TALE WEAVER’S PROMPT #3 “VURT” The Eye of Midas (language)

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The satiny feather presses against my uvula, the threat of my stomach repeating an unpalatable version of lunch subsides moments after arrival. I am aware of the fingers clutching my jaw, the green eyes that incarcerate my shrinking visual field. He won’t come with me, not this time, this time it’s a right of passage.

 

Today I become a man. It’s yellow baby, all the way.

Chorus x Infinity

Leaves and slicks of mud slow my trespass. The air is full of bone fragments, each inhale is pitiless. I drop my nose inside the collar of my leather trench drawing in snatches of moist breath. The sky is split like an oyster, specks of pearl dust igniting within a haunting procession of chaste grays. The traffic lights read as eyeless sockets, there are no cars only paper cranes skittering across the tarmac like disembodied teeth.

 

I turn into a coffee shop to avoid confrontation I can hear carnival music gearing up in the distance. Any minute the clowns will take to the streets. I fucking hate clowns.

The barista is a heavyset man in his late 40s with an unfolding lotus tattooed on the crest of his meaty scalp. The delicate pinks don’t suit his mystique. He has no tongue so no words present themselves but he hands me a mug and points to an alcove rimmed with books. There is an old couple in the cafe but they are immersed in conversation or the woman is, the man hasn’t spoken a word. Never will if he’s careful.

 

The titles twist beneath my gaze like amputated lizard tails. I pluck a book from the frame and behind it bobs a gold eye, I put the book back but its too late I am aware of his presence. One by one the books retreat until there is a space only slightly larger than a human head.

 

A cane emerges, a heavy black boot, a trousered leg, a black t-shirt that reads “Don’t eat the meatloaf” and a head of immaculate silver hair. All 7ft of a not quite human male from a space adequate only for a newborn. He steps down onto the bench and takes a seat across from me. I can see the mechanics in his left eye but the right is a perfect halo of gold. He points at the jukebox with a slim finger. “It’s your turn…” We’ve done this half a dozen times no matter what I pick it’s always Rachmaninoff. I put in my copper coin. Rachmaninoff ”The Isle the of Dead” starts in sinister as hell. I return to the booth.

 

He pulls out a toaster (from God knows where) and polishes the silver surface until I can see my reflection. I stare at the face which is presumably mine. I am missing an eye. I look terrible. The image before me swirls until I am looking at a room with a CRT television and an old recliner. I’ve been in that room. Skin vacuumed to the leather upholstery watching reruns of the Twilight Zone with a blue-haired birched-faced crone. She’s got a beak like a magpie and irises the color of curdled milk. She wears a yellow-tinted wedding dress that sags on her fleshless bones. My right eye aches. The memory of her talon screwing through the pupil. The sick wet pop, the severance of the optic with a grubby fingernail, the vomit-inducing pain.

 

I turn away from the makeshift theater. “Why do you keep showing me this….” I hide my nerves in my mug of coffee. I know the answer already. “Which will it be the right or the left?” He asks pulling the ceramic cup from my lips. “What’s the difference?” I’ve altered the script and he’s quiet for a moment. “The left eye can see the future…the right can see the good in any person…” I pretend to consider his response but I already have my next question. “Can I alter the future?” He leans back in his seat long legs caging mine. “All but death…” To know when everyone would die and be powerless to alter the course sounds like a mental breakdown waiting to happen.

 

Answer me something else…what did the hag want with my eye?” I ask bowels cringing. “She wanted to watch television…” Was that an answer or a suggestion? “She stole my eye to watch freaking Nick at Nite?” Was he screwing with me? “Her world consists of a series of small rooms…each room contains two items…a television and a recliner…” He answers and I suppose the explanation makes sense. If all I had was a TV I’d want at least one working eye. “Why the wedding dress?” His gold eye darkens until it’s the color of honey. “She killed her husband…too much television not enough love…” He answers his eye returning to its original luminosity. 

 

I’ll take the right one…” I turn away to avoid witnessing the extraction.

 

He places the eye in my empty socket it assimilates rapidly, like a virus. My brain itches I settle with tugging on my hair. I open my new eye blinking cautiously. I expect the alien to have an empty socket but he has a brown eye, a brown eye that looks unnervingly familiar.

 

“That’s my eye bastard…” My indignation does nothing to dislodge his smile. “A gift this eye….I released her from prison….a lifetime given for a lifetime taken…she’s served…” He says and I resume stirring my coffee though it has neither sugar nor cream. “Then why didn’t you give me back my own bloody eye…” I sit down my spoon with a little too much drama. “You didn’t ask…besides it’s no good to you this eye…” I look more closely at the eye in question its cloudy and textured like a discarded snake skin. 

Next I study the alien hoping to find “the good” but in him I see nothing but infinite soul-expanding space. 

Am I free to go?” I ask the scene peeling away all but his serrated smile and the credits. I wipe a single bloody tear from my cheek.

*

I decided to write a dream this isn’t a dream I have had which makes it more peculiar I suppose. The alien is a character from an actual dream so in a weird way the alien in the only real element in this story lol In my dream though he wasn’t interested in swapping eyes but he did want to show me the future.

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13 responses to “TALE WEAVER’S PROMPT #3 “VURT” The Eye of Midas (language)

  1. Wow! That was bloody brilliant, disturbing and brilliant.

    You paint this dream with such vividness. Lines like “only paper cranes skittering across the tarmac like disembodied teeth.” and my favorite “The titles twist beneath my gaze like amputated lizard tails.” Just wow.

    Oh, and I fucking hate clowns, too!

    • Thank you so much Melanie you have no idea how much this mean =) I like writing creepy stories but I find other’s don’t want to read them so thank you for reading!

  2. I don’t like creepy ususally unless it is well written…kinda like the girl with the dragon tattoo..there were creepy parts but so well written. You could go far with this dream/story, Yves. REally you got me interested. Creepy is good when there is nice imagery language which you are an expert by far!

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