From: Paul_Trauth@agwbbs.new-orleans.LA.US (Paul Trauth)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: fish.
Date: 9 Apr 92 06:38:35 GMT
Article-I.D.: agwbbs.Paul_Trauth.0bn2
Organization: The Amiga GateWay BBS * New Orleans, La.

somewhere, somewhere, fish swim in the incredibly blue sky above the
parched, cracked, water-starved planes and plateaus.
if you jump far enough you might catch one.
it would struggle in your hand, shedding multi-colored scintillating
scales, as it thrashed about wildly, trying to escape the pinkness
surrounding it.
but to no avail.
it would continue struggling as you looked out across the endless
planes, to the dark spots on the horizon. you might begin walking,
keeping the still-flopping fish, curious to see what the dark spots
were.
as you get closer the spots would resolve into tall statues, most
reminiscent of the easter island heads. strangely-proportioned giants
buried in sand up to their necks, staring out into the vast eternity of
drifting sand, scattered rocks, and blue sky.
the fish might twitch suddenly in your hand, reminding you of it,
jerking your attention away from the enigmatic statues. a sudden urge
could awaken in your mind, possibly from some unimaginable ancient
Presence hovering about the place, possibly from hitherto-unknown depths
of your own subconsciousness.
regardless of its origin, you would perhaps decide to act upon this
desire and place the struggling fish in the gaping mouth of the closest
head.
the head would rise up, dark against the bright sky, as you came closer.
it would become apparant that the head, like its brothers or sisters, is
incredibly ancient. it has been here in this place since the dawn of
time.
you would approach the head, submitting to your inexplicable urge,
standing on the strangely still sand before the gaping head. the fish
would twitch once more, nervously this time, you would feel.
you might at this point shake off the strange influence driving you in
this mysterious ritual act, throwing the fish away from you, running
wildly away from the cluster of enigmatic heads. but it is unlikely.
having come this far on a wild impulse, you would step up before the
head. slowly you would raise the hand holding the still-struggling fish,
with a feeling that this has been done a thousand times before, and that
it will be done a thousand times again.
but as you are about to bring the fish past those huge stony lips, the
fish would, after a period of seeming quiscience, give a sudden, violent
twist of its tail and loose your grip upon its body, leaving you holding
no more than a few remaining bright scales that cling to your hand like
flakes of mica.
the fish circles around, once, just beyond your reach, as if to taunt
you and the ancient idol, before swimming up to rejoin its school,
barely in sight before the wispy clouds.
you would be left with mixed feelings of relief and terror. terror at
the possible results of not obeying the dark, cabalistic impulses that
compelled you to almost feed the fish to the head. relief that you did
not do it, and that the urge has left you with the fish.
"perhaps" you might say to yourself, as you slowly walked away from the
heads, across the vast and empty plain, towards a jutting mesa, "perhaps
i was posessed by an ancient dark god, banished here to inhabit this
waste until the next Cycle begins. placing the fish in the idol's maw
might have released this god, with myself being its second hapless
victim."
"or..."
you might think, stopping for a moment and turning to regard the still,
unmoving, enigmatic form of the idol, the schools of bright fish darting
here and there about the sky, "...perhaps it was merely some strange,
mysterious impulse of my own, sparked from some random association."
 
you might stand there for some time, contemplating, as the sun remained
steady in its place, beaming down upon you, yet not heating you unduly.
and you might go chasing the fish again, to try once more to sacrifice a
fish upon the idol's tounge.
 
it may stop. but it never ends.
 
 
 
---
inspired in equal parts by the novella for the game "weird dreams",
half-remembered fragments of h.p. lovecraft, and the dark fetid depths of
my subconcious.

-- Via DLG Pro v0.991

- be zorch, daddi-o --------------- paul (raccoon) trauth ----------------
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  "eagles may fly, but a weasel will never get sucked into a jet engine"