User blog:BrokenTeeth/Yes! I Wrote a Pasta!

I'm not so sure it's as creepy as it could be, but at least I tried. I'm actually kind of proud of the way it turned out and I'l actually like to do a few images to go along with it. Until then though, I guess I'll just copy-pasta it from Word to here:

It was a brisk morning in September, a breeze sweeping across the flat landscape. A young man stood outside, staring up at the dim sky. It was sometime around 5:00 am, he knew that for a fact, as the sun had just begun peeking up over the horizon. The man, sitting on an old cobblestone step, took a drag of the cigarette he held between his fingers. He kept his mouth shut and blew the vapors from his nose. It was early, and he didn’t usually wake up before the awful screech of his alarm jerked him out of his slumber.

He was still in a glassy-eyed sort of daze, not completely coherent. Not that he was complaining; the view from his backyard was serene. There was vast field, stretching back, leading into the thick brush of a distant wood. It was a fairly isolated location; no neighbors to worry about and no road near enough to produce any bothersome noise.

The house itself was old and something along the lines of a small farmhouse. The previous owner, upon selling the place, had told him something about drifters that wandered around on occasion. Something along the lines of:

''“Just watch yourself, Salem. There’s these, uh… ‘Zingaros’— is what I call ‘em – that roam about out here. I’m not sure whether or not they’re dangerous but, uh… Just keep an eye out for ‘em. They don’t like for people ‘round here to be out before dawn.”''

As many times as they’d talked, he would have expected that the older gentleman would have at least called him by the right name. By their third conversation, he had lost count of how many times he’d been called “Salem” instead of “Solomon”. Although Solomon had heeded the previous owner’s words, he hadn’t seen any other people around the area.

He lifted the cigarette to his lips again, taking a deep breath and sighing, once again expelling the smoke out of his nose. What was there to worry about anyway? From what he could understand, it sounded as if these “Zingaros” were nothing more than gypsies. Maybe the old man was just senile he mused, chuckling a bit at the thought. Solomon yawned, closing his eyes and slowly lifting his unoccupied hand to cover his mouth.

For a few moments he simply sat and relished the feeling of, once again, having his eyes shut. He listened for a moment to his own breathing pattern, disregarding everything else around him. Solomon snapped back to attention when he heard some of the foxtails moving. It sounded as if there were several people making their way through the tall grass. He opened his eyes, unable to comprehend what he was looking at.

There were several tall figures lumbering out from within the wooded area. Their limbs were long and bony, legs carrying them high above the swaying grass. The arms lead down to gnarled hands which had five, unnaturally long fingers attached to them. From what he could tell, a few of them were wearing thin, tattered scarves around their necks.

Trailing behind them were several smaller beings, which he assumed to be younger versions of these strange things. The hands of the younger individuals were safely locked within the tight grasp of their older-looking predecessors. The faces of the creatures were quite obviously inhuman; their jaw lines were very sharp and the face overall was very gaunt. The pale, nearly translucent skin was stretched over their extremely sallow frame.

He took note of their facial features as well, or lack thereof. They were missing noses and mouths, as far as he could tell. For a moment, he was confused as to whether their eyes were simply a deep, solid black or if they were simply empty sockets. Naturally, he was too frightened to walk up to them and find out. Curiosity was gnawing endlessly at his mind, as was fear and anxiety. He instinctively seized up, willing himself not to move; perhaps if he kept completely still and silent, he wouldn’t be detected.

Only seconds later did he realize that the older ones were looking in his direction. The way they did so made a terrible coldness run along his spine. Their necks seemed to snap into place in the same way movement is seen under a strobe light. One or two of them had to tilt their necks backwards in order to see what the others were looking at.

The smaller bodies had awkwardly shuffled behind their guardians, peeking out in order to survey what was going on. The behavior they were displaying was intensely similar to that of a human. Solomon continued to stay stock still; the tower of accumulated ash on the end of his cigarette fell to the ground. He suddenly took notice that the sky had darkened significantly, and though the breeze was completely gone, he became very cold.

The creatures turned and advanced, allowing the hands of the younger beings slip out of their own. As they approached, their bodies seemed to move smoothly and slowly as if wading through water. Solomon found himself paralyzed; completely unable to urge his body to move. With eyes wide and heart racing, he hadn’t any other choice but to struggle with himself to gain back movement. A soft, strangled cry escaped from his open mouth, as the strangers moved in closer.

A long, bony arm had been extended out in front of the creature that was closest to Solomon; it’s spindly fingers only a few feet from his face. Bile arose to his throat and he could just barely keep it from rising any further. Cold fingers swept gently across his face just before the arm was lowered back down to the monster’s side.

Looming over him, a couple of them tried nudging their way up front to get a look at him. At this particular moment, they seemed nothing more than curious, however he was still very frightened by all of this. The front-most beast made a strange cooing sound, which, under any other circumstance, would have made him smile, but this wasn’t something he was able to understand. When a bird coos, it’s nothing more than a simple call, but for all he knew, this sound was a forewarning of a hostile attack.

For what seemed like an hour he stared into the empty black eyes hovering above his trembling form. During this time, he finally put all of this together; these were the Zingaros he’d been told about. These things were most certainly real; he no longer tagged these creatures as a harmless figment of a lonely old man’s deteriorating mind.

A dirty, torn up silk scarf was presented to him, being held in the palm of the creature’s hand. Glancing at the scarf quickly and then back up to the creature’s face, he received another soft coo and the thing moved its hand closer, urging the young man to take it. This was even more distressing; if he didn’t accept what was being offered, they might attack him. However, this could be some kind of trap. Before he was able to choose either course of action, he found that his hand was already wrapped gently around the scarf, slowly pulling it from the bony hand.

All of the creatures ceased their staring, turning themselves around to retrieve their younger counterparts. Taking their hands once more, the strange entities began their descent back into the trees. For a few moments, Solomon sat in a state of shock. He absent-mindedly stood up, throwing his burned up cigarette on the ground, stomping out the remaining embers.

He opened the back door, walking back inside in a glassy-eyed daze. He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall to check the time.

4:00

His brow furrowed and he stared for a moment. He was confused; it must have stopped working. Scarf in hand still, he turned away from the clock, facing a window. It looked exactly the same as it had when he’d first gone out that morning. Upon closer inspection, he noticed some scratches in the window pane. He could easily tell that letters had been carved into the glass and he squinted, trying to make out the words. As his eyes skimmed the engraved words, he read them aloud to himself.

“Stay inside this time, Solomon.”

So, there's that. I'd like feedback, but I know the ending isn't great. I think my pasta is kind of cold, honestly, but I'm still proud of myself for giving it a try! Images will be added later as a follow up post when I get them done :D