Author Topic: Puffed Siadin (Read 8303 times)

Fishfinger · « **Reply #60 on:** November 19, 2017, 11:00:25 AM »

^ thanks, that is kind.

Every year, at the exact same time, the phone in the village's last phone box will ring. Puffed Siadin forbids it most strictly, but children dare each other to answer. Whoever so does will hear a woman drowning, muffled and distant and desperate. Always the same. It is wise to hang up before she notices you.

Gregory Torso · « **Reply #61 on:** November 19, 2017, 12:47:39 PM »

See the night. See how it climbs. And such nights cluttered with grease and oil sweats and things, things that travelled the burning ribbons of fog like carriageways of disease, that rode them into the houses of both husbands and wives.

Puffed Siadin stood in such a night and listened to it move and sing with the strange machinery he had made.
Soon, his wife would return. He had received this. From one of the very awful fog messengers, as he had stood motionless in the woods around, whilst others waited too, hidden behind trees or moving carefully through the mist, to receive word from their own lost, loved ones.

His body, old and papery, longed for rest, acceptance, or illumination. Something that might make its way back from that hungry sea that had swallowed his love. And here, he was not a husband, but a tombstone, a scarecrow, and a signpost.

Glebe · « **Reply #62 on:** November 20, 2017, 05:11:09 AM »

Mulled wine in Cherbourg, on an atmospheric autumnal eve. There is a rap at the chalet door. "Entrer, mon ami!" calls PS, merrily. And in steps Dirk Bogarde, with the Ambassador of Montenegro. "It shall be a fine evening of song, merriment, and reminiscence!" Indeed it shall, Puffs, and will be one of the highlights of your 1976.

spamwangler · « **Reply #63 on:** November 21, 2017, 12:07:46 AM »

Puffed saladin gets his kicked in the nob LOL

Glebe · « **Reply #64 on:** November 22, 2017, 12:30:48 PM »

Puffed Siadin sighs, and pours another cup of Earl Grey for himself. Humphrey is dozing gently in his chair next to him, as the sounds of this afternoon's cricket match echo from off to the left. The sun, while none too strong, still proves itself a constant companion as it assists in the creation of dappled shadows that flit across he veranda.

"I say, Humphrey."

Humphrey snorts and awakes with a "What?!"

"I say, Humphrey... I've been reminiscing again."

"Oh," chuckles Humphrey, "It's going to one of those evenings!"

"I just can't help myself, old chap."

There is a cheer and a peal of applause from the cricket ground. Siadin ignores it and continues.

"I've been thinking about the good old days... when we were at Cambridge together, with Foxy and Spotter and Nutkin, and Beaver and Jhossup and Ferg... we had such high hopes. And, well, we fulfilled some of them. But not all. I just wish I had some of that old vim and vigour in me now, Humphrey."

"Don't we all, old thing. Now, where did I put my crossword?"

"We were the Young Turks... we were ready to take on the world, and no-one, just no-one was go'ng 'a stop us!"

"Steady on, Puffers!" laughs Humphrey, looking around for his readers.

Siadin sighs. These bouts of melancholy are sometimes just too hard to bear. Gratefully, his kindly old friend is ever on hand to cheer him up.

"I tell you what, Puffs, after lunch, why don't you and I go down to the river and skip a few stones? Just for old times' sake, hmmm?"

"Why, that's a marvellous idea, Humpers! I'll go and see if my waders are still in the shed."

There is a stillness to the day. A lostness. But it is a day, nonetheless, and opportunity ever awaits.

Replies From View · « **Reply #65 on:** November 25, 2017, 06:08:40 PM »

It is feeding time for Puffed Siadin's new wife.

He lifts her jar down from the shelf in his pantry, and rotates her around in his hands. He admires how her skin presses tightly against the jar's edges, and how she has no obvious form but the shape of the jar itself. He smiles lovingly. She is perfect. A perfect wife. Nothing but gelatinous flesh against glass, almost entirely unstirring but for one adorable feature that absolutely makes his wife who she is.

Desperately, her mouth blobs open and closed against the glass. There is not one part of her that does not feel the deep, scouring pain of deliberately engineered ulcers and tumours. Strains of diseases pulse and burn through her. But she can breathe - don't worry. Her jar has air holes.

Puffed Siadin is so proud of her. So proud of his wife.

He unscrews the lid of her jar. Feeding time.

Replies From View · « **Reply #66 on:** November 27, 2017, 07:31:42 PM »

Puffed Siadin.

Replies From View · « **Reply #67 on:** December 01, 2017, 08:49:59 PM »

Puffed Siadin.

Replies From View · « **Reply #68 on:** December 22, 2017, 01:16:43 PM »

Puffed Siadin is preparing what will be his wife's sustenance for the entire Christmas week. He begins with her standard meal for today.

Inside his wife's mouth a blackbird skull goes. As she lacks teeth, Puffed Siadin must help her to chew. He places her gelatinous head on its side, holds her mouth shut to minimise spurtage, and with a claw hammer bashes her cheek firmly. Eventually the skull cracks and begins to break down into smaller and smaller pieces.

She is of course unable to swallow, so Puffed Siadin squirts a little lubrication into her mouth, then uses his fingers to manipulate the skull fragments to where they can be digested. Back in her jar, her eyes bubble a little, so he squirts a little more lemon juice into the pocket of fluid suspending her face. Such a dedicated and loving carer of his wife is Puffed Siadin.

That's her food for today, but what about the rest of the week? He will be away from home and would rather leave his wife here, on the shelf and in her jar, than take her with him where she will only get in the way.

Gregory Torso · « **Reply #69 on:** January 08, 2018, 07:22:56 AM »

Puffed Siadin takes his wife-mix to an ancient font underneath the town hall for a full body baptism. He empties her carefully in. She slops and runs beneath the oily surface, and then just her face is visible, like an egg white in a black broth. He will remake her, as he stirs her with a salvaged umbrella spoke.
Later he will go to the Courthouse to record his intent to remarry and declare his first wife driftwood, although he will mysteriously scrawl "I Am The Wendigo" across several important oblongs in the documents.

Fishfinger · « **Reply #70 on:** June 21, 2018, 01:41:22 AM »

I saw Puffed Siadin once. There was something so wrong I couldn't take my eyes off him. I found myself following him into the butcher's. He was wearing this dark hat and suit and... something else. There was a film over his skin, a jelly almost, that somehow never touched him. You could hardly see it, but it'd ripple, just barely. I think it was breathing. And I swear, I was standing right behind him, he never moved, and this second skin just turned and looked at me.

Fishfinger · « **Reply #71 on:** August 11, 2019, 02:09:58 PM »

A gang of horse thieves were paid to cremate what was claimed to be his mortal remains. On a far hilltop, the fire burned green and greasy. Puffed Siadin.

Fishfinger · « **Reply #72 on:** August 11, 2019, 02:26:06 PM »

There is an invasion of gelatinous worms. Hips are shattered on slippery driveways. Prayers are offered, many miles away. There is a whiff of cloy.

PlanktonSideburns · « **Reply #73 on:** August 11, 2019, 02:28:53 PM »

Now here's a top thread for a day of dread!

Fishfinger · « **Reply #74 on:** August 11, 2019, 02:35:10 PM »

Four pages to sate the King.

pancreas · « **Reply #75 on:** August 11, 2019, 02:42:11 PM »

What is in this sandwich I have bought from Boots? It is pieces of Puffed Siadin, drenched in salad cream. It is disgusting. But I must eat it anyway.

Fishfinger · « **Reply #76 on:** August 11, 2019, 02:45:51 PM »

Puffed Siadin's children - white as 70s dogshit - dangle from their nooses. The crows won't touch them. It may be respect or fear. It feels like an age ago. Last night you dreamed again of tossing bones into the sea. It's better than nothing.

pancreas · « **Reply #77 on:** August 11, 2019, 02:48:05 PM »

Puffed Siadin's secret butcher's shop is discovered. He was obviously attempting to splice the rear end of a hamster with the front end of a horse.

Fishfinger · « **Reply #78 on:** August 11, 2019, 03:09:16 PM »

The flayed horsehamster is elected Mayor for a second term. Everyone must dance for a week. Puffed Siadin.

Fishfinger · « **Reply #79 on:** August 11, 2019, 03:13:32 PM »

In a Martian bunker you dream of a beach holiday where crabs steal your toes and genitals. There was a choice once. His wife seemed nice. It's all so long ago. A breakfast of dust.

Fishfinger · « **Reply #80 on:** August 11, 2019, 03:21:59 PM »

Went to school with Puffed Siadin. Breathe on a ventilator now. Meter accepts 10p coins only. Can just about reach. Three left. It's good what he's doing.

Fishfinger · « **Reply #81 on:** August 11, 2019, 03:28:22 PM »

In the hospital they suck the marrow from your bones with straws. "Thank you," they say. "You're helping." On a poster on the wall, Puffed Siadin has his back turned on a hillside.

Gregory Torso · « **Reply #82 on:** August 11, 2019, 04:02:03 PM »

Exquisite stuff, Fishfinger.

Fishfinger · « **Reply #83 on:** August 11, 2019, 05:19:03 PM »

They say there was a final hospice, where a torso was farmed for screams. The perpetual agony machine. It kept the gutters running. Puffed Siadin.

Fishfinger · « **Reply #84 on:** August 12, 2019, 01:59:03 AM »

The crimson comet scars the sky. In the last pond, a fish's eye swells so big it explodes. There is no-one to see it. The spatter bakes in the unforgiving sun. In the tunnels on Mars they breed cancer.

Fishfinger · « **Reply #85 on:** August 14, 2019, 03:59:46 PM »

Screaming mucous plops out of the town tap. Just a piece of his wife. Pay it no mind. Safe to drink. Drink it. Drink it now.

pancreas · « **Reply #86 on:** August 14, 2019, 04:12:00 PM »

A row of neatly ordered bikes reminds you of more joyful times. But the bikes are parked in the slit sides of rotting pigs. You can just make out that the pigs have been branded with 'PS®'. You might rest here, but an asphyxiating ash-cloud that has escaped from one of the nearby Crematorium-Greggs forces you onward.

Fishfinger · « **Reply #87 on:** August 14, 2019, 04:33:47 PM »

You ride a human centipede to work. One of the components is your daughter. You don't react. It's good what he's doing.

pancreas · « **Reply #88 on:** August 14, 2019, 04:43:22 PM »

An order goes out to 'reverse the sewers'. At 11am on Christmas Day, pipe bombs go off everywhere. The blood, shit and bog roll is as expected. However, the huge chunks of human brains convulsing in a chorus of Wonderwall does come as a surprise. You can't remember the last time you were surprised. Silently you offer up a Puffed prayer of thanks.

Fishfinger · « **Reply #89 on:** August 14, 2019, 11:25:20 PM »

In 1957, his tailor was found hanged from a gantry beneath the smell of a gangrenous moon. To have the measurements of a man is to have power over the man, they share in whispers. Although he was a bit of a cunt.

News:

Author Topic: Puffed Siadin (Read 8303 times)