Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25569708-20161210024323

Greetings all! Alright, so this section is obviously a long time coming. The only stuff that needs to be added is a paragraph or two at the end, but while I think of how to write it/them I'm putting up the rest of the section so I can get some feedback on it and finally let people see it.

If anything at all here seems nonsensical/uninteresting/unneeded/silly/inappropriate/missing, or if you have any suggestions in general, then by all means please feel free to let me know! Once again, I'm very very sorry for the long wait on this story, hopefully it's worthy of being included on the project.

Enjoy, and please let me know what you think!

"Like a fiend with his dope and a drunkard with his wine

A man will have lust for the lure of the mine

And pray when I'm dead and my ages shall roll

That my body would blacken and turn into coal"

Brian Miglucci listened to Johnny Cash air his grievances out a tinny car radio as he absentmindedly drummed his fingers against a clammy steering wheel. With the other hand, he wiped a sweaty palm across his tired face and gray stubble. He gave his stinging eyes a few hard blinks and let out a long, loud yawn. He had been leaning back in his driver’s seat for a couple hours now, and being stuck in a poorly-air conditioned minivan with the same steamy highway road as the only visual had taken a toll on him. Of course, the constant replaying of the fight with Diane back home was wearing on his mind too. In fact, Brian found it difficult to shift his thoughts away from it at all. Well to be completely honest, he couldn’t get his fucking mind off of it. He could still see it so cleanly, so vividly, in that tiny kitchen, the desperate and fed-up look in her eyes as she said it. He could still feel the sick, shrinking feeling in his gut as he sat there helplessly.

“Take the kids out and go.”

And go he did, of course. He had blindly swiped a tourist pamphlet off the table as he left the room, nearly knocking over his ultra-light Michelob in the process, whispering some choice names under his breath that he would never have the courage to say to her face. It was only after herding the two children, Tyler and Sarah, from their rooms and into the minivan that Brian actually bothered to read the pamphlet. It was advertising a far-away town the family had never been to before, a grimy tourist trap-type place that had been around for ages. Supposedly the “most haunted town in the country”, it was a rather large town by the name of Hollow Roots. Brian had done a good deal of traveling for his job and was slightly familiar with the place, but he had never actually stepped foot in it. He heard there were many family attractions and various other areas of interest to be found there, and the idea of paying the spot a visit had come to him before, but the prospect of driving the entire family out there in a sweltering van on a rancid summer day proved far too unattractive. With Dianne’s “blessing,” however, Brian didn’t mind the drive as much.

Suddenly Brian remembered that he had two other souls in the vehicle with him, and he fixed his gaze in the mirror at his two children. Knowing they were getting close to the town, he tried to cheer up his disinterested, stone-faced kids.

“Hallow Roots, teeen miles, ooooooohh!” he teased in a booming, sustained voice, playfully whirling his fingers behind him in their direction. “Beware Hallow Rooooots, the deeeaaadliest town in the wooorld, ooooohh! Abandon all hooope, ye who enter here! Who knows how far its terrrible curse reaches!"

The children giggled and Brian felt satisfied that he had done at least something right that day. Tyler ended his giggling fit with a loud cough. Brian turned back toward the road and regained his attention, smirking. “Daddy,” Sarah asked, “how much longer until we g-get to Hallow R-Roots?” “Just a half hour, sweetie,” Brian assured, momentarily cleared of his troubles. “And once we get there, we’ll do all sorts of fun things. Funhouses, landmarks, uhhh, Burger Kings, famous hote-”

“Will we get to play games?” she asked.

“Of course,” Brian said. “Arcade games, trampolines, uh, whatever you want. There’s a place- maybe a few- in town that have that sort of thing.” “Oh, okay,” replied Sarah absentmindedly. She was stupidly gazing out the car window at a passing tumbleweed. There seemed to be quite a lot of them. “Daddy, when w-”

“Jesus fuck!” screamed Brian. He jerked the steering wheel to the left and the car creaked loudly, quite horribly. The vehicle hurtled across the highway at a blazing speed and sailed across the median. The children yelled helplessly as Brian uselessly tried to get control of the van once again.

The car careened into the guardrail with an overwhelming thud. The heads of all the occupants violently rocked and the metal shell teetered badly. A soft smoke started emanating outside the car as the passengers slowly assessed the situation. Painted pieces of stripped metal littered the road and dark tire marks stained the tired road. The radio skipped and repeated endlessly,

"I miss those arms that-

I miss those arms that-

I miss those arms that-

I miss those arms that-"

before giving out entirely.

Everyone in the car was silent in the shocking aftermath, before Brian finally reacted with a panicked “A-are- is everyone alright?” Brian could see his children’s silhouettes through the smoky film, squirming and dazed from the unforgiving collision into the highway guardrail.

“Yes daddy,” Sarah managed to shakily squeak out. Brian was about to call for Tyler’s response until he saw the small figure of his son groggily nodding its head. Things were strangely quiet for another few moments before Brian opened the driver’s door while saying, “Okay, hold still guys.”

Once he got out, Brian could see the damage and what had caused the wreck. The car’s hood was crumpled up like a plastic cup, and an uneasy smoke emanated from within the car’s now-exposed inner workings. Brian shifted his eyes to the road behind him and saw a long, still-flowing wave of liquid amazingly flowing across the highway road. Only then did Brian notice the rank smell of sewage and the odd brownish color of the unknown water. He looked around for a possible source for the waste water, but no pipes or sewer entrances could be spotted from where he now stood. Brian also found it odd how he didn’t spot the water on the road when he ran over it; instead feeling only the car violently losing control.

Brian once again came to his senses and refocused his attention on getting his kids out of the wrecked car. He walked over to the intact passenger-side doors and opened one; thankfully the impact of the crash hadn’t dented the passenger doors inward, which would’ve prevented their opening. He looked inside to see his shaken-yet-unharmed children and- after inquiring about their condition- carefully lifted each one out and placed them on the side of the highway where they sat down. It was only then when Sarah began to weep in fear. Brian absentmindedly consoled her, surveying the broken vehicle while Tyler stared stonefaced at the odorous flowing water. Brian wiped a sweaty hand over his mouth, let out a shaky sigh, and dialed the number to Triple A.

As he was anxiously pacing around listening to the dial tone of his cell phone, Brian suddenly noticed something he had overlooked. Off in the distance, a couple hundred feet ahead, was a small roadside miniature golf course. Brian could even make make out the course’s name, thanks to a very large sign reading “[Course name here]”. Having seen this, an idea came to Brian.

"Hey guys," Brian started as he closed his cellphone, just having gotten done making arrangements with Triple A. "There's a, uh, mini-golf course up the way there, d'you wanna go up there and play a while until the tow truck guy comes?"

Sarah began to nod her head excitedly and loudly say "Yes, yes!" The trauma caused by the recent crash seemed to almost disappear.

Tyler seemed less enthused, evidenced by a small, apathetic shrug. "C'mon," Brian pressed with a wink. "It'll be fun." Then Brian leaned closer to Tyler, placed a hand on his small shoulder, and added quietly, "For your sister." After a moment Tyler relented with a slight nod and the three started to walk up the wet highway road.

As they were making their way, Brian silently chastised himself inwardly for not apparently paying enough attention to the road and getting everyone into a big, stressful mess.

"You dumb fat piece of shit. You fucked up everything for everyone yet again. Congratulations. Won't Diane just be giddy to hear-" but he cut his self-loathing train of thought off. He could stand- even encourage- the self-hate, but the last thing he wanted to think about right now was Diane. Brian tried to calm himself internally and refocused his attention on making sure the kids had at least a little fun today.

At last the three were starting to approach the entrance to the course, and all of them were at once very disappointed with what they saw. Far from the homey, quirky roadside attraction they had pictured, this "[Course name here]" was instead a run-down, outdated and seemingly-abandoned tourist trap of a place. The entrance booth was a dull pink Victorian-style structure, almost like that of some Grandmother's house. There were long cracks and even occasional spots of rust on the entire front of the green entrance building, and the spot where Brian assumed payment was to occur was beneath a tattered and tacky polka-dot awning. Brian took a peek over a rusty chain-link fence at the rear of the place and to his dismay, the golf track itself looked even worse. Overgrown grass intruded over all of the course green. An array of old litter, bottles and branches was scattered across the property. And then the worst of all: he noticed the statues.

There seemed no be no rhyme nor reason to the faded and cracked sculptures that populated the course; there were fairy tale characters, oversized food items, historical and political figures, tiny multicolored houses that even children couldn't fit in, a few scattered dinosaurs, and even what looked to be cryptids like Bigfoot and a Lizardman, albeit friendly smiling versions. Anything and everything seemed to be there in statue form somewhere, and the course looked quite overpopulated and ugly because of them. Some were positioned along the sidelines of the tracks’ grass, while others were apparently bolted down directly on the grass, making for second-rate obstacles. If he had to estimate, Brian would've guessed that there must have been four dozen statues in all, perhaps even more.

This all could perhaps be somewhat forgivable, if the statues didn't look the way they did. That is to say, the grotesque and malformed figures and objects Brian saw barely resembled the characters they were supposed to portray. The proportions for the human characters were too long and thin, almost as if the Mad Hatter and Captain Black Beard and all the others had become anorexic. Their paint was chipped and cracked, and it seemed as if the painting job for each figure was rushed, with some characters’ eye areas being completely white and others' mouths being devoid of any color. The poses the characters were in were odd as well. Most were standing stiff like soldiers, with their right hands at chest level in an awkward wave, their elbows not even bending correctly, and they instead looked like curved macaroni pieces.

But perhaps worst of all were the faces; the exact same for all figures. They appeared almost purposely poor-quality, with the overly-large oval cartoon eyes being simply stickers. The noses were a small vague bump that more resembled a stray nipple rather than a nose. The ears were smooth half-circles at either end of the head except where covered by hat or hair, with no attention to any inner ear detail. The mouths were actually sculpted into the head, but were far too large to be aesthetically pleasing. They were an odd crescent shape, resembling a half moon lying flat on its rear. Inside the mouths was a fire engine red, with no teeth to accompany it. Brian was beginning to seriously wonder if the company responsible for the statues had outsourced the work to some overworked sweatshop in God-knows-where.

"This place looks like shit," Brian muttered under his breath to himself. "I like this place," Sarah said aloud. "It's autistic." "’Artistic’, honey," Brian corrected. "And come on, you don't want to play at a place like this, it's-"

“Jack Sparrow!” Tyler suddenly screamed while breaking into a sprint towards a statue near the start of the first hole. Brian groaned slightly and turned his attention away from Sarah to control his son, who was presently losing it in front of another one of the awful statues. This one apparently was supposed to be an imitation of Captain Jack Sparrow, but it ended up looking like a generic Chinese knock-off “pirate” character; how Tyler even recognized it as “Jack Sparrow” was a mystery to Brian. Brian briskly walked up behind his excited son and placed his hands on his son’s shoulders.

“Hey c’mon, relax, Tyler,” Brian reasoned.

“Let’s go on the course let’s go!” Tyler demanded, getting too overworked causing him to launch into a minor coughing fit.

Brian subdued his apprehension for the premises and decided to try to make his kids happy for once that day.

“Okay, okay, we’ll go. Just take a breather son,” Brian relented, while herding his children to the nearby faded lime-green ticket booth. “And I don’t like that cough of yours,” he added.

Brian turned away his sight from the booth for a moment to fish out his wallet from his pocket, when he was suddenly startled by a blasting  sound which came from a loud speaker above him. The children jumped as jumped as well. An electric jolt of bassy sound pierced his ears, at once his brain recognized it as a song. He froze in that moment with his hand in his pocket, a profound, odd feeling in his head as he listened  to the lyrics through the jumping bassline:

"The Indians send signals from the rocks above the pass

The cowboys take positions in the bushes and the grass"

It was an old song he used to hear decades ago with his drinking pals in dingy bars across the state. Brian swore he could feel his head warm up and tingle slightly, and he lost a bit of attachment with his surroundings. If he didn’t know any better, he would have guessed he had been transported back in time, back when marriage and children and taxes and workweeks seemed galaxies ahead in the future. Brian was so taken back by the song, he didn’t even consider why it had at once started up.

Brian absentmindedly sang along with the music fuzzily playing over the loudspeakers as he finally brought his wallet out of his pocket, his mind not in the current decade. He looked up at the ugly green booth and looked around for an employee. It was hard to believe that someone might actually want to work at a place like this, but obviously someone was around to see Brian and the kids enter and to turn on the music, perhaps in a futile attempt to make the whole place seem a little more lively. After poking his head around the small booth for a few moments, Brian grew somewhat impatient and started to yell for someone to help him.

“Hey, anybody around? We’re looking to play here! Hello? Hey, Hello?” Brian felt an angry vein in his head start to protrude, when he noticed a small paper index card taped near a glass jar with a few dollars in it. The card read in large text, “PAY HERE PLEASE THANK-YOU”. Brian looked at it in disbelief for a brief moment, confusion swirling in his head. He hadn’t noticed any signs anywhere dictating prices, and with no employees present to assist him, Brian came to the humorous conclusion that he apparently was supposed to pay whatever price he wanted to. If this place wasn’t closed down already, it was a mystery to Brian how it managed to stay open at all, even if it was a small place.

Brian let out an exasperated “What?” and stood puzzled for a moment, before tossing a folded ten dollar bill into the jar, annoyed by the more-than-below-average service on display. He didn’t know or care if that was a fair price or not.

“C’mon guys, let’s go here and hurry up before the truck guy gets to the car.”

They picked out three putters- all the same minuscule size- from a basket in front of the booth and Brian grabbed a handful of colored balls as well from a tin can. They all took a few steps to the right and arrived at the underwhelming beginning of the course: a straight track for ten feet with the hole at the end. It was agreed that turns would be decided by age, so Sarah went first. She laid her pink ball down on the indent mat, scrambled into putting position, and whacked the ball so hard that it skipped off the current track and flew into a nearby puddle of mucky rainwater. As Sarah sprinted after it, happily screaming all the way, Brian let out another strained sigh and glanced at the now-less-than-enthused Tyler leaning on his putter. The sonic jazz music continued to lazily play over the speakers. Suddenly Brian had remembered why he didn’t take the kids out so often.

After an encouraging light push on the shoulders from his father, Tyler stepped up to putt. Sarah hadn’t yet sunk her ball, but Brian made sure to keep the game moving for the sake of time. Tyler gave his ball a light putt and it ended up a foot away from the hole. Brian then decided it was his turn. He tiredly stepped up to putt and bent himself over to place his ball down. He could barely reach the ball at all with his tiny putter, but with enough effort he managed to smack it directly into the hole at the end of the track, where Tyler stood boredly holding his ball, with Sarah who was still fishing around for her ball in the puddle.

“How many holes of this shit?” Brian asked himself quietly. He then noticed the music coming to a close, and half-wondered to himself what other tunes this trashy minigolf joint had to offer. The instrumentation faded out and for a brief moment the place was once again silent. At once a familiar crashing cymbal sounded and the music started up.

"The Indians send signals from the rocks above the pass

The cowboys take positions in the bushes and the grass"

The same exact song. Brian stood surprised for a moment before he realized that it was probably due to an absent employee’s iPod on repeat, or perhaps a programming error with the sound system. No real reason to be shocked in actuality. He didn’t exactly mind its replaying however; it was nice to revisit the past a little while longer.

Brian collected his ball from the hole, looked up from the ground and was face-to-face with one of the statues, this one apparently the exalted Jack Sparrow. Brian wasn’t able to pull that from what the statue actually looked like, but rather from Sarah now fawning over it, touching it and rubbing its long black sculpted jacket. To him, it looked like any generic swashbuckler. It was then that Brian noticed a tiny wooden sign near the beginning of the next track; he surmised that each track had one. This one read “PRINCESS PUTTERS PALACE” in faded purple text. Brian looked up at the track: another straight course, but with a poorly-modeled all-pink castle in the middle serving as an obstacle. The “palace” had surely seen some better days, as its cracked exterior and collection of pink paint chips as its base revealed. Brian wondered if it was too late to grab that ten dollars out of the jar and book it.

Sarah went up to putt, still apparently thrilled to be playing, when Tyler approached his father from behind.

“Dad, I’m bored.”

Brian looked his son in the eyes, secretly empathizing with him, and responded,

“Just a little while longer, bud. We can’t do this entire track today anyway.”

Brian immediately regretted his uttering of “today”; hopefully Tyler didn’t take it to mean that his father would ever take him here again. Brian didn’t care how much his daughter liked it; Sarah liked mostly everything anyway, it was just her age. Brian decided to give this dump a few more holes before heading back to the car. Then maybe they could all see the actual Hallow Roots, and not just a shitty highway minigolf course technically within it. Father and son trudged through to the next hole, this one titled "[Hole name here]". Tyler let out a tiny cough again, and his father gave him a few pats on the back.

"You alright, buddy?" Brian asked tiredly, his mind on future activities to do in Hallow Roots with the kids.

Tyler paused for a brief moment and gave another small shrug. Brian had almost had enough of his son's continued discomfort, and issued an ultimatum. He leaned in close to his son and whispered in his ear, "We'll leave after this hole if you're feeling sick."

Tyler only gave a stonefaced nod in return.

Sarah was done putting before the two were even done speaking, and she was currently slipping her small hand into the dirty brown ball hole. Tyler stepped up, readied himself, prepared to swing, and suddenly grabbed his throat and went down to his knees in a coughing fit. Brian gave a concerned groan and quickly strided over to his downed son. Tyler now had his hands flat on the course green, and his back was arched in an odd curl. He was coughing quite violently now, and each one sounded like it was eroding away at the lining of his lungs. Brian could do little more than lean down the best he could and place a concerned hand on Tyler's small back.

"Tyler, hey Tyler, are you okay? What's wrong?"

Brian got no answer in return, and just as he was about to yell at Sarah to come back, he felt his son tense up and shiver.

Flying spittle gave way to specks of blood, which came to rest calmly on the course green. Before Brian could even react, Tyler readied one final awful heave, letting out a sound not unlike a dying bird, and painfully spit out a large, blue-ish object. A long trail of blood and mucus quickly followed afterward. Brian keeled there, his hand still on his prone son’s back, and looked at the object covered in red milky saliva that had been regurgitated. He felt his eyes unconsciously pull backward in instinctual disbelief. His mouth quivered ceaselessly and forbade any speech. His overworked heart could barely stand seeing the blue golf ball now laying on the green, which- if his immediate memory was to be believed- apparently came somewhere out of Tyler’s throat.

Brian’s mouth became locked in a permanent “O” as his vision gained a layer of confused blur. He could physically feel his body going into panic mode, and he could even vaguely feel himself receding inward. The phrase “fight-or-flight” strangely popped into his head and wouldn’t leave. At once Brian seized up violently and fell backward awkwardly on his rear end. An agonizing, otherworldly fear possessed him, crippling him psychically and mentally. He moved his glazed eyes over to look at his son. Tyler was laying face-first on the green presently, the coughed-up ball near his head. His face was turned in his father’s direction, and Brian could see a stream of slow-moving bright blue paint flowing out of his son’s tiny mouth and nose, staining the grass. It was at that moment, seeing that, that Brian’s life was ended. Any pretense of rational, explainable daily living or logic was removed and replaced with only basic biological function, with barely any room for any form of consciousness.

The brainstricken Brian craned his neck over to look at Sarah at the other end of the track. Curiously she had her back turned to her father and the whole coughing ordeal.

“Sarah, Sarah,” Brian softly wheezed, failing to gain the attention of his daughter.

Instead she continued to stare straight in front of her, her hands clasped oddly behind her back. Brian then found himself lying flat on his stomach, a reverberating ring invading his ears. Light-headedness took over, and a twisted, painful knot formed in his belly. He sluggishly got himself into crawling position, and attempted to make his way over to Sarah. To Brain’s battered mind, Tyler was apparently of no further concern.

“Sa- Sarah...” he tried again, with the same result.

What happened next unfolded almost as a series of stills to Brian: being downed on the green on his hands and knees next to his unconscious son, staring at the neon blades of grass tying themselves around his fingers in tiny knots, feeling some strong, dull force pressing him down into the ground, and looking inbetween the blades of grass on the ground to see a pair of legs clunkily walking towards him. In the next moment, Brian somehow found himself on his feet again, unclothed, with his hands on the back of his head. He was currently looking into a vaguely familiar pair of artificial oval eyes.

Jack Sparrow. 