Speculative Fiction- is it noble to live the Dionysian life, goode sires? Or is it as ignoble as squashing a sleeping hermit's testicles beneath thy boot heel? (400 hits)
Category: RomanceRating: 0.2 on 9 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Chinaski (View user info) at 2005-08-08 23:12:57 EDT
Baschenach's Death in Venice
The clouds swirled petulantly across a bleak sky; grays tinged with flat whites created the palate of a demented artist. Rain clouds ripe with purple and impregnated with spring showers hung as though from gallow poles to the east. It was the spring of 19— and Baschenach stood stoically, eyes glued to the sky, as he contemplated deep, philosophical matters. He had spent a work-intensive morning poring over a critical essay on the nature of youth; now, he was trying to clear his head with a midday walk. As if by chance, he began strolling briskly eastwards... towards the town cemetery.
Along the way he admired some of the sights his town had to offer- children at play; their ripe, young bodies beckoning him from afar- mothers calling their children in for lunch, the children running, their golden locks bouncing gently, seductively, against their firm, luscious necks...
Baschenach shook his head and continued on. It wasn't healthy to stay in one place for too long.
He at last came to the cemetery. Why am I here? He wondered silently to himself. He glanced around. To his left was an open grave. A sudden breeze from the west tugged at him and threw him into the open grave. Cursing, Baschenach rose. As he clambered to get out of the grave, a gaunt, skeletal arm suddenly grasped him by his own and hefted him easily to his feet. "Thanks," muttered the humiliated scholar, and turned to face the helpful stranger.
The man, if he could be called that, had a face like a Chinese parchment. Taut, withered, bleak yellow skin stretched hideously across a rat-like visage. His grin bespoke centuries of agonized living, and his cracked, less-than-plentiful teeth were covered with moss. Horrified, Baschenach's gaze rose to the man's eyes. Two sunken red and black orbs peered back at him. Baschenach could almost see the scenes of damnation and hellfire roiling hideously within those two blacker than night pits.
Before he could let out the scream that clawed at his now-parched throat, the man spoke. But it was more of an unearthly chuckle that erupted from the helper-turned-nightmare. "Mwah ha ha ha!" he cackled, raising one disfigured, damning arm towards Baschenach. His cackle turned into a cacophonous scream of demonic glee. "Hee hee hee haa haa haa haaaa!" Flame lit in his devil's eyes. Then, while Baschenach stood frozen with terror, the hell-born apparition pointed to the open grave and smiled. Mercifully, Baschenach fainted.
When he awoke, the soul-shaken man found himself lying on a bench at the local train station. "Was it all a dream?" Baschenach wondered. He stood, stretched, smoothed his suit, and felt something in his pocket. Curious, he reached in... and withdrew a ticket. Warily, he raised the ticket and read the fine print. "One-way ticket to Venice," Baschenach remarked. Then he smiled brightly. "By god," he said. "I have been desirous of a vacation! I wonder who the kind soul is who bestowed upon me this wonderful gift!" He sat back down and waited merrily for his train.
Shortly he heard the whistle in the distance. It sounded like the mournful wail of the dead, mused Baschenach. He let out a chuckle. Mournful dead indeed! 'Twas nothing but the approaching train. As suddenly as the thought passed his mind, the train appeared on the distance. From his vantage point, Baschenach thought quizzically, the approaching engine looked more like the gaunt, damning arm of death, pointed directly at his own heart. "Ha ha ha!" laughed Baschenach merrily. "I'm certainly full of the heebie-jeebies today!" The train pulled up. Baschenach got out his ticket. The conductor poked his bony, skeletal head out of the train. He pointed at Baschenach. "You, sir, are our only passenger!" He cackled and a vile stench exited his mouth. Baschenach screwed up his nose in disgust and brushed past the conductor.
He found himself in a comfortably decorated room. There was a red couch, a black carpet, black drapes, blood-red lamps with black lampshades, black chairs, and a mirror which, Baschenach found to his amusement, distorted the viewer so he resembled himself, dead. Baschenach smiled happily and found himself a seat. The train began rolling. Wasn't Venice an island? thought Baschenach. Oh well. The vacation was free! Baschenach reclined his chair and immediately fell into a deep, dreamless oblivion...
When he awoke, the train had stopped moving. The conductor stood over him leering. "Right this way sir," he sneered. Baschenach stood and was led to the outdoors. A lifeless, brassy sun glared down upon him. Green mists swirled as if living around his feet. Dead trees stretched as far as the eye could see. People dressed in black shawls, with faces hidden, dragged themselves from place to place. "Ahh, Venice!" Baschenach cried. "How long I've missed your beauty. The canals, the sweet scent of the sea, the blue sky with gently drifting clouds far up in the sky!" Baschenach excited the train and surveyed his surroundings. An ancient, decrepit man approached him. "Right this way, sir," he intoned hollowly. Baschenach followed.
Soon they approached a great, dark hotel in the gothic style. A few children played outside. Baschenach smiled at their carefree antics. He found one young man especially amusing, a boy of about 12. He did look rather sickly though, Baschenach noted. The boy's stricken, white face did seem rather mummified. He did seem rather dea... Baschenach discarded the thought and instead amused himself with the boy's supple chest, his sullen, perky lips, and his gently sloping back which ended in a firm, succulent... Baschenach shook his head and entered his lodgings. Inside the hotel's clientele were coughing noisily, blowing their noses, sniffling, shuffling, vomiting, and exuding pus. "Sickly bunch!" Baschenach remarked to himself. He found his room.
He woke later feeling rather sick himself. It was an excellent time to ponder the question that had been revolving in his mind like a Ferris wheel. "Am I truly better off, having come to Venice?" he wondered. He had certainly taking a risk coming to Venice. His work had been cut off, he hadn't told anyone where he was going, the train ride had been especially bumpy... but yes, Baschenach felt he had made the right decision. Venice certainly was a beautiful place. With that thought in mind, he went to his window and looked outside.
Corpses were strewn everywhere. Rats, spilling out of sewers like torrid rivers of waste arched their backs and died messily. Lush, tantalizingly young children lay in piles. "Looks like rain," Baschenach thought. "A perfect day to visit the beach!" Then Baschenach had another thought. "Should I perhaps do some work first?" But no. The promise of liquor, young boys, and wild sex drew Baschenach out of his room. Indeed, the idea of a very Dionysian vacation was beginning to sound better and better. Baschenach exited his room, contracted the plague, and died a horrible death.
The moral of this parody is not that a Dionysian life will end in death, but rather that the idea that Dionysian lifestyles end in death is a foolish one!
User Reviews
Submitted by Jeanneee (user info) at 2005-08-09 09:01:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Your mind turns me on.
Submitted by ThineJericho (user info) at 2005-08-09 02:11:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
It wasn't necessarily bad, but I found myself jumping from paragraphs too easily.
:shrugs: Not worth a minus though in the slightest.
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2005-08-09 01:19:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Chinaski, you had potential here. There was a lot of good writing mixed in with some poor word choices. I gather this was suppose to be a period piece? Certain things you said distracted the reader from making it feel that way. And the ending was far too abrupt. Overall, this was a solid +1
Submitted by d_prime (user info) at 2005-08-08 23:31:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
I'm all for Apollo, the God of wisdom and light.
Dionysus is a fool.
Submitted by kai070169 (user info) at 2005-08-08 23:29:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Here, have a pity +2.
Submitted by kai070169 (user info) at 2005-08-08 23:28:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
I donno. I think they're ignoring you as usual.
poor guy.
Submitted by Chinaski (user info) at 2005-08-08 23:25:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Maybe some people are actually reading it, my lonely stoner-cum-functionally-addicted friend.
Submitted by kai070169 (user info) at 2005-08-08 23:21:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
And as popular as ever, I see.
Submitted by kai070169 (user info) at 2005-08-08 23:21:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Best thing you have ever written.