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Chaosium Digest Volume 34 Number 02
Chaosium Digest Volume 34, Number 02
Date: Tuesday, June 12, 2001
Number: 2 of 2
The Horror On Two Forks Trail (continued)
by Mervyn Boyd - jack@ktana.freeserve.co.uk
The Camp
As the players summon the energy and pick up the pace they notice, on a
successful SPOT HIDDEN check that there is something wrong with the
encampment. No signs of life. No horses. No children running or playing.
Nobody comes out to meet them. Tepees stand crooked or are blown completely
over.
Closer inspection confirms it. There is no life at all. Just bodies strewn
all around. It seems that the Union Army swept through with a vengeance. But
no, the carnage is much, much worse. Several hundred twisted, broken bodies.
Wind blasted and desiccated; and in near all cases the flesh has been
stripped exposing bone. Horses included. Sanity loss for this grizzly scene
is 1d3/1d6. What could have caused it?
Well, sadly, the Indians were a little late in returning with their
artifacts; and as they hurriedly conducted their Polyp-entombing ceremony,
complete with spur-of-the-moment sacrifices thrown in for good measure, the
Polyp broke free and killed everyone present. The vengeful entity continued
its spree outside... and somewhere, out there, there's a Flying Polyp.
Anybody with Mythos knowledge may recognize the work of the Polyp here.
The Chiricahua Tribe has had the Polyp entombed for as long as can be told.
They treat it as a living god. Degenerate as it may be, that is the only
reason why they haven't tried to kill it. It doesn't matter that it is evil
and would kill every living thing should it ever get out. They venerate it
as much as they despise it.
Picking through the remains, the players find the usual assortment of Indian
materiel, and enough food and water to satisfy their immediate need which
gives an automatic morale boost by way of 1d4 sanity gain. Also, while
searching the camp, a lucky character may find in what appears to be the
Chief's tepee a telescope. Using it to get some kind of bearing the player,
on a SPOT HIDDEN check sees, at one mile distant carved stone idols at the
base of some hills. Closer inspection would require a trip out to them. The
idols and caves can also be discovered if the players head towards the high
ground so that they get a better panoramic view of where they are...
The dozen conical stone idols stand a full ten feet high and ten feet wide
at the base. They seem to be clustered around a cave mouth opening. Upon
their surfaces each bears deep etchings, and those of a fanciful nature
might describe them to resemble three long tentacles, two of which terminate
in enormous claws or nippers. At the end of the third are four trumpet-like
appendages. Embedded in a ring atop the cones are yellow eye-like swellings.
(Those with Mythos knowledge might identify these totems as crude
representations of the Great Race of Yith.) Also, inscribed upon each of
their surfaces are symbols and wards of protection and purification, but on
each statue one sigil seems to be more prominent and stands out from the
rest for whatever reason - a pentagon with an eye at its center. A lesser
known variant of the Elder sign. A few more dead Indians complete the scene.
Exploring the caves requires a light source. Essentially the mines are
nondescript. Gravel crunches underfoot. A GEOLOGICAL check allows characters
to see that the place has a rich seem of Iron Ore running through it. As the
exploration draws to an end. the players emerge into a large cavern that
appears to have been sculpted into a temple of some kind. It also seems that
something large has exploded out from behind one of the walls - leaving an
enormous cavity. But that is of secondary concern when faced with more
death. Twelve bodies of a likes seen before; stripped of flesh and broken.
Looking around players discover on an IDEA roll that there are two kinds of
death here. One is carnage, the other is ritualistic sacrifice and the
bloodied dagger held in the Chief's hand attests to that, as does the slit
throat of a warrior. The box which was taken from the coach is found here -
open and empty, its contents somewhere lost in the chamber.
Indian totems such as drums, flutes and whistles, and other religious garb
and artifacts abound - some of which are inlaid with gold and silver. Greedy
players can load up here, and whatever their worth is left to the individual
keeper.
What Now
Whenever it is convenient, have the Polyp ascend from behind a rocky
outcropping, with an accompanying gust of wind. It rises higher into the
air, apparently unaware of the players, before streaking off, at speed in a
random direction. Remember Sanity loss, for those who see it. Generous
keepers may allow LUCK rolls here. Who knows, maybe everyone has their backs
turned at that particular moment. Obviously the characters can't stay here
for ever, so they'll probably load up with as much as they can carry before
continuing on their weary march. They might stay over night however.
Either way, several hours later, they see in the distance a several hundred
man strong military detachment of some kind heading their way - wagon bound
and on horse back. Flagging them down and explaining their predicament Major
General Thomas G. Copeland listens with a sympathetic ear.
While arrangements are made for their safe escort on to wherever they
players wan to go, our friend Mr. Polyp drops in to say hello. Soon all eyes
are on it. Sanity checks for all. Men gaze open mouthed. Disbelieving.
Stunned at the huge monstrosity. No one moves. Horses whinny and panic and
try to flee. Set the scene then have the Polyp strafe the column for good
effect. A strong wind buffets the wagons, blowing some of them over. General
Copeland blinks then stirs from his momentary inaction and barks orders to:
"Shoot it, Shoot it". The players may be at this stage already, and those
soldiers who are able to follow their example open fire too. Other soldiers
are just too far gone and will sit, drool & gibber, or run screaming into
the desert. WAAAAAAHHH!
Rifle and pistol fire are volleyed as fast as one can reload, however, due
to the wind all ranged combat is conducted at -25. Since there are NPCs
firing also, the Polyp takes an additional 1d4-1 damage per round. This way
it can be killed even if the players are totally ineffectual. There are
dozens of weapons to pick up and enough ammunition to eventually kill the
wee beastie, but for the time being our players must do with what they
have... then whenever it is appropriate blow the canvas off a wagon to
reveal a Gatling Gun, complete with crank handle and boxes of ammunition....
For some reason it's not being used. Any takers? Sadly, there is no dynamite
or barrels of gunpowder to be found.
The urge to use the Polyp to full effect is too great, so to avoid a quick
end it is advised to use its special attacks sparingly. Or, direct them away
from the players for the first few rounds to give 'em a chance. Decimate
soldiers and horses by the bucket load describing how their flesh is
stripped in horrifying agony. Sanity loss to see this (1/1d6).
As the Polyp is reduced to half hits it will no longer be able to keep aloft
and will fall from the sky to continue its attack up close and personal. It
pulls itself along with great effort, gouging a trench thirty feet wide and
one foot deep. Thick ropy tentacles whip back and forth smashing wagons and
whatever else that cannot get out their way. At quarter hits the Polyp
attempts to flee to safety itself... try as it might it cannot lift off, so
it drags itself away at speed 8 - quite easy to pursue and hunt down
Killing the Polyp will be a joyous occasion indeed, and well worth the 1d20
sanity reward. Quite soon after it has bee slain, it begins to melt into a
nauseating glutinous, mulchy goo. It bubbles and fizzes. Best not touch it.
You know, just to be safe.
Once all is done, the survivors pack up what they can muster and go home.
The End.
Flying Polyp
STR CON SIZ INT POW DEX MOVE HITS
50 25 50 14 16 13 8 / 12 38
WEAPON ATTK % DAMAGE Damage Bonus: +5d6
Tentacle 85 1d10 Armour: The Polyp takes minimum
damage from all
Wind Blast 70 Special weapons, then another 4 points
is subtracted.
Spells: None, unless the keeper is truly evil. Are you?
Sanity: 1d3/1d20
Special:
Wind Blast Attack: This attack has a base range of 20 yards, doing damage
equal to its damage bonus. The range can be increased but it loses 1d6
damage per multiple of 20. Thus, the blast at 100 yards range would do 1d6
damage. Victims of this attack have their flesh stripped from their bones at
worst, to a rather bad case of dehydration and wind burn. All victims are
also blown back a number of yards equal to the hit points they lose.
Fixing Attack: In this mode, the attack has a range of 1000 yards without
diminishing. It's use is to slow a fleeing target, which the Polyp has
deemed a suitable snack. This time the wind has a peculiar sucking effect,
which slows the target considerably. All targets must roll their STR versus
half the Polyp's POW. If the Target wins, he/she can act as normal. Failure
means the victim is stuck and cannot move away that round.
-----------------------
James Aspera's "THE WHIPPOORWILL HOUSE AFFAIR"
Chapter Three
Michael Blenkarn and Brooke Johnson
Recently I confirmed a suspicion. The weather was particularly cold and
crisp and I made another excursion to the Tees Valley area. I wandered
aimlessly for some time on the North York moors along the arbitrary
boundaries of the valley, generally enjoying the inherent simplicity of
moorland beauty; clear skies, delicate heather, trees fragmenting the light
into patterns of golden radiance across the forest paths. So little is
needed because beauty over-embellished is merely ostentation and pomp. It
was cold enough for my breath to steam in the air and for acute and cold
pain to flicker momentarily in my chest after moments of exertion.
I detected the merest tendrils of cloud coalescing around the darkening
horizon as I reached the pinnacle of the hill that marked Captain Cook's
monument, a stark and funereal column of brickwork piercing the skyline
unmistakably. I had scrambled rather animatedly over Roseberry Topping, not
the most ambitious endeavour but made interesting by the pagan history of
the dome of earth that was once a hallowed religious site of the Viking
conquerors back in the Dark Ages. I was there to see the monument, however,
and I approached it with a tense wariness. Night and snow-clouds were
furtively gathering and the sky's hypnotic azure was rapidly darkening as I
tentatively chipped at the mortar that held the weathered stones of the
imposing edifice together. I reached inside my coat and pulled out a rather
inadequate chisel, purloined from my barely-used workshop in Oxford. I began
scoring deep pits in the crumbling mortar, my breath coalescing in the
frigid air into ringlets of rising condensation. My hands slipped on the icy
brickwork more than once, the little rivulets coursing across it nearly
relieving me of at least a percentage of my fingers.
After a seeming eternity of chiseling, my curses breaking the silence of
the hilltop and the night now black and unforgiving around me, I managed to
dislodge a brick, confirming an initial suspicion that the monument was
hollow. This was a conclusion I had formed while ruminating over nothing
much by the fireplace, in my drawing room back at Camberwick House in
Oxford, nursing a rather expensive brandy, where things like wintry
temperatures are a misrepresented memory and the aches of hard exertion in
the cold unconsidered.
As I pulled the heavy brick out with shaking, frost-bitten fingers I found
that there was enough space for me to tentatively slide my gloved hand and
thickly-coated forearm into the shadowed interior. Slowly, nervously, I
obliged this compulsion. My hand met rounded, pitted, rough-hewn stone
inside, the monument merely a shell encasing something older. I ran my
fingers over the cracks to try and distinguish any patterns. The surface of
the stone felt rough, but regular, as if carvings had been scored into it
with primitive chisels, with an unusual degree of precision considering. I
traced the outlines of what appeared to be vaguely familiar sigils carved
into the hidden rock, or possibly monolith. Then I decided to search for
something specific, something that I was familiar with.
Needless to say, after several minutes of fruitless searching, I found that
familiar thing. Suddenly depressed I withdrew my hand. It never ceased to
surprise and depress me how far back the history of them went back, how long
they had stalked the earth, leaving the mark. Then I turned to trudge the
half-mile back to the car park through the darkling woods, needing a long,
preferably strong drink.
Right then, in the garage of Whippoorwill house, though, I was even more
needful. The sounds of seemingly sentient machinery hammered into my ears
and my eyes involuntarily clamped shut. Swindell was uncharacteristically
silent.
As the sounds washed over me like the caress of a jackhammer my mind was
wandering incoherently elsewhere, recalling something I had read once about
an incorporeal reality in which the sounds of our pedestrian dimensions
echoed into a semblance of form for them. Quite what aberrations would
spring from the cacophonous, almost tribal thundering of frenetic machines
echoing off the damp, dripping garage walls were far beyond my meager
imaginings. I felt a tickling sensation inside my head which was the
lingering promise of migraines to come, and squinting in discomfort I tried
to substantiate an origin for the omnipresent barrage. I found none. The
garage was unpleasant, damp and stretched away into shadows not quite dark
enough to accommodate such mechanisms. The floor was dirty concrete cracked
and pitted by the crush of immense weights, but no hammering pistons, not
hydraulic squeals of steam or flickering LEDs betrayed an inkling as to the
source of the pounding. I tried to shut my ears and ventured slightly into
the darkness, leaving Swindell quietly panting with discomfort, leaning
against the cracked, pealing doorframe and twiddling a bedraggled lock from
his curly hair disconsolately. My nerves were either strengthening against
the menace of Whippoorwill House or had been short-circuited by an exhausted
autonomic system, because for the first time I felt confident in leading the
way. I still held my gun with all the professionalism of a five-year old
with a water-pistol, but I was coming to understand that my brain would work
better for me in this unusual situation.
I soon found that my claim had been erroneous. Against a dark wall of pitted
red brick hulked a machine like a brooding predator, glimmering evilly as a
little ray from the flickering bulb in the kitchen caught it. It was silent,
in a way that radiated readiness and poise in its cold efficiency, dormant
but ready nonetheless. There seemed to be no specific controls of any kind
or any particular feature that defined its purpose, merely complex tangles
of frayed wiring and the occasional glimpse of internal mechanisms through
the mess, refracting off the metal surface of the machine's insides.
I looked at it for several seconds and digested this information as
thoroughly as I could manage in that state of mind, then peremptorily
motioned with one arching finger for my erstwhile companion to consider the
situation in his own abrupt, and often misguided manner.
Swindell, a rather fascinating shade of green, groggily meandered over and
began unceremoniously to vent his discomfort in a series of deeply
distracting utterances that conveyed a world of information. Idly, he
reached forward and prodded the strange machine before us, with a look of
bemused concentration playing across his features. I half expected it to
make an irritated bleep or better yet to tear one of his arms off in a
magical display of electronic affront, but I was sadly rewarded with neither
of these. The metal under Swindell's fingers merely clunked, a characterless
and unremarkable sound.
Then Swindell began twiddling around with some of the wiring and my hopes
dawned again. Perhaps a vitriolic blast of electricity would straighten his
hair. Still, I didn't want him to vaporize himself and lose his potential as
a shield, so I quietly tried to restrain his inept fiddling.
"Where's your sense of adventure?" He blustered irritably.
"In a small kitchen cupboard in Bermondsey. I wish I was."
His brow wrinkled in confusion at this surreal use of humour, as I expected
it to.
"If your brow furrows any more it'll need a car jack to get your face back
to normal," I said, and brightened at that mental image. Chuckling slightly
to Swindell's obvious outrage I turned my attention back to the task in
hand. I thought I'd infuriated him enough to even prevent him from mouthing
another clichéd phrase. He winced, gently massaged his aching head and then
destroyed my hope of even that by muttering 'Oh, man.' Even now that phrase
is enough to make think longingly of filling his trousers with ferrets.
Mmmmm.
'Could you please stop muttering those insufferable two syllables?', I asked
him, a trifle more mildly than I should've in hindsight.
'Well, excuse me, but they're my way of dealing with the situation. At least
I don't run screaming in a high voice at the merest hint of danger.'
I scowled at him, though I had to agree that when danger threatened I became
unsettlingly falsetto. Swindell turned to me and flourished a hand in a
dramatic pose, head held high. I backed away nervously, realizing that he
was about to make some sort of clichéd comment, of the sort that warranted
protective clothing. After all, doesn't melodrama give off it's own sort of
radiation? I'd certainly been exposed to it far too much recently.
A serious expression welded to his face, Swindell said in a
never-before-heard sonorous oratorical tone, candyfloss hair bobbing to
every word, "Adventure makes the soul fly. Don't you want to soar like an
eagle?"
After my hysterical giggling had subsided and the look of affront had slid
slowly off his face to be replaced with Swindell Look Number 23 (Daddy won't
buy me a pony), I patted him gently on the shoulder, still smirking.
"Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet intakes. Remember
that."
Then I think we both seemed to remember where we were, and the humour of the
situation deflated considerably. Again, trying to shrug off all the snide
little comments I was lining up for Swindell, and were currently squealing
for attention, I turned back to the machine.
There was a sudden sound. I suspect it had tugging at my consciousness for
some time but I had not been able to perceive it for the thumping of my
heart in its futile attempt to escape the horror via my ribcage. Despite my
eyes still refusing to properly adjust to the gloom, there seemed to be a
visual stimulus in the room that I had not noticed and so I homed in on this
and was rewarded with a small red light a la the average TV remote control.
Leaning forward gingerly, poising my feet in the event of danger, I
tentatively realized that this light was the source of the almost subliminal
sound. It was set back in the corrupted jungle of wire, vibrant colour
spearing from stark darkness and the red LED seemed to actually absorb light
whilst emitting it. It had a terrible mockery about it as if it knew what
was to come, the sense of expectancy and probing awareness that had been a
source of considerable uneasiness for me since crossing the threshold of the
house. The light drew me to its dark, angular nest of god-knows what horror
and I found myself unable to stop my hand reaching in and removing the
surrounding clutter, fingers trembling. My hand was not torn from my limb to
be shredded in some Hollywoodesque contraption of torture, not that I was in
any way disconcerted by the milder turn of events. Instead the immediate
solution to our narrative standstill became visible, and, as Swindell began
to point out the obvious I groaned inwardly. In the space cleared with the
LED in the center was a depression the area and thickness of the bizarre
mirror we had discovered earlier.
" Do you think we should put the mirror in there? I mean it's the right
shape and all."
I looked incredulously at him but could detect no hint of irony or sarcasm
in his voice or face, just the innocence of a lamb to slaughter. It amazed
me still how easily his course of action could be led and manipulated just
by the provision of obvious, yet to my mind dubious, clues for our
progression. Not that we appeared to have much choice but to blithely follow
those clues. I toyed with various ideas of what to do for a while then with
a sigh of resignation clicked the mirror home.
There suddenly came the sound like a thousand wrecker's yards in full swing,
in a deranged coupling a million screaming steam engines, each paying
negligible regard to the presence of the others in their midst. The instant
it assaulted our ears (and it truly was like having a jackhammer applied to
each eardrum), I knew that I was to be confronted by something I wouldn't
much like upon turning round. I hardly expected something pleasant and
comforting.
The machinery seemed to have grown in size and spread over the whole room
like some kind of rust fungus in mockery of machinery. Pistons pounded
fitfully as cogs whirled in irregular rhythms, spraying some vast cloying
web filament of total mindless servitude, of pointlessness and the most pure
condensation of absolute despairing futility. I screamed as I felt the optic
fibers of mechanical purity and stagnation begin to weave into my nerves,
dragging me inward, to become one with the machine, the ultimate in purity
and insane order.
Across crazily angled gantries struggling body-bags dangled from barbed
chains, dripping thick, treacle-like globules of oil onto the floor below
which had become a thick meshed grid of rust-encrusted wire. Beneath in the
dark, strange suggestions of mechanical movement implied a vast, malign
factory of pure evil distilled through machinery that contained no vestige
of human life or character but was anything but automated.
I had collapsed and allowed myself to be dragged in some direction. I moved
my wretched head and saw that it was Swindell dragging me to the door, and
his breathy, Neanderthal grunts at the effort were audible even amidst the
thundering, perhaps merely because of all the cacophonous noises around us
they alone spoke of life.
The machine sounds grew to unimaginable levels and I released a single
shrill scream, before like a drunkard passing out in reverse, staggered to
my feet and exploded through the door with a flailing of limbs like a man
trying to scream through the medium of semaphore.
I was hit with what seemed the force of a car as I passed through and fell
to my knees with an ungainly lack of grace, arms pinwheeling hysterically
for balance before smacking into bruising contact with the surface. I barely
registered that it was a harsh, cold, manifestly-un-kitchen-like surface
that I had inadvertently thrown myself towards.
It was the sound that had unbalanced me, a sound so intense that the
transition from the cacophony of the hideously transformed garage to this
had been like passing through solid matter. The new sound was the pure
antithesis of that infernal racket, a sinuous sound heard distilled to its
most potent form, pure ambience. I cannot describe it however much I contort
the human vocabulary to accommodate it. It was the sound of being inside the
womb again, it was the most soothing and relaxing sound, totally beyond
anything ever experienced. It took hold of my very matter and invaded with
its presence. I know I shall never experience this sound again and it leaves
me with the most profound emptiness imaginable. No, beyond even that. Far be
it from me to become profound and shatter my sardonic exterior, however
temporarily, but I dare any soul to pass through that atmosphere and remain
unaffected by its power.
My tear streaked eyes cleared and I began to take stock of the kitchen or
rather what it had become. Before the process of cogitation was complete
Swindell's invocation, his reaffirmation of manliness of whatever that 'oh
man' truly meant to him, had passed his lips. The room was now decorated
with Spartan, utilitarian white tiles and a single mint green border. The
mingled, incongruous smells of chlorine, ammonia, fluorine and rancid faecal
matter attempted to eradicate my nasal organs and lungs or at least clean
them from the inside outwards. A bronze grate gurgled in the corner in an
obscenely happy way, with ruddy brown fluid slumping down it. My eyes
followed the drain channel to its origin.
I attempted to vomit again. I had emptied my stomach so much that I merely
dry-retched with throaty spasms and sharp, acute pains stabbing acidic
needles through my tortured stomach lining. I involuntarily doubled over and
clutched my stomach so hard that my knuckles whitened.
In the center of the room was something akin to a distorted dentist's chair,
but with a more cruciform appearance, and a morass of slithering pipes and
cables. Gleaming surgical attachments formed a quietly but frighteningly
whirring mesh of precision pain. A struggling man fought the straps that
bound him within, sweat beading a face gaunt and contorted from pain without
reckoning, teeth grinding with the effort. He was being dissected while was
still alive. Clustered around him were, I shudder now thinking back, four
humanoids. They were emaciated, hunched stick figures all clad in what
appeared to be lab coats. Their malformed, bulbous heads were bald, their
complexions could only be described of as heroin chic. The faces were the
worst part. All their facial orifi were sewn up. Precisely and cleanly
inserted in the stead of normal sensory organs where all manner of
mechanical replacements. Limbs were prosthetically replaced, terminating in
grotesque tools with which they were occupied dissecting there victim. How
can I describe them adequately? Think of the most advanced surgical
instruments yet created; when the lights are out and all are asleep these
are what those primitive butchery tools fervently wish to be when they grow
up. They made a finely cut scalpel in the hands of a expert surgeon appear
as a stick clasped in the muddy fingers of a chimpanzee.
The victim looked at us with pleading eyes then using his head motioned one
of the white coats. The creature stooped to listen, looked at us then
nodded, at that moment my heart exploded. The thing simply removed the
victims' gag.
The victim looked and then opened its mouth.wide.
The scream of untold billions erupted from that mouth, eternal agonies of
horror and madness spilled forth in an almost solid torrent. The entire
suffering of mankind was but a single note in this abhorrent symphony of
soul burning perfidy. And, behind it all was the sound of mechanical
workings, the conductor of this horror. The victim shut its mouth and
allowed the gag to be returned as we fled the room. That image remained
etched in white-hot metal across my mind, the hideous sight of a broken will
acting in an almost sensual compliance with its tormentors, the most
tortuously degrading subservience imaginable. Thrusting Swindell aside I
would have clambered over my own mother to escape that dungeon first.
So hasty was I that my ankles, in a violent argument regarding which was to
cross the threshold first, tangled themselves together, much to the
consternation of my body, which in desperation selected to protect itself by
landing on my face and distributing the minor damage to my less delicate
areas. Carpet textures printed across large portions of my face I scrambled
somewhat pathetically and without dignity across the hall, like a hamster
who's cage is being heated over a slow fire. Dignity seemed a small
sacrifice if it granted me a full complement of limbs; the whitecoated
things had looked as if they wanted to examine my innards with considerable
attention to detail.
Swindell followed me with as much a lack of physical grace but communicating
the same ridiculousness through his normal, average walk as had appeared in
my floundering retreat.
Not once in this escapade had I seen him fall over with quite as much drama
as I, with the flailing limbs and the pitiful mewling and legs trying to
circumnavigate each other and run in twenty directions at once. Oh, he had
fallen, but generally with the helpful aid of some large dripping tentacle.
What he had in poise and verticality however was countered in the aura of
supreme foolishness and ungainly waistline which to my mind inspired more
fear than any of amorphous, bloated monstrosity that had escaped giggling
from the pen of Lovecraft perhaps because Swindell was a bloated monstrosity
struggling to fit inside a shirt and tie.
Joints complaining, I rose to my feet and took pains to step carefully, each
foot directed with the precision of a landing aircraft. Swindell, visibly
perturbed as is easy to imagine, was looking at a spot on the ceiling
somewhere above my head, his face pale and his babbling chatter
uncharacteristically silenced. I followed his gaze and felt weary
resignation as much as fright.
I look at the faces that surround me in the street and wonder how many
really truly know? And how many are in that merciful blissful oblivion that
I once knew. Nothing is the same as it once was for me, a sunny day and
children's laughter, even the very leaves of the trees, seem to be laugh at
me. I'm drowning in paranoia; wave after wave of panic constantly attempts
to swamp my bedraggled defenses.
Building up in a crescendo of swirling semi madness attempting to take root
and grow to full raging insanity. When I look back I know, it's moments like
this that really pushed me to where I am now. The double-barrel punches of
horror, one after the other, too quick to allow recovery time. A mind can't
help but fracture.
--
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