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| The Forgotten Harvest; Fall Short Story | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Wed Oct 24, 2012 3:18 am (401 Views) | |
| Dali | Wed Oct 24, 2012 3:18 am Post #1 |
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There is a legend - an old one. It was first told to ensure that every piece of grain was brought in, every apple was picked, every bit of the slain deer was used. It was told children to frighten them into obedience and thoroughness. Those children believed and so told it to their children, who also believed and passed it on. It is the legend of the Forgotten Harvest. When food is scarce, the Forgotten Harvest stalks the land. It is said that it's body is that of harvests that were wasted, of food that had been left to rot on the vine. It consumes the souls of those whose death was caused by starvation and it forever seeks nourishment in areas of famine. And it is not above killing those already weakened by lack of food. It is said it keeps packs of starved wolves to do its bidding and consumes the remains of their kills. It is said it is hundreds of feet tall. It is said it walks the night, leaving rotten slime in its wake. It is said it loves the smell of burning corpses, for it means more food to fill is bottomless hunger. Many other things are said of it, but what is said most of all is: "Beware children. Beware of wasting food, of not finishing your work, of not cleaning your plate. Beware, or the Forgotten Harvest will get you." At the time, it was a poor year for farmers. It was by no means a full scale famine, but there would be hungry days before winter ended. That was perhaps why things panned out as they did. The Forgotten Harvest was stirring in the graveyard and Dali, an angry and grieving young half-elf, was walking right into its clutches. He did not fear graveyards at the time. It was just another place in a series of places that he had visited since Lenna had died. "We should have never tried to run away," he thought sadly. He'd thought that often, though he didn't see what else they could have done. Her father had not wanted them to marry. He'd arranged for another marriage, one more profitable and pleasing to his tastes. When Dali and Lenna had tried to elope, he'd stopped them and locked Lenna in her rooms. But true love laughs at locks, particularly when a lover is a skilled locksmith. Dali picked the locks to her prison and they'd fled. Her father and his guards pursued them. Once one of them got a clear shot at Dali's back, they'd fired. And missed, killing Lenna. After that, life had become a bit blurry. He'd been tried for her murder but acquitted, for her kidnapping and exiled. He'd returned to his hometown to find the brother who'd once tried to murder him a successful businessman, the sister who hated him happily wed, the mother who refused to acknowledge he existed a respected dowager, and the sister who had been kind to him missing. He'd met his father and quarreled with him, then pursued by this father's supporters, who wanted the slight to their leader's honor rectified with Dali's death. And that had brought him to here. He sat down on a headstone to consider the injustice of life and to contemplate whether or not it would be so bad to let his father's followers just catch up with him and put him out of his misery. Not really hungry, but thinking he should eat something, he took and apple out of his pocket. It was flavorless and sandy though, so after two bites he threw it into an open grave, worn by time and the elements. He didn't notice the rustling of leaves inside as the apple disappeared. "No point in stopping here," he thought and rose to leave, turning his back on the open grave. He'd not gone two steps when the leaves rustled again, loud enough for Dali to take notice. He looked behind him, but there was nothing there. The leaves rustled again. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. The birds, it seemed, had stopped singing; the breeze was no longer blowing. Then Dali smelled rotting plants. He covered his nose and mouth with his hand and decided to leave quickly. Suddenly, something that felt like fingers wrapped around his leg. He looked down. They were fingers - fingers made of huge, rotting carrots, as long as his arm and flecked with mold. The fingers jerked, knocking Dali to ground. Then they began to drag him toward the open grave. "Help!" he shouted. "S-somebody help!" But there was no one to hear him. He tried to find something to grab a hold of, to resist the pull, but his hands only found handfuls of leaves and sticks. He dug his fingers into the mud, but the carrot-fingers keep pulling, and his hands made nothing but little furrows. It got to the edge of the grave and pulled him in. It did not stop there, but pulled him down into the leaves. Just before he sank, he screamed. Then dirt was filling his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He was choking on it, unable to breath. It pressed against him and he could no longer struggle. Suddenly there was an abrupt release, and Dali hit bedrock. Hard. He wiped the dirt from his face and managed to get his breath back. Then he got to his feet. He was in a cave of some sort, some massive underground pocket. And standing before him was something that would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life: The Forgotten Harvest. It was as tall as a castle wall and made up of slimy, composting vegetable matter. The slash of its mouth was filled with teeth made of huge parsnips, blackened and soft. It has multiple eyes like a spider and each was a molding tomato. It's feet were made of wrinkled potatoes covered in rot. Lettuce leaves and bits of bone could be seen in its ever writhing skin - skin that sometimes seemed to take human form, humans with distended bellies and clearly defined bones, as though starving people were trapped just underneath. And the Forgotten Harvest looked down on Dali, having never seen a live, un-starved human before, and curiosity flickered to life in its previously limited thought patterns. It wrapped one decaying hand around Dali and held him up for closer examination. Dali screamed and writhed, but the Harvest hung on to him. A tongue like a slab of rotten meat licked his face, trying to figure out if he was edible. He wasn't and it threw him away in disgust. He cracked his head against the ground and blacked out for who knows how long. And when he came to... ...well, perhaps it's best to stop there. The mind breaks under torture and Dali's snapped like a twig. He doesn't remember the two years he spent down there, he doesn't remember how he escaped. What he does remember is waking up swathed in bandages. He remembers being told he was lucky to be alive, that only healing spells saved him and it was still a miracle that they'd managed to save his legs and fingers. He was told he'd been raving in delirium for a week and the healers were surprised he'd pulled through. He was told that some of his wounds were so deeply infected that they left scars he'd feel for the rest of his life, and only chancy medical procedures had gotten him that. He was told that he was, quite literally, lucky to have his skin, which had peeled off in some places down to the muscle. But no healing would save his mind, which was permanently wrecked. Paranoia crept in through the cracks, nightmares haunted his subconscious, and fear crawled into his life. Fear of everything. But especially fear of carrots... Edited by Dali, Thu Nov 1, 2012 4:16 am.
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6:58 PM Jul 11

