Red Wall by Christopher Buehlman
You find yourself in what might be described as a box.
Or a room.
Or a cell.
All three work just fine.
White floor and ceiling.
Two grey walls facing each other.
One black wall.
One red wall.
Facing each other.
Silence.
If you are comfortable with your own nudity, then nude you are; otherwise, put yourself in clothes of your choosing, so long as they do not tell you who you are or where you were or how you got here.
You do not know these things.
The temperature is neither warm nor cool.
Furnishings: One chair, armless.
One toilet.
Items of note: One roll of toilet paper.
One axe, fireman sized, hung from pegs.
One large, clear tank of water with spigot.
You call out some variant of ‘Hello!’
A voice above responds similarly, as does a voice below you, although these are barely audible through the material of floor and ceiling.
The one above you stomps.
You stomp at the one below.
The one below, after a pause, pounds on his or her ceiling; you stand on your chair and find that you can reach your ceiling to do the same.
Now you stomp for your lower neighbor as your higher neighbor stomps for you.
“Do you have a chair?” Higher yells.
“Yes,” you say, then ask the same question of Lower.
Yes.
“Do you have an axe?”
“Yes”
As does Lower.
“Is there someone above you?” you say to Higher.
“Yes.”
A moment later Lower asks the same question.
Nobody else can think of anything to say for quite some time.
You use the toilet.
You get thirsty.
You drink from the spigot.
You get hungry.
You drink from the spigot.
If you’re libidinous by nature, you masturbate.
Later,
(Three hours? A day?)
Higher says
“There’s food past the black wall. Use the axe. Pass it on.”
You pass it on.
Lower thanks you after a moment, and you realize you’ve been rude, so you thank Higher.
The axe awaits.
You tap the black wall with the axe-head.
Gently at first.
Then a little harder.
The exact nature of the material is irrelevant, but let’s just agree that it is tough, but thin.
Axeable.
You swing.
The axe bites.
Again.
Again.
Light and debris.
Something moving on the other side!
You put your eye to the hole you’ve made.
A lamb.
A fucking lamb.
In a room just like yours, minus furnishings.
Just a trough of water.
Droppings.
A black wall beyond.
Baaa! Says the lamb.
Chips on the floor from where you axed through, some of them red side up.
You step back from the hole.
Muffled banging above and below; Higher and Lower are axing their black walls, too.
No way I’m eating a lamb, you think, or some variant thereof.
You ask the others.
Higher found a rabbit.
Lower found a piglet.
Silence.
Time passes.
You drink.
You nap.
You talk with your neighbors.
The lamb bleats.
You get hungry.
It might be the next day when you hear Lower at the axe.
Faintly, faintly, a pig squeals.
You’re just.
So.
Hungry.
“Did you eat the pig?”
“Yes.”
“Raw?”
“Yes. It was good.”
At length, when you can bear your hunger no more, you decide to eat the lamb.
You pick up the axe.
Five minutes of work and you’ll be through.
You peek through the hole (strangely vaginal), and see the lamb against the far wall, looking at you.
Its muzzle is dripping.
It just took water at the trough.
Now it’s shivering.
Scared of you.
It should be.
Your mouth waters despite yourself.
You are just about to swing your axe when you hear a very loud banging from below.
Much louder than before.
Lower is yelling something incoherent.
What the hell is Lower doing?
More banging.
Then Lower starts screaming.
Keeps screaming.
Stops screaming.
You stomp the floor.
Silence from below.
From above, Higher asks what is happening.
You stomp again.
Something pounds the floor just beneath you now, much harder than Lower did.
Something that didn’t have to stand on a chair.
Almost knocks you down.
You start shaking.
If you have a nervous disposition, you lose control of your bladder.
It bangs again.
But the floor holds.
It doesn’t bang again for a long while.
Whatever it was is gone.
You regain control of your breath.
You tell Higher you’re okay.
The lamb bleats.
You’re not hungry now.
You do something between passing out and sleeping.
Counting sheep!
But only for a moment before you sit up, not sure.
If something tapped.
Quite tentatively.
It did!
There it is again!
On your red wall.
____________________________________________
This LJIdol entry is for "Champions Week", in which we must recruit a friend to write for us. The prompt was "Turtles All the Way Down".
Christopher Buehlman is a writer and performer based in St. Petersburg, Florida. He is the winner of the 2007 Bridport Prize in Poetry and a finalist for the 2008 Forward Prize for best poem (UK). He spent his twenties and thirties touring renaissance festivals with his very popular show Christophe the Insultor, Verbal Mercenary. He is the author of Those Across the River, a gothic horror novel, and Between Two Fires, coming out this fall from Penguin.
Or a room.
Or a cell.
All three work just fine.
White floor and ceiling.
Two grey walls facing each other.
One black wall.
One red wall.
Facing each other.
Silence.
If you are comfortable with your own nudity, then nude you are; otherwise, put yourself in clothes of your choosing, so long as they do not tell you who you are or where you were or how you got here.
You do not know these things.
The temperature is neither warm nor cool.
Furnishings: One chair, armless.
One toilet.
Items of note: One roll of toilet paper.
One axe, fireman sized, hung from pegs.
One large, clear tank of water with spigot.
You call out some variant of ‘Hello!’
A voice above responds similarly, as does a voice below you, although these are barely audible through the material of floor and ceiling.
The one above you stomps.
You stomp at the one below.
The one below, after a pause, pounds on his or her ceiling; you stand on your chair and find that you can reach your ceiling to do the same.
Now you stomp for your lower neighbor as your higher neighbor stomps for you.
“Do you have a chair?” Higher yells.
“Yes,” you say, then ask the same question of Lower.
Yes.
“Do you have an axe?”
“Yes”
As does Lower.
“Is there someone above you?” you say to Higher.
“Yes.”
A moment later Lower asks the same question.
Nobody else can think of anything to say for quite some time.
You use the toilet.
You get thirsty.
You drink from the spigot.
You get hungry.
You drink from the spigot.
If you’re libidinous by nature, you masturbate.
Later,
(Three hours? A day?)
Higher says
“There’s food past the black wall. Use the axe. Pass it on.”
You pass it on.
Lower thanks you after a moment, and you realize you’ve been rude, so you thank Higher.
The axe awaits.
You tap the black wall with the axe-head.
Gently at first.
Then a little harder.
The exact nature of the material is irrelevant, but let’s just agree that it is tough, but thin.
Axeable.
You swing.
The axe bites.
Again.
Again.
Light and debris.
Something moving on the other side!
You put your eye to the hole you’ve made.
A lamb.
A fucking lamb.
In a room just like yours, minus furnishings.
Just a trough of water.
Droppings.
A black wall beyond.
Baaa! Says the lamb.
Chips on the floor from where you axed through, some of them red side up.
You step back from the hole.
Muffled banging above and below; Higher and Lower are axing their black walls, too.
No way I’m eating a lamb, you think, or some variant thereof.
You ask the others.
Higher found a rabbit.
Lower found a piglet.
Silence.
Time passes.
You drink.
You nap.
You talk with your neighbors.
The lamb bleats.
You get hungry.
It might be the next day when you hear Lower at the axe.
Faintly, faintly, a pig squeals.
You’re just.
So.
Hungry.
“Did you eat the pig?”
“Yes.”
“Raw?”
“Yes. It was good.”
At length, when you can bear your hunger no more, you decide to eat the lamb.
You pick up the axe.
Five minutes of work and you’ll be through.
You peek through the hole (strangely vaginal), and see the lamb against the far wall, looking at you.
Its muzzle is dripping.
It just took water at the trough.
Now it’s shivering.
Scared of you.
It should be.
Your mouth waters despite yourself.
You are just about to swing your axe when you hear a very loud banging from below.
Much louder than before.
Lower is yelling something incoherent.
What the hell is Lower doing?
More banging.
Then Lower starts screaming.
Keeps screaming.
Stops screaming.
You stomp the floor.
Silence from below.
From above, Higher asks what is happening.
You stomp again.
Something pounds the floor just beneath you now, much harder than Lower did.
Something that didn’t have to stand on a chair.
Almost knocks you down.
You start shaking.
If you have a nervous disposition, you lose control of your bladder.
It bangs again.
But the floor holds.
It doesn’t bang again for a long while.
Whatever it was is gone.
You regain control of your breath.
You tell Higher you’re okay.
The lamb bleats.
You’re not hungry now.
You do something between passing out and sleeping.
Counting sheep!
But only for a moment before you sit up, not sure.
If something tapped.
Quite tentatively.
It did!
There it is again!
On your red wall.
____________________________________________
This LJIdol entry is for "Champions Week", in which we must recruit a friend to write for us. The prompt was "Turtles All the Way Down".
Christopher Buehlman is a writer and performer based in St. Petersburg, Florida. He is the winner of the 2007 Bridport Prize in Poetry and a finalist for the 2008 Forward Prize for best poem (UK). He spent his twenties and thirties touring renaissance festivals with his very popular show Christophe the Insultor, Verbal Mercenary. He is the author of Those Across the River, a gothic horror novel, and Between Two Fires, coming out this fall from Penguin.