Sign in to follow this  

Wilson is insane; story collection

Recommended Posts

kilozombie2    31

The angels are knocking again.

Wilson knows it, he's prepared, he's happy. Content. The look on his face would surprise you, I think. Something kind of... otherworldly, considering the circumstances. If you knew him well, you'd know why. Angels keep knocking.

He lifts something up in his arm, but it's lackluster in motion. He doesn't really care about it. Just another little thing, rock on a stick with a rope. He forgot the last time he used anything else, though. He knows how to make it again. But they don't have names. Angels keep knocking.

I think that the spear's taking hold of Wilson, not the other way round. He can see it closely. See his grin? Grin's fading a bit. Melancholy feelings. If you knew him well you'd care. If you knew him well you'd care very much. Something's comin'. Wilson stands up, stands up. He asks somebody, "Do you hear that?" Then he smiles again. Angels keep knocking.

And the bird lifts its beak, it's gonna chirp, but it realizes where it is. It stares at the bars around it. Where's winter, it wonders. Wilson don't know either. "Do you hear that?" She does; but they don't have names. "Do you hear that?" Angels keep knocking.

Still the sound is there, Wilson thinks. He don't say it. If you knew him, you'd know why. But you don't. Wilson don't know either. He's thinking about a happy place. His eyes are closed, didn't you see? He picks up somethin' else. But they don't have names. Little round hat, so tall and so proud. He dons it. Don't you look nice, Wilson. "Do you hear that?" Angels keep knocking.

Once more, once more, he sets up the teeth. Whatcha gonna chew on today? Whatcha gonna chew on today? He looks at them again. Then again. The teeth are there. The mouths are open. Little smallbird's leg still stuck in one, but it'll have to do. Wilson thinks about it. Smiles. If you knew him, you'd wonder why. But you don't. You sure know why. Angels keep knocking.

Blast of light, Wilson sees, yeah, Wilson sees the light. "Do you hear that?" But he doesn't ask. He doesn't hear a thing. He raises the spear. Bird chirps. Angel knocks.

"Aim for the eyes!" he'd say. But Wilson already knows where to aim.

Angels keep knocking.


Good morning.

The grass doesn't stop flowing by, so quickly. Evening wind, Wilson says. Is he right? He hears a snore. The grass doesn't stop flowing by. He says, "Good morning." But it's not morning. They'll never see the morning. He can already feel heat.

So close he is, the grass doesn't stop flowing by, Wilson is so close to the beefalo. The stick in his hand is already burnt. Good morning, he tells them. Is it forewarning? It's a gift. It's an offering. They won't see the morning again. And Wilson's glad.

The hair comes off easily their smooth body. He cuts off a lot. It doesn't matter, he thinks. "Good morning," he says so far dozed off, because it doesn't matter how much it hurts. The beefalo shudders. Has it heard him? No, they never hear Wilson. They don't deserve to.

Finally comes the moon. It stares at Wilson, he can look back endlessly into that abyss, but it hangs over the whole world. No waves to put you out, he thinks. No pig to save you today.

"Good morning," he says, the torch now ablaze in his hands. Is Wilson crying? Is Wilson afraid? "Good morning," as he watches the fire burn. He can't see much else now. He hopes they can't. "Good morning."

But they'll never see the morning.


"Chester!" There's enthusiasm in Wilson now. He's so giddy. "Chester, yes!" There's a panting, and he's here, this nice little animal. Wilson knows him. "Chester, yes..." How long have you been waiting? How long have you been gone? He's hugging the little creature, and Chester just makes a bark and a heavy breath. "Chester..."

Inside again, "here we are," it's been so long. He jumps, such a bounding jump, haha, yes... Wilson's staring, his smile is faked, but he knows Chester's comfortable now. "Lay down," and Wilson points, the fireflies are uproar. He's set up so much for Chester. Does he like it? Does he know? "Oh, yes..." Wilson says, to take his mind off. The future is so grim.

He scurries, Wilson does, the big pot of food. How there's still some soup inside- should he do it? Is it worth it? "N-not for you, Chester," he says. Chester wants it. He's grabbing his leg. Fake smile. Fake stare. "It's okay."

He sits, he waits, the sun's still up so high, Wilson speaks of a game. He slides a rock across the ground, a line appears, Chester thinks this will go on forever. He's so happy, he's so content, the future's so grim. Marbles in the line, they slide so quickly side to side. Are there rules? Is there sense? It doesn't matter, Wilson thinks. "Chester..."

Chester's getting hungry, he's hungry for more, but Wilson denies. Breakfast, he says, "Breakfast's the best!" Fake smile, fake stare, the future's so grim. He stops so quickly, his breath stiff, Wilson stands motionless. He thinks about time. He thinks about lies. How long have I waited? Why wait anymore? "Bedtime..." Chester's not confused. Wilson always stops.

The sky is orange, the world's tinted too. Chester's wound down, wire strung around a spool, panting and panting. Wilson's ready. Chester's ready. Fake smile, fake stare. "Bedtime..." Chester's so happy. He's excited for breakfast. He's excited for tomorrow.

Excitement is so powerful, Wilson thinks, he's raising the eye bone up. It stares, as if to ask, "Why?" He holds it like a club, fake smile, fake stare. Chester snores.



Morning begins itself, and the spider hisses. Not because it's angry or sad, but because of tradition. It used to have tradition. What does the stone prison bring it if not tradition? It stands slowly on four legs; it was asleep before. It begins to crawl over to a wall, peering at it, looking for something interesting. It doesn't find a thing.

Again the spider moves, to another wall; it scratches a mark into it. Another mark. So many by now, I could make a picture, it thinks. But it already has. The stone wall is covered in marks, each one for a day. It saw Wilson do it, once. The spider liked looking at the numbers.

It makes a bit of haste now, to an opening in the walls; to another room. This one has a wooden floor instead of one of stone, so comfortable in here. In the middle innocently sits a pile of red berries. Plentiful this time, the spider thinks, it begins to eat one or two, then another few. Sustenance, it thinks, and makes a little smile.

But the spider can't eat anymore, so it just pushes the berries away with one limb, staring, its eyes squinting and depressed. It sits, letting its abdomen lower. The spider produces a fairly large web, a cobweb in the corner of the room of walls. It's for Wilson, the spider thinks. And here he was, so quickly; he sit atop a stone wall in a fetal position, looking down at the spider curiously.

They stare at one another for awhile. The spider knows it's just a visit, to make sure everything's okay. Wilson says something, maybe he's apologizing, the spider hopes he's saying "I'm sorry I couldn't get more berries..." The spider doesn't want any more berries. It just wants Wilson to be sorry. "I'm sorry I locked you in here for weeks and months so I could harvest you every day for no reason at all just so you could suff..."

The spider's given up thinking about it. It just lets Wilson talk. Let him say whatever he wants to say.

And like that, Wilson's gone. His noise is gone. His aura is gone, and his smell is gone. The spider's alone again. The walls stare.


There was such a sudden crash, an explosion of noise and color and fire. Wilson was there already, holding a rose; it'd been plucked dead. The meteor was here, he thought. It sit in a pile of dirt and grass, surrounded by wood and stone. His small collection of walls had been decimated, but no matter.

Wilson slowly stepped over to the meteorite, a still-hot chunk of rock, held it with both hands and lifted it up. He stared at it so intensely, with Wilson's own calculating eyes. It groaned in his palms, almost seemed to squirm in heat. He studied the crinkles of it, the little holes.

He slowly sat down, still holding it, and let his right hand go limp. The rose fell slowly to the ground, and Wilson began staring at the two of them in unison. He smiled. Suddenly the rose sat up again on its own, wearing a fancy little top hat and a cane. It was so happy, Wilson thought, watching the rose dance for him. The meteorite stared.

And then, as Wilson noticed, the meteorite really was groaning. It creaked and bumbled its sound. The sound of wood snapping announced itself; Wilson was falling. Through the floor, through the earth itself. The meteorite and dancer followed- enticed by the endless falling.

Wilson looked along the walls, and they were so blank- but they passed by cave levels, glowing out, the mushrooms extended. He watched them, paralyzed, as they were the same every time. The meteorite groaned again. The tapdancer stared, Wilson stared.

Slowly the meteorite split in half horizontally, opening up like a shell. It slowly uncurled itself until its hollow inside was revealed; a small wooden carving of a tall man with a threatening stare. The rose was not dancing, but Maxwell certainly was, the rose perched innocently on his tuxedo. He spun around a few times, the air resistance blowing the two around, until Maxwell faced him.

He said to Wilson, "Hey pal, I can see you're not looking so good. I shouldn't tell you more than you need to know, but seek and you shall find. Better find a way outta here..."

And he woke up.


Wilson sighed.

No, but it was a relieving sigh, the one at the end of a story and a process. He'd finished it. Wilson stared.

The raft was large in size, simplistic, it should float so well. The logs in a row so cleanly. A little pole stuck out between two, and Wilson wished he could hang something on it.

He kicked it with his shoe once or twice, for good measure, then bent over. He pressed both hands against it, beginning to take a smile. Lightweight, he began to push. The groaning as the boat began to slide through the dirt leaving a trail enthralled him.

Wilson laughed. Now it was truly going, the raft was, near the edge of the cliff. The ground sloped and it was off. Wilson quickly took his hands off, backed away, enthusiasm surged through him as he strafed toward his pile of things. The top hat, of course- a spear for good measure. "And..." But there wasn't anything else; Wilson was confident in himself to that point. And if he did die...

The raft began to moan, creaking, about to fall off. Wilson quickly yelled to his group of stone walls, "Goodbye!" But he didn't think about them much. They were just... there, the contents so unknown and foreign that he almost didn't care. Wilson stood up, still looking at the walls, and then he wasn't; his vision blurred, he was running. Raft falls. Wilson jumps.

The air brushed across him, ocean wind presenting itself again.

Wilson landed on two feet, despite the uneven and rapidly changing ground of the raft. He pushed his legs apart and crouched between two logs, starting to grab hold of the pole.

The raft was now soaring, the rapid waters crashing against it over and over. Quickly the two were pushed away from the stone cliffside, how demeaning and restricting it felt. But Wilson could leave now, he told himself that Maxwell truly gave up on him now. "I now let you go," Wilson imagined, his grin still bright.

The pole shuddered, creaked, and Wilson hung on only more, pushing it into the raft. The water accelerated unlike a normal shore, the raft began leaping between huge waves. Wilson stopped his expression, his hands slowly sliding off the pole. And then in an enormous movement the raft went vertical. The pole was yanked off the raft's poles, and in one desperate maneuver Wilson grabbed for a rope.

He aimed true.

But the waves didn't let up, now they were more intense than ever; Wilson held with one hand as it turned right-side up, then grasped for both hands as it nearly flipped. Water soaked both sides, now tumbling and drowning Wilson. And then he gasped for air; nothing came. He stared around him, the world in slow motion, and watched sharks go by.

And again he was back up, the raft nearly tearing itself in half. Wilson felt his arm dislocate and simply lay motionless on the top, belly up. The waves were gone. The water was gone.

Maxwell had failed, surely.

He slowly sat up, his left arm in ridiculous pain. Wilson stared forward at the ocean. The sun was at it's epicenter, now he could see the entire soaring land across from him. The smile, albeit for mere moments, returned.

Then, suddenly, all Wilson saw was darkness. He stared at his hands, so faint, and began to yell out for help. He heard a repeated whisper around him, the Grue slowly approaching. It moaned, breathing in until

Wilson felt himself hurtling forward, water slicing across his body. The raft was moving again, faster than ever. It skipped across the water, exploding it apart every jump. He saw the approaching shore, yelled again, but it wasn't heard. The raft made one final leap and so did Wilson, soaring above it.

And he landed, hearing both his own fall and the crash of the raft hitting the shore. His leg snapped vocally; he tumbled twice over until he lay on his back finally.

And moments before he thought he was dead, the spider's leg touched his forearm. Wilson passed out.

He dreamt of dead things.


Wilson sat near the bonfire, his right leg completely limp. He didn't smile. He hardly even stared. Except for the berry he put into his mouth every few moments, he was also motionless. Now we take a step back.

It's not nighttime, of course, the snow is piling slowly. Wilson's breath echoes out, and you could see it float into the air. His top hat and vest were off; replaced by a snug fur cap and a thick jacket. His left leg was covered, but Wilson let his right into the cold- the pain would be numbed.

The four-legged spider curl up against the burning fire, its eyes clenched closed. It shivers every once in a while, but Wilson assures himself it's all fine.

Time accelerates for a bit, despite how slow the snow seemed. Wilson was now upright. In one arm he held a crutch striking the ground; the other was an empty berry branch. No smile, no, Wilson didn't smile here. He limped himself toward the small enclosure he called a kitchen.

Slowly, without Wilson even intending to, his right hand opened the top of the pot. He heard the charcoal crackling and saw the soup simmering. Should he wait for longer? Wilson contemplated, felt his stomach, and shoved his face into the boiling liquid.

The heat was overwhelmingly agonizing. Wilson opened his mouth for a second, letting meaty stew in, and quickly shot out of the substance. His face ached as the cold made contact, but it was relieving. He used to touch hot things and learn not to be burned. Not anymore. Not now. Not here.

Nighttime approached; the sun was nearly gone.

Wilson once more limped to the fire, its fuel almost never-ending, and slowly lay on the snow.


Wilson walks for so long.

He doesn't take breaks in this snow, not at all, he continues to walk; a three legged being he now was. Was he looking for something? What's there to look for here, this desolate wasteland? Wilson walks.

He sees somethin', draped around a tree's branch, glinting in such bright light of the deafened sun. It's golden, a little ring type of thing, Wilson sees it and simply ignores it. Maybe the tree will die, he thinks, and I won't have to get it myself, because, I have to keep walking, he kept thinking.

Wilson notices a little pile of dirt ahead, and the old him would begin to run, but Wilson doesn't, he just walks more. He'll get there eventually, and as he does kick it up he finds a small little footprint. Wilson, are you salivating? He smiles to me. I am there for him.

He directs himself as the footprint does. The fog extends out so far, but Wilson's sense of direction doesn't; within a few minutes he's found another pile. It aims him far to the left. He contemplates something for a moment, should he be following this mystery? Then, still staring, he smashes again with the crutch at the dirt and it collides with something hard.

Wilson bends down, his right hand starts to push away the dirt to a pile. Snow falls around it, but after another couple of minutes Wilson's unearthed somethin'... what do you see? He thinks, who's buried in here? He just stares at the wooden casket, gaping.

He quickly begins to tear at a hinge, the coffin creaking loudly, and then another. "Hello?!" He doesn't get a response. Wilson then takes a swipe backwards, the cover socketing over the edge into the snow. He stares inside.

There's a person, he again thinks, but they don't speak; he just keeps pointing, frantically, at his leg. Is it stuck? Is it gone? Wilson can't tell. The mime just keeps pointing, waving, clenching, mouthing-

The only thing Wilson hears from the man is the casket closing once and for all.

He sets a stone on it for good measure, cringing, orienting himself left-ward again. Have to follow the track, Wilson. Have to follow the food, Wilson. He's looking for something.

("HELP ME" he tries to say. His vocal cords fail one last time before the snow collapses in the casket's top.)


The jackalope approaches,



by the fire, it's cackling. Wilson does notice, out of the corner of his eye. It's so invigorated by the light, bounding through otherwise trudge-worthy snow. Don't you notice? The flakes of cold are so bright, yet the fire has real meaning.

And the jackalope continues, Wilson notices, so close to this fire, he takes his eyes off the crock pot's liquid and turns to the side. He begins to sidle as best he can, though the third leg isn't easy to control. I've found evidence for this fact, the jackalope's heard Wilson-




Why do you follow, Wilson, are you so hungry? Are you so desperate? I ask, yet Wilson continues, bounding as best he can in a gallop, but what use is it? The jackalope screams, Wilson screams, the spider immediately begins to watch, its back finally to the fire.

And Wilson, so close, aren't you so close, he sees his window of opportunity, and lunges for the animal. He drops his crutch, he takes a leap, now he's flying, jackalope screams. You've got a hold of him now, Wilson, you've got a footing.

And then,

from nowhere

"He's here, Father!"

Jackalope's scream is muffled.

Wilson, he's, he begins to burrow into the snow, hiding, mumbling, frantic look on his face. Look what you've done, Wilson, but he ignores me. He peers ahead, snow shoveled onto his body, through the fog and snow he sees the two of them, a large walrus and his son. Look what you've done.

Wilson's camp, we're calling it that now, is being torn apart. They want to find Wilson, they do, Wilson knows, "Not here, Father!" The walruses rip into a tent, peering into its contents, jumping into it, exiting. They gobble the contents of the pot.

Jackalope starts to scream





and he's dead, with a piercing snap but not loud enough for them to hear. The walruses pick another portion, all the grass and berries, they're trampling on them. Look what you've done, Wilson. Look what you've done. They take a sample like grocery shoppers, "Father," and Wilson tunes them out.

He's in his own world now. Wilson's just laying in the thick snow, the dead animal snug against his lap and his own arms ready to flail. They're just barely coated in blood, Wilson, you weren't so afraid of death moments ago. The spider tells him, you even wanted the thing dead. But Wilson wonders why he hears the spider. "Hey, Father, look at this ugly thing!" The little one's club is up.

"Hey, I'm



Wilson said this, so loudly, but he wasn't on good footing; one leg was completely kneeling. What did he expect to accomplish? The walruses turned to him. One's eyes almost shone light against Wilson's, and he can almost feel the dart go past his neck.

Now he's trying to walk, Wilson is, so slowly; his crutch is gone. "Yer gonna die, pal!" he hears, but Wilson's just crying and doesn't know why. He sees something in front of him, swerves around it and grabs the trunk of the tree, whimpering into it.




and Wilson knocks the big one over, flat on the ground, aims for his juggular

The crutch pierces and all Wilson sees is red, moaning, screaming, pleading, crying, hissing. "Father! Please! No-n-n-n... help! Stop!" And it continues, and continues, Wilson can't move, the walrus runs, Wilson can't move, he's just staring at the crutch he's not supposed to have.

Maxwell smiles.


He just sat there, the fire still raging, every once in a while whispering to himself. In front of him was the jackalope; not in a well-made display, just its motionless corpse for all to see. Wilson made something for it, a little gravestone. Kept adding to it, hanging dead flowers on it, making the cross dance around.

He wondered why he did it all, what kind of meaning the thing was supposed to take. But not for long, Wilson just kept playing with it, the day passing by without meaning. He fed the jackalope for a bit, nuzzling by its side, still seeing himself just- snap- it's- fragile- head, till it lost all its meaning.

And the spider... oh, the spider had its own thoughts about it all. The four legged spider lay nearby, just far enough to be disconnected yet a part of it all, and contained all those thoughts to itself. It didn't want to give meaning to the whole thing. It didn't mean anything. It was a corpse, don't feel the need to give the damn thing dignity.

But Wilson did, he did for a while, well past evening, well past meaning, and he threw it all in the fire. He sat cock-eyed, just coldly calculating the innermost fire. He watched the jackalope burn well past when night started.

And when it all stopped, well-






"This is it," the spider would've said, because it watched the sun rise. It watched the sun rise, clouds gone, snow's melting, winter's over, thump thump, Wilson's up. "This is it." And it was.

Wilson's here, he's ready, smiling, three legged little being. He dons his top hat, don't need anything else. Starts to walk, limp, a lot quicker now. Does the spider follow? I don't know. Thump thump. Does it matter? Thump thump. Spider wonders the same question, and it doesn't follow, it doesn't follow Wilson.

He's not far now, thump thump, that big forest, all the trees. Sun shines so bright, bird chirps, angel knocks. Haven't the clouds departed already, Wilson? He doesn't care. Wilson? "All burn." And he keeps walking.

The forest's close now, Wilson thinks, and he is, he's been walking so long in that same direction. He watches a little red bird land on the grassy landscape, and he's happy. Wilson's so happy now. And you notice something in his hand, burnt out torch, angel knocks, thump thump, thump thump.

"All burn." Here it is, the woods, the trees, the everything. Towering above it all is the thing, thump thump, Wilson's thinking so hard about it. "Hello," he mumbles. Wilson smiles. Deerclops smiles. Bird smiles. Sun smiles. Everyone's so happy, leaves returning, so happy, so happy, so wonderful.

And then the tree goes alight.



Everything's on fire. The world's on fire. The deerclops is smiling. Wilson is smiling. Bird chirps. Angel knocks.

The leaves blow into the pyrocumulous, the huge pillar of fire. Deerclops is smiling. All burn. All burn. All burn.

And here they are, "Do you hear that," and Wilson does. The angels are here, world's burning so much, and they're smiling now too.

The burning surrounds him, so much heat, the world's alight, he throws the crutch in. All burn. All burn. "ALL BURN!" He's screaming. Angels scream. Deerclops screams. Bird screams.

And Wilson sees it just then. He falls over. He watches them burn. He's screaming now, too, he's terrified-

All burn-

and he doesn't want to watch, Wilson, watch for us. Smile for us. He's screaming, covering his eyes with his arms, trying to crawl away, all burn. Deerclops screams. Birds scream.

Smile for us, Wilson.





Out floats the branch, gliding along nothing, how it's so meaningful in its posture. It lights up neon, bulbs surrounding its outer body, Wilson's here. A freight train calls out so loudly and destroys the wall of forgotten names, colliding with a forest in a shower of green light; the branch cries as does the four-legged spider.

Dug into the ground like an antennae, the branch allows itself to see in perfect harmony with Wilson; the two of them begin to fly above the sun and clouds hang them in a noose as they sing. Wilson only comments, "the gun's pointed toward you. The finally done toast of a forgotten past flies toward the branch, and the bird screams immediately before impact. Now it's on fire too.

But-" immediately before impact; now it's on fire too. But the clouds understand your dillema, they all note deeply to themselves in a black and white universe how screams described in the book of all knowledge are accurate; they drop the duo apart until they're split against a knife's edge. Wilson only comments, "Before finally landing on where all the things depart: a stone prison of darklight and miscommunication. It screams immediately before impact. Now it's on fire too. But-" immediately before impact. But Wilson never burns.

The spider comforts him, flying through a branch-like corridor of winding worms and destroyed pathways. Far-fetched imaginations run high, Wilson only can watch as a door opens a hundred times until the eternal walk of a pariah presents itself; the spider cries out, and Wilson only comments, "I can see it again, the branch lets itself go into a state of shock, a top spins to give itself meaning. And I screamed immediately before impact. Now it was on fire too, but-" immediately before impact. Now they were on fire too.

All burn.

All burn.

And he sat there, staring into nothing; a top hat laid by him. He kept thinking neon, the spider only watched. He let the branch burn, closing and opening his eyes until Wilson returned to reality. And as soon as he did, he stood.

"Say pal, you don't look so good." No, he thought, no no no...

"Better find something I BURNT YOU I BURNT YOU I BURNT YOU before night comes!"





"Itsy bitsy spider..."

Wilson sat, crunched up by a wall in a foetal position; his head throbbed and he felt his abdomen stab him over and over again. He tried to muffle his favorite lullaby under his breath, but so much of it came out distorted and ridden of any humanity that the only listener was himself. He left a grin on himself; it was so long and fake and wrong.

"..climbing up the spout..."

He clenched again, contracting all his limbs, Wilson shook. He cried out, kidney stones rolling inside his bowel like a tumbledryer. He felt a squirm, his intestines exploding into trillions of shattered pieces; they landed by him, and he only moaned again. Something belched out of his mouth, an infinite plane of destruction, and he returned to his smile in moments; his eyes saw only a churning machine as they were diluted by undried tears.

"Down came the rain, washed the... spider..."

And his teeth chattered, clicked against one another in a grind and eviscerated themselves. Wilson's head exploded again, his hair and skull pulsating like a strobe light. He stared only forward, tried to speak; it only came out muffled, strained, and Wilson felt a crashing bumbling rock hit him fore in the stomach. He felt himself flying back into a train, his spine ripping apart from his body and screaming too.

"Out came the... the sun washed out the..."

Darkness surrounded his eyes, eviscerating his center of mass and slumping Wilson again sideways. He leapt out, grin full of anger, as he watched all the atoms in the world split at the same time; his vision collapsed and he felt a surge from down under. Suddenly something rolled on the ground, coated in something, he pulsated back and forth to ignore the sensation. Wilson took one last gasp, holding his hands together to pray but only moaning again.

"Itsy... bitsy... spider... went up the... spout again..."

He bit the dirt, trying to reason with it, screaming inside and smiling outwardly as a million shards of glass embedded themselves in his skin; his breathing returned to normal, he felt the pain shoot out in all directions like an aura.

The four legged spider went up the spout to him, motionless tears staining his face, and watched.


Was it his new crux?

Wilson didn't know what the red necklace did, he keeps taking glances at it, trying to deduce what it means. Nothing turns up for him again and again, 'til he looks again, touches it. Wilson, don't take your hands off the shovel. He doesn't anymore.

A clump of wires now in his left hand, he limps to another grave; it reads his name, and Wilson doesn't flinch, just a short cry of sorrow. The dissimilar world seemed, now, so familiar, something so strange was almost normal. He stabbed the mound of dirt with the shovel.

He kicked a gnome along the ground with him, garden variety, collecting dirt as it went. It tumbles and turns around, next pile of dirt; the grave's unmarked, but Wilson knows who died. He's already into missing soil, what will you find now, Wilson? He glares at me. Wilson doesn't want loneliness, but he wants privacy.

The fake teeth stored in his pockets, now Wilson's off again. Every hit against the ground pains, squirms, aches, but his leg keeps attached, and through this fog Wilson can see one last grave. Now he's here, the wooden crutch serving as a new shovel. He's full of glee. What turns up from the dirt



turned around again, staring at the source of the noise.

A content little hen rests, its two legs crouching, Wilson can't believe it. He shout is unintelligible but it means something. Thump thump.

He starts to run, but doesn't move.

Now Wilson's confused, he stares at his hands but they're too blurry. He glances at the hen for clarification, but it's expression hasn't changed, it doesn't see the strangeness.

Now Wilson sees himself in the second person, you're shouting, so hard, "THIS ISN'T A DREAM!" "I'M REAL!" And you think it is, looking at the haze around your vision that you'll only put in when you wake up, you feel yourself being screeched out of the dream slowly, so slowly until reality returns for Wilson.

He can see the straw bed around him, he gasps as he promised in the dream, and he'll soon forget how real it felt.



The wind is blowing, nudging across the room, in the back where nobody will see. But it seems, for the wind, that all eyes are on it- who really cares? The tallbird, despite her long-term relationship with the wind, starts to shake at its presence. It gives off some kind of bad vibe; calm before the storm that doesn't ever arrive.

But there's a sound, so sudden, a shout of momentum like a speeding plane overhead, Wilson's footsteps in a rapid pace. Now the tallbird's awake, only to watch, her legs curled underneath the egg. His figure's now in gaze, threatening, over imposed. She remembers Wilson, distant remnants of a good morning and night, over and over... But already he's asking.

The tallbird's moving on on spindly legs now, trying to gasp for a lack of air, and there's nothing. She stares at the man, some kind of long spiky stick in his hands; but they don't have names. The egg's not in the nest, not in the air, in Wilson's grasp, and the tallbird just shudders. It loses momentum, just like the hidden wind that birthed it.

Wilson is talking again-

quick moving words

that don't mean




Already he's gone, how long did it take? The tallbird doesn't measure, doesn't sulk, doesn't let in sorrow. She just sits again on the nest, little fragile thing, and wonders where the egg went.

Not next time, she thinks, promises to herself. The wind, such an altruistic being, pokes her on the back.


And here we are now, the bonfire rages and an innocent egg sits steaming and heating above it.

She's happy, there's a running of euphoria and excitement and intensity and the tent dissolves under the tallbird's leg and, oh, how easily it goes into the fire. All burn. The rush envelops her, this feeling of last chances gone and last chances passing by that she never took, only for them to be hit by a speeding car that is the spear.

The wind whispers them to sleep.


There is no haze on the horizon. Not enough to shelter him from the thunder, and Wilson swears it's coming. Not enough to harvest the lightning, and Wilson swears it's coming.

Wilson can search all he wants, the endless time of day moving without stop and pelting rain never ending. The world is bleak, Wilson, flat and empty and dead. He looks again, glancing up from the dirt, trying to find something that gives hope. But there is no haze on the horizon.

In his hands is a box- a cube, shiny, its outside coated in honey, but the inside's moving gears can be seen clearly. Wilson doesn't clench it, but it's there, and so he walks without a crutch. He doesn't smile at it, no grin here, and you should know why. Nobody quite knows him like us. There is no haze on the horizon.

But he does keep walking, his mouth sore from hunger but fulfilled from adrenaline, you can see it now. He's approaching a haze, a figure of a creature, something without any kind of meaning to Wilson. One arm descends, now he crouches, shaking and stirring but without a sound. There is no haze on the horizon.

And the honey cube sticks easily to the creature's hole, right where nobody could see it. It twists and it turns noisily, grinding halfway into the earth before stopping. Jackalope screams, frightened, unaware, blinded by instinct and it can't stop itself from burrowing into its home. There is no haze on the horizon.

But the gears do.

Twisting and turning and screeching and grinding and crushing and destroying and wrecking and screaming...

The machine ejects coated in dirt, and the two continue. One of them is chewing, but you can't tell who. One of them's fed, but you can't tell who. There is no haze on the horizon.

And yet he keeps searching...


Out from the world is a giant, a colossus. A huge golem of a being, standing so tall and proud, holding the world up. Wilson has found the mountain.

The wind contorts away from it, now yelling for attention, blowing at his clothes violently like a train passing by his backbone over and over- it'll never hit you, Wilson, but you think it might. He rushes forward, legs hardly containing him now, and the cube clatters noisily on the ground. It still matters to Wilson, but he doesn't want to think so.

The carved paths seem to open to Wilson like doors in a corridor, but there are no walls here; the air slams itself against the giant, cracking its own skull over and over, blasting away the tireless years that have passed. Wilson hasn't seen those years, but his smile is still grim and predicting and calculating.

Clouds clip themselves apart at the mountain's edge, water coats them but Wilson keeps walking- the hall winds around itself violently like a rope around his neck. Rushing waves of oxygen pound, higher and higher they are so far gone, and it's cold. The uppermost clouds look down at Wilson, and the fulfillment is lost for a moment. He'll never get that high.

It flattens at the top, Wilson says, and it does, now the wind is shoving him away like a crowd. He feels surrounded by it, so intensely hated, yet alone.

And the rain starts.


The sky shatters into a trillion pieces, and they all fall down to the earth beneath.

The shards fly quickly through the air, evaporating into nothing as they hit the ground and burrow into it.

Wilson clenches the ground to hold, he tries to say something, the words burn. He tries to hold the rod, the sky crackles with anticipation, and the electricity's about to hit the end


Wilson isn't on the ground anymore, not holding the rock, nothing.

He feels a falling sensation, and he's out.

The chair feels comfortable.

He stares at the velvet buttons along it, pointing away, lovingly crafted.

He stares at the room around him, blinking a couple times, exhausted and still awake. He decides to fetch a cup of tea.

Wilson's legs feel weak, but both are equal again; he stands up on a wobble and staggers toward the trapdoor. It opens, creaking and bending, but welcoming Wilson to its alcove.

He descends the ladder, his throat feeling dryer by the moment. He reaches the bottom with a soft thump thump thump and rests his arms.

The kitchen is burning for a moment, he stares at the hot and delirious fire until it's not there anymore and dismisses it.

He approaches, haze surrounds him, and before he's allowed in the front door emits a knock, knock.

It swings open, Wilson's salivating, he sees a dark blob of a figure, and it speaks.

"Wilson, I brought... some, um, turkey, and ca-"

"Who are you?"

"...Wil'? It's me. Remember?" The figure chuckles. "You're still science-ing, right? Look, I know it's almost been a week... I'm sorry I couldn't get here earlier."

He stares brightly, trying to understand, breathing heavily.

"Look at me. Are you okay?"

"I'm dreaming."

He feels the world collapsing, screeching, the figure still standing as it morphs into the four legged spider, standing above Wilson but below the mountain.

The rain's stopped.

The wind's stopped.

The thunder's stopped.

Except one last time-

as it hits-

the ground around the two of them.


The morning sun shone bright.

It exploded into light, evaporating the lack of itself in moments, spewing out love. The sun screamed to notify us, and it wasn't present anywhere else. It was here, cuddling the sky in its vast arms of enlightenment.

Wilson rode.

He rode on his own self-confidence, self hatred, and everything in between. He conflicted with himself as a wrong being, rode on pain and lies. He rode on the four legged spider. Wilson rode on realization, the sun's rays, and the first bolt of lightning of all.

They were at once combined- a singular being, faced the same way, the same intent, the same reasons. No whip, no reins, a motivation between twins. They would have held one other together until the end of time, if only they had that long. But time drained through the hourglass right before the bush passed beneath the both of them.

He would've asked the four legged spider how it jumped so high, but Wilson realized there might be nothing below him at all.

A face ran by them backwards, trying to reel back to reality screaming. It stared at their bond and backfired, running alongside away from its hole. The jackalope's neck stayed intact, and Wilson liked it that way.

And the sun imploded again, rebounding outward in a radius of exactly the length of the universe. They collapsed, collided and combined until harmony returned to Wilson's own mind and he was again on the four legged spider. But this wouldn't happen, and Wilson knew, kept lying to himself, resisting to look down- his legs were separate from the equation.

Wilson rode on pride.

Past a tree adorned by rings, past a memorable tree; it was drenched in the blood of an unknown, and Wilson still stared at the crutch in his own hands. Again they were off, past a bird's corpse- the nest burned brightly. All burn.

Past a coffin still closed, and past the remains of an eye- one eye, one eye, one eye, thump thump. They passed a circus, showing its prize, the old necklace from your dreams. A meteor spun around below the two of them, burrowing into the earth to the caverns beneath, and exploded into light. ALL BURN ALL BURN ALL BURN


Past a stone prison that was eons ago destroyed, yet now it presented as a savior. Why so forceful, Wilson asked me, and I only told him goodnight. The fur burned, and he would never see the morning again.


He ran further, past a spout of water; it flew into the ground with everything else but-" there was nothing left. The branch burned brightly, and they past his own destroyed intestine. Wilson rode on fear and anger, on pain and detest, but most of all he rode on the four legged spider.


Wilson past boiling soup so hot, dissolving the underarmor of the earth and letting it all burn. Snow fell and Wilson watched as footsteps in the ground dissolved to fire and let it all burn.


Immediately before impact, but-" and again Wilson was with the four legged spider, not faced together but apart- their bond now faded away like a long-lost dream and it was. He felt a falling sensation, and was out.


The murky figure reappeared and told him to wake up, and even when Wilson did the world flapped past him like a cardbook. Laughter. Laughter. Thump thump, and finally he rest again by the campfire, his consciousness floating through space. But it wasn't any longer alone.

The four legged spider could finally talk to him.


And so the two told stories.

They told cautionary tales, the occasional snippet of a relationship, the lost sigh of a regrettable moment. Both saw their own flaws and ignored them. Both saw the other's flaws and commented, explained, stayed calm and fluent.

The fire burned ideas in its gaze, gazing for so long at Wilson and the four legged spider. They sat nonchalant at one another, don't you want to speak? Don't you want to comment? Their thoughts raced so quickly and their words so silent.

They discussed the world around them, of course, the dim-lit winter snow and tiny slivers of passion. You couldn't see the bonds between the atoms, the snowflakes or Wilson and the four legged spider, but they were there; you have faith in their existence. You don't know them.

What do the stars look like, and Wilson only stares at them. Why is the snow so bright, and Wilson only stares at it. People always wish they knew why Wilson stared so much. But sitting, so deadly and so silent, the four legged spider listens. It measures Wilson's heartbeat, his inner twitch, and the vibrant hallucinations he would put himself through.

Wilson looks to me for privacy, and I only invade it more.

He searches in the arachnid's mind, looking for family. He searches hopelessly for feeling against him, feebly trying to feed his ego like a fire that just won't stay lit. Wilson doesn't find anything but walls in all directions- lines like a picture drawn across them. One, two, three, four, and Wilson reminds himself of tradition.

Through eight eyes he sees himself as a dictator, a slaveowner, a mass of flies that stung. He sees himself perched so innocently on a wall and yet felt those simple words burn like acid. Does Wilson feel empathy? I'd ask him, but I'm sure he knows the answer himself.

And through the two eyes, the spider watches itself stumble in a prison, hopeless lack of communication. It watches Wilson beg for it's forgiveness, plead for redemption and yet watches Wilson's own arms ignore words. The prison doesn't expand. The walls don't shrink. The spider just watches through two eyes as the numbers on the walls grow.

Wilson watches the weak spot in those walls, sees them crumbling down and seeing open plains for the first time. He watches the boat come flying back days later, wonders how long it's been since he remembered. He stares through another's body as the forest burns, burns, all burn, all burn, all burn.

And before they finish speaking, the spider explores Wilson's dreams.

They were the only thing it wondered about.


The sun does not rise.

No, it is the moon that shows its face, crying desperately as it grasps the ground for attention before Wilson swats it away like a coward fly. Spores emit from the grass, particles in the air that spike the walls and out of the walls comes consciousness. Wilson is terrified. He burns it all away.

Eyes do not close because watching eyes come from the darkness. They snicker and snarl and crawl on the walls, horrified bugs, screeching and crawling and breeding. Spores come out of them like spikes, particles in the air. Eyes watch Wilson and he burns it all away.

He sees the man's face, a calming tuxedo that would form his body, but instead of calming eyes they form spikes that snicker and snarl all around Wilson, screaming in agony as chains wrap around them. Maxwell is terrified. Eyes watch Maxwell and he burns it all away.

Wilson is here, yes, as night lets itself fall unto the forbidden carapace of guilt and the facade comes crashing down. I scream because bugs crawl, spiking the walls, snickering and snarling. They are not real, Wilson, and he screams. Maxwell is terrified. He burns it all away.

The four legged spider watches, grinning madly as watching eyes grin out of its eyes and none of this is real but he is terrified. The fire burns around eyes and sleep is a nonissue because the sun is falling again. All burn. Eyes watch the four legged spider and it burns it all away.

Sleep, Wilson, none of this is real but he doesn't listen as snickering and snarling bugs spike watching eyes. Maxwell screams because he is on fire. A loop forms between two entities as they cry and snicker and snarl. The four legged spider is terrified and burns it all away.

Stars drift without wait, screeching as they find dead halts in the full moon. None of this is real but Wilson can't sleep. The four legged spider is real and is terrified. The night is here, yes, as Wilson lets himself fall into the sinkhole.

The four legged spider turns and watches. The bugs recede slowly and snicker and snarl into the darkness. The four legged spider watches as Wilson fades into the darkness, falling, falling, never to return.

"I'm sorry."

Do spiders cry? Why should the four legged spider anguish?

The four legged spider is terrified, yes, as it lets itself fall into the sinkhole.


Wilson's landing was audible. His leg is spiked with the sound of snapping bone, one leg had began to heal but both had now began to die.

Curved walls of limestone encrusted with screams watched Wilson, his face still confused and surprised as ever. He'd hoped to land upside down, hoped to snap his neck as he'd done to countless others before, but it was those walls that were unkind to him. Etching visible lines in the rock, flowing with the blood of the earth, Wilson crawled.

The cave was silent with the sound of nothing; vibrations from the slightest twitch echoed horribly across the entire cavern. The constant sound of a broken record would play back again and again, with long spindly arms that reached out to grab smiling shapes. The area was too open, Wilson reckoned, yet he felt claustrophobic as the incessantly loud walls closed in.

Stalactites spiked the ground, screeching and ripping sparks into the earth. The faint whisper of doubt was in them, resonating onto everything else. Where the aboveground had been home to Maxwell, his playground, his place, this was a forgotten tome with eyes that watched. Wilson stared, calculating, crying, toward the eyes. None of it was flammable.

As time went on, the faint light from the moon faded. Amorphous shadows snuck around Wilson, amalgams of faces showing proud. What would have seemed a small time span was too long, far too painful. Wilson's leg snapped again and it dragged limply behind. His face was nonchalant, understanding had fallen to the bottom of the pit, scattered among the faces of the dead.

Eons passed as the world was torn to pieces by meteors.

There was a wall at the end, calming in its posture with barely any facade to hide behind. Wilson touched it with his own eyes, slumping toward it. He wanted to burn. Of every situation, he slowly found this one to be the worst. Of every feeling, he slowly felt pain to be the worst. Of every guilt he had felt, of all the burnt things and broken bridges, he slowly felt the four legged spider on him, staring and calculating with the four legged spider's own eyes.


Edited by kilozombie2
  • Like 2
  • Sad 1

Share this post

Link to post
Share on other sites
Sisbeef    10

I like them, but they are rather difficult to follow. If you don't mind a little criticism, I'd say you need to work a bit on sentence structure and grammar :)Other than that, nice job, I can see you have some good ideas, you just need to clean these up a bit.

Share this post

Link to post
Share on other sites
kilozombie2    31

Yeah, I've been having trouble trying to put together a clear narrative recently Sisbeef. When I don't make it jumpy enough, I feel too bland, and when it's too unintelligible, well, it loses quality.I'll try and write more tonight.

Share this post

Link to post
Share on other sites
kilozombie2    31

One more big one. Side note: if you use the Cheats Menu mod to get onto the water and soar far enough from shore, the entire world goes black except for Wilson until you return. Scary stuff.

Share this post

Link to post
Share on other sites

One more, and I'm... not very proud of it. I'm having some trouble finding new ideas of what to write. Anybody got a request that's winter-themed?

Can you please write something about Wes ? I don't mind if he freezes to death or something, but could you?

Share this post

Link to post
Share on other sites

You do amazing job on capturing the loneliness, despair and insanity. I would say more but I'm pretty bad in talking. : CI will follow your thread for more!

Edited by Raccoon Superhero

Share this post

Link to post
Share on other sites

One more, and I'm... not very proud of it. I'm having some trouble finding new ideas of what to write. Anybody got a request that's winter-themed?

yes i have a request,have Wilson find his first winter and well.... lets just say i belive the deerclops will come into the picture ;)

Share this post

Link to post
Share on other sites
kilozombie2    31

Thank you very much! I do hope to write a book someday, and will let you know for sure. :happypigs:Also, I've been straining trying to come up with a good rain story. Should have one soon, though!

Share this post

Link to post
Share on other sites

Create an account or sign in to comment

You need to be a member in order to leave a comment

Create an account

Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!

Register a new account

Sign in

Already have an account? Sign in here.

Sign In Now
Sign in to follow this