Over a hill, situated in the forefront of this mental master shot was the house in which I took current residence. ‘Twas a humble abode, but furnished adequately enough for me to reside joyfully within; 52” HD-ready widescreen plasma TV, Xbox One and FIFA 15, Dolby Surround Sound and all the latest mod-cons, including the not yet invented Hover-Butler 3000, sporting a retractable microwave.
Boastful digression aside, on one generic evening, from atop the aforementioned hill, which in topographical terms is referred to as being behind my house, there was a monstrous roar. Being the curious type, and after discovering that my worldly possessions alone cannot bring me the companionship my human nature craved, I drew courage from deep down within and donned my most expensive hiking garb. It was now quite late and dark, approximately 2130 GMT.
Hiking gear forcefully worn like a suit of armour, I left my Palace of Possessions and braved the murky, menacing mist with the winter wind whistling and whispering all around me, singing sad songs lamenting the lovely lost days of yore: it was my quest this evening to seek the origin of the beastly eructation. It was a treacherous journey, awash with all manner of cads, bounders and curs, each and every one successfully repelled by my Anti-Vagabond™ spray, coupled with simultaneous deployment of my Blackguard-be-Gone™ truncheon. Eventually, after the dastardly band of miscreants were cunningly dispatched and thrown by the wayside, I reached the sinister summit of this humongous yet hikeable hill.
Here, on the boundary of sky and land there was not much to be seen, smelt, heard, felt or even tasted due to the malevolent mist corrupting each and every one of my five senses. Undeterred I remained atop this high until my eyes had adjusted. After several minutes they had indeed rectified themselves, and in simultaneous companionship my ears began to begin their adventure into correction, like two friends leaving a party together and remembering what outside looks like. Almost directly in front of me now, seemingly staring into my soul was a pair of what appeared to be a pair of red eyes, barely visible in the gloom.
This was something I had not anticipated, and so screamed I loudly did. Found I also to be running in a hysterical circle, discovering much to my chagrin that the owner of the crimson peepers imitated me almost flawlessly.
‘A monster!’ shrieked I to myself in my head so no monster could hear me and eat me and thus may let me slip away unseen and unheard back into the forgiving fog and down the hill to my humble house below.
‘Twas then that I relaxed, as logic came sweeping over me like an infant petting a new rodent, and decided that these ‘eyes’ (in inverted commas, naturally) must belong to a cyclist of sorts, lost upon this hill in the fog, and the noise emanating from here earlier must have been emitted from some kind of air horn that this hapless wretch held on their person.
Further logic sweeping occurred as I quickly realised that monsters do not actually exist outside the realms of fiction. Relaxing just long enough for logic to again sweep over me akin to the harsh brush stroke of correction fluid over an accidental ink blemish, a thought motion applied the knowledge that I myself was the protagonist in this semi-fictional piece of work. Before I could acknowledge this notion, the monster swallowed me whole, in one almighty gulp. Naturally I was defenceless; my weapons rendered useless in one fleeting moment as my terrifying assailant was clearly not a vagabond, nor was it a blackguard; this was a beast.
So this concludes my dramatic diary entry, owing to my entombment in the monster’s stomach. I must draw this chain of events to an abrupt end, as I am being digested by the creature’s stomach acids at an alarming rate, and my odds of survival are currently showing at slim to none.
© Kris Blackburn 08/02/08 first draft, current draft 09/07/2015