventually I understood the need for food and found a way to pry myself apart to ensure we did not starve. But always would I return to the sanctity of my temple with its metallic idol, filled with the liquid that would seal my doom. Over time, I realized that the still was beginning to cause a slight deformation of the earth behind and around it, probably due to the heat. Scorched discoloration appeared to be making portions of the wall crumble and darken. I paid it no mind; the cost of progress.

Time passed, and I continued my ritualistic visits, monitoring the still, the brew, every part of it to ensure perfection of the entire proceeding while also doing my part to live comfortably with my love. But as time did pass I found myself more and more often beneath the ground, sitting with the still, listening to the quiet of the earth around me, feeling the cool dirt against my hands. I would simply stare at my work, at the discolored walls, the crumbling that grew more and more each day.

One night I awoke to a whisper, so faint I thought it must have been the remnants of a dream passing through my sleeping mind. Yet again I did hear it and as I was so bidden did I rise onto the cold floorboards, shuffling out into the night. The willow nearby stood silent in the dead night with moon overhead, not so much as twitching. There was no breeze, no sound out on the still lake. The birds, insects, and wildlife of all kinds seemed to have grown still as if in hushed awe of what was to come.

(Continued in book format, purchasable in Popham. Proceeds will be donated to the church and the author rejects any titles or awards given should he top the list in the event the land of Popham is ended with witchery. This was my sole Popham goal, and I find it suiting that I made it in time for Mr. Poe's birthday. A pleasant evening, Salem.)

[nadde991]

.....

Only someone with no life would read all this

[Icon]

Yeah I'm sorry, I love Poe, and I like Tylans writing skillz, but my ADD looked at this and said "pffft, ***** that". I'll bookmark it until I can find a valume

[JohnCarver]

I read it in-game. Felt more fun that way.

[jesi]

Yeah I'm sorry, I love Poe, and I like Tylans writing skillz, but my ADD looked at this and said "pffft, ***** that". I'll bookmark it until I can find a valume

It's worth it if you can.

[Tulgarath]

Too bad if you buy it on Popham you can't take it with you.

[Tylan]

Too bad if you buy it on Popham you can't take it with you.

If enough copies are sold, I will utilize my resources toward making it available on Providence. If only Mr. Carver would consider my request to adjust Providence's best-seller list to one that refreshes every month.

[Icon]

OH! I have to log in to read the rest? you sneaky turd! Excelent style though, I havnt read Poe in a loooong time, but his use of description makes my brain wet. excelent work. And since we are to celebrate Poe, I will leave you with my favorite tribute to him

Once upon a web-surf weary, while I pondered red-eyed, bleary,
Over many a quaint and curious website of X-rated lore,
Smiled and nodded, dodging cookies, looking for the films of nookie,
And as always, dodging spyware, aware in my search for more
And more explicit pictures, of the housewives that were bored,
Nothing kinky, only porn.

As I wandered I remembered, a URL found last December,
That caused a twitching in my member, that I rubbed till it was sore
Eagerly I typed the address, half-remembered, half a mad guess
In my mind it stirred a madness - madness for a dark-eyed *****,
For a sad-eyed shameless maiden who displayed her charms - and more!
Nameless on some site of porn..

Feeling guilty, sad, uncertain, my urges had my conscience hurting
But thrilling - filling me with fantastic feelings never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I sat repeating
"I'm just a visitor entreating entrance to a site of porn
I am a visitor entreating images that give me horn
This is all and nothing more."
Presently my urge grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
I hit return and waited, watching while DNS lookup explored;
But while I sat anticipating, beneath the desk my member aching,
The site I recalled navigating, the navigator found no more,
And I scarce believed what I was seeing, for in the place of free hardcore
Quoth the Server "404"

Deep into the popups peering, long I sat there wondering, fearing,
Had I not typed correct the URL once more?
For free hardcore (for I was frugal), in my lusting turned to Google,
Typed keywords that I might ogle pages of hot chicks galore,
And I whispered to the phosphor "give me back my free hardcore -
Only that and nothing more.

But web controls then saw the searches, clamped down on illicit urges,
"Access Denied" was all I found and nothing more,
On porn-sites it saw me shirking when I really should be working
Like a specter always lurking, blocking free sex sites and more
The horny housewives sang their siren-call no more
Quoth the Server "404"

Determined then to circumvent it, another address I then entered
Taking me, I hoped, to our server's less secure back door
But someone had secured the proxies, denying access to web doxies,
No more ladies hot and foxy, but still I could not be sure,
And so, with shaking hands I typed the arcane codes once more -
Quoth the Server "404"