Creeping through the Crypt: 2006 (In which I find a story.)

Creeping through the Crypt you sometimes find the oddest things.  In this week of November in 2006 I was apparently seized by a kind of fitful literary madness.  The following ensued...

It was a dark and stormy night in a galaxy far far away. The Cliche Police had their hands full with the rebel faction in the Olde Quarter. The uprising was like a tide pounding against rocks in a storm. The sky looked heavy, pregnant with bad weather. Everywhere else in town the citizenry found themselves stumbling over obvious similes and overwrought descriptions. There was little the Cliche Police could do. The city would just have to hunker down like a beseiged battalion on the front lines and wait for the first light of dawn to rise like a phoenix from the ashes.

Meanwhile, back on the farm...

"What's that you say, girl? Timmy's down the well?"

And back in the Olde Quarter...

The rebels had the CP cornered like dogs and their rebel yells echoed off the bricks and asphalt. The CP were overwhelmed. Though it was quite probably a nice night for a white wedding, the CP wanted nothing more than to smother the uprising like so many errant sparks from a campfire underfoot. The word litter continued to grow and threatened indeed to overrun the city at large like rats off a sinking ship.

Meanwhile, back on the farm...

"How do you know he's in the well, girl? Could you hear a telltale heartbeat?"

And in the Olde Quarter...

Suddenly a woman with hair black as a raven's wing, eyes as blue as the summer sky, and lips as red as a red red rose glided into the heart of the fracas.

"I am born of your wayward comparisons, a spirit formed from half-worked metaphor and poor association. My name is Obvious. My purpose is destruction." Her words dropped like pennies into a bucket, brassy and sharp, and they echoed off the walls like the reverb on the last note of a rock anthem. She raised bare arms as white as paper to the roiling heavens and the skies opened. Sheet rain began to fall. Literal reams of rain, pages and sheets of it, tumbled to the ground. And where it landed, inky rivers bleed into the streets. The Cliche Police and the rebels stood agape, united in their astonishment and horror. Their eyes bulged like bulbs. Their hands clenched into fists. The lady laughed. The torrent continued, like a tap turned to full over a flooded tub.

Meanwhile, back on the farm...

"Dear, Timmy's in the well again!"
"Which one?"
"The drained one. The pit."

And in the Olde Quarter...

From out of nowhere came a loud shriek not unlike that of a Fell Beast but definitely unlike it enough for the purposes of copyright infringement. A larged winged beast-like creature not unlike a Fell Beast but quite dissimilar at the same time wheeled through the clouds and hovered overhead. Upon the back of the winged thing sat a sleek grey and white cat. I said CAT. Of the feline variety. As the CP and the rebels stared in confusion, the sound of a revving engine could clearly be heard and a loud screeching of tires announced the arrival of a sassy red Sunfire into the Olde Quarter. The lady frowned, darkly, like the gathering of a storm upon her porcelain brow.

"I've had quite enough of bad writing for one day," the cat announced in firm tones.

"I couldn't agree more," the car purred.

The cat delicately dug one claw into the side of the winged creature, causing it to wheel and scream anew. Those assembled below ducked for cover and as they did, the car sped forward and pulled abruptly into a 180 turn, her doors flinging open so hard-bound books could scatter over the crowd. The titles glinted under the streetlamps. The Raven. The Mask of the Red Death. Fahrenheit 451. Something Wicked This Way Comes. Dracula. Wuthering Heights. The Picture of Dorian Gray. The Silmarillion. The Turn of the Screw. As the books hit the ground, a sound like the somber chiming of a thousand church bells was heard.

"A reckoning," the cat intoned, winging overhead with a smug look.

"Time to go," the car growled.

The lady of black hair, white arms, and rose-red lips vanished with a scream and a plume of smoke. The Cliche Police straightened, drew deep breaths, and picked the books off the ground to brandish over the rebels. The rebels blanched and fled. And dawn broke. Not like anything. It just broke.

Meanwhile, back on the farm...

"Timmy's fine. He won't go down the well again. Nevermore."

And in Olde Quarter...

The cat sprang off the back of the winged creature and it disappeared into the greying night. Delicately licking one paw, the cat eyed the car.

"That was the worst story I've ever been in."

"I think she needs to leave our adventures to that bear to write," the car sniffed disdainfully.

"Agreed." The cat hopped into the driver's seat and the door swung shut. "Let's get out of here, fast. Head for The Woods and see if we can run into a better time there."

The End.

- Corinne Simpson