Sensory Details...I wrote another story
Facedown, floating.
Christ, if I had the slightest clue of how this happened I would have come to peace long ago. Of course, I’m not. Here I float, a denizen of the dead, ghoul of something that properly alliterates with ghoul. Yes, sir or Madame reader, I am undead. A ghost if you will, and I will not rest until my weary soul can properly recount why the bloated husk that is my body stays floating in a pool of water below my spectral ghost tail.
Are they called ghost tails? I don’t really know. Hell, I don’t even know why we get issued these wispy things anyway; they’re quite unruly and inconvenient. Yet, I digress, the matters of my spectral anatomy are matters better discussed at a later date, perhaps after I find why I’m dead in the first place. As a matter of fact, that’s a splendid idea, first detective work, then "apparition anatomy".
Now lets see…I seem to recall a dark and dreary night. What good would a story of things of the macabre nature be without a stereotypically and quite honestly, unoriginal setting. I believe I carried on my person a jacket, for it was cold, and a small radio to listen to that current night’s sporting event. For the life (or in this case death, a little phantasmal funniness if you will) of me I cant think of why I was listening to a sporting event. I was quite a sedentary human back on the plane of the living.
The acrid stench of rotting corn dogs and elephant ears fills my memory’s nostrils. It was quite the cornucopia of greasy smells. One could taste the cholesterol in the air simply by taking in the stench through one’s nostrils. Ah, it’s coming back to me! I was at a carnival. I have a deathly fear of clowns mind you, so I believe I was already on nerve upon my entrance into this hellish park. Their laughter sends lances of ice through my spine. I really don’t understand how your average man doesn’t go mad from any immediate contact to them.
The mentioning of the clowns is somewhat important. I know there’s significance somewhere in my mentioning of said demons, yet I really cannot fathom the reason at this moment. I do however remember the sharp and pointy embrace of a restraining device of the most sadistic design. I reckon I most likely met my fate in a quite pointy fashion. This contraption seemed to be engineered by the Satan-spawned clowns themselves. It was sadistic to the thousandth power; my stomach almost reels at the thought of its cruel designs. I say almost because, once again, I’m a ghost…my anatomy doesn’t allow for organs. Yes, all organs…even that one. However, I digress a second time, the anatomy lesson is for later. Anyway, the device seemed to be a carousel with the most hellish of mounts fastened to it. Felhounds, goblins, chariots of the four horsemen, quite spooky, even for a ghost like myself. And what's more it was suspended over shark-infested lake. Each of these sharks had lasers on each of their heads that seared flesh and slaughtered many in a very gruesome and redundant fashion.
There we go! My memory has returned. The clowns were quite important, like I said in the previous paragraph. (Ghosts can break the fourth wall, I mean the floating and such does defy the laws of physics, so in theory we should be allowed to shy away from adherence to such strict and unnecessary rules of literary structure.) The clowns had hypnotized me. Yes hypnosis, yes the most uncreative of uncreative methods of deus ex machina. Give me a break, I’m undead, my literary muscle only barely twitches at this point. Said hypnosis used the most lucid of tones. What most would speak in tongues after hearing caused me to glaze over and give in to my face-painted overlords. After all, the sound of Journey played in continuous loop can do crazy things to a man. Damn you Steve Perry and your girlish falsetto, damn you to hell!
After I sufficiently had things any way they wanted it and I stopped believing, the impish clowns shackled me and fastened me to the device described earlier in my retelling of this macabre event. I regained consciousness strapped between a Pokemon and Succubus carousel mount. Above me was a ceiling of spikes and below me was nothing but water, and laser sharks of course. The device began to turn in opposite directions. I finally have realized what fate shall befall me. I will be torn asunder in a sadistic clown-rack. I tried to struggle as the pain increased second by second. My bones began to disconnect. I finally fell unconscious after both my hands and feet were torn off of my body and my corpse fell into the shark-infested water where I was fried and mangled by the aforementioned denizens of the deep. And so there I lie.
Facedown, floating.
Christ, if I had the slightest clue of how this happened I would have come to peace long ago. Of course, I’m not. Here I float, a denizen of the dead, ghoul of something that properly alliterates with ghoul. Yes, sir or Madame reader, I am undead. A ghost if you will, and I will not rest until my weary soul can properly recount why the bloated husk that is my body stays floating in a pool of water below my spectral ghost tail.
Are they called ghost tails? I don’t really know. Hell, I don’t even know why we get issued these wispy things anyway; they’re quite unruly and inconvenient. Yet, I digress, the matters of my spectral anatomy are matters better discussed at a later date, perhaps after I find why I’m dead in the first place. As a matter of fact, that’s a splendid idea, first detective work, then "apparition anatomy".
Now lets see…I seem to recall a dark and dreary night. What good would a story of things of the macabre nature be without a stereotypically and quite honestly, unoriginal setting. I believe I carried on my person a jacket, for it was cold, and a small radio to listen to that current night’s sporting event. For the life (or in this case death, a little phantasmal funniness if you will) of me I cant think of why I was listening to a sporting event. I was quite a sedentary human back on the plane of the living.
The acrid stench of rotting corn dogs and elephant ears fills my memory’s nostrils. It was quite the cornucopia of greasy smells. One could taste the cholesterol in the air simply by taking in the stench through one’s nostrils. Ah, it’s coming back to me! I was at a carnival. I have a deathly fear of clowns mind you, so I believe I was already on nerve upon my entrance into this hellish park. Their laughter sends lances of ice through my spine. I really don’t understand how your average man doesn’t go mad from any immediate contact to them.
The mentioning of the clowns is somewhat important. I know there’s significance somewhere in my mentioning of said demons, yet I really cannot fathom the reason at this moment. I do however remember the sharp and pointy embrace of a restraining device of the most sadistic design. I reckon I most likely met my fate in a quite pointy fashion. This contraption seemed to be engineered by the Satan-spawned clowns themselves. It was sadistic to the thousandth power; my stomach almost reels at the thought of its cruel designs. I say almost because, once again, I’m a ghost…my anatomy doesn’t allow for organs. Yes, all organs…even that one. However, I digress a second time, the anatomy lesson is for later. Anyway, the device seemed to be a carousel with the most hellish of mounts fastened to it. Felhounds, goblins, chariots of the four horsemen, quite spooky, even for a ghost like myself. And what's more it was suspended over shark-infested lake. Each of these sharks had lasers on each of their heads that seared flesh and slaughtered many in a very gruesome and redundant fashion.
There we go! My memory has returned. The clowns were quite important, like I said in the previous paragraph. (Ghosts can break the fourth wall, I mean the floating and such does defy the laws of physics, so in theory we should be allowed to shy away from adherence to such strict and unnecessary rules of literary structure.) The clowns had hypnotized me. Yes hypnosis, yes the most uncreative of uncreative methods of deus ex machina. Give me a break, I’m undead, my literary muscle only barely twitches at this point. Said hypnosis used the most lucid of tones. What most would speak in tongues after hearing caused me to glaze over and give in to my face-painted overlords. After all, the sound of Journey played in continuous loop can do crazy things to a man. Damn you Steve Perry and your girlish falsetto, damn you to hell!
After I sufficiently had things any way they wanted it and I stopped believing, the impish clowns shackled me and fastened me to the device described earlier in my retelling of this macabre event. I regained consciousness strapped between a Pokemon and Succubus carousel mount. Above me was a ceiling of spikes and below me was nothing but water, and laser sharks of course. The device began to turn in opposite directions. I finally have realized what fate shall befall me. I will be torn asunder in a sadistic clown-rack. I tried to struggle as the pain increased second by second. My bones began to disconnect. I finally fell unconscious after both my hands and feet were torn off of my body and my corpse fell into the shark-infested water where I was fried and mangled by the aforementioned denizens of the deep. And so there I lie.
Facedown, floating.