The Dark Verse
The Dark Verse
A Collection of Strange Works by Sharkchild. These short stories tap into a unique world of horror and fantasy fiction that will follow you to the visions of your sleep. Some of the material on The Dark Verse may hold ideas and descriptions not suitable for all listeners. Although the content is clean of explicit language, it does contain dark themes and disturbing references. For more information, visit TheDarkVerse.com.
Station feed:  Created by: M. Amanuensis Sharkchild |
Created on: 21 Jun 2008 Language: English |
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19: Names: Unsonselvitzol (14.89MB; download) -- Excerpt:
An amount of seasons befell me that I could not count before I became free. And surely it was an amount less than I would have thought, for time lingered awfully slow within the cool, decrepit cell of my prison holding. I did not mark the days and I did not note the moon when it could be seen. My thoughts and my pain were the only troubles I ever had dealings with, and I rather disliked both of them. I was not a complex man, especially during this time, and spent almost all of it in one of two disturbing states.
The first state: Hooded guards would take me once every seven days and bind me to a floor beneath the open sky while the sun singed the flesh of my back, arms, and legs. On each day thereafter, I would be strapped to a concrete table in the depths of where my holding lay. Indescribably, the hooded guards would pour hot water upon my burn wounds, inflicting a pain greater than anything that denied death as they plagued upon my essence with no apparent motive. And on the days following that, I would be flogged several times. They would have continued on beyond a handful of lashes, but my dead flesh freed much too generously and sickeningly under each strike. If I could have ended the butchery under any circumstances, I would have done so gladly.
The second state: During those moments of my pitiful refuge, I would lie quite still, tucked against the wall of my cell, playing imaginary music to the rhythm of splashing water made by my fingers slapping upon small puddles. The action calmed and distracted my thoughts, allowing me to soak in the sorry scrap of my life left to live. I would have rather done other activities, but any other movement would have horribly ravaged my wreckage of a body and caused excruciating pain. Selected by: M. Amanuensis Sharkchild [ stations ], Sat, 21 Jun 2008 14:49:22 MST
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18: Normal Faces (10.35MB; download) -- Excerpt:
My sister and I happened upon the variable of existence by chance. It might have been the way we walked in ghostly indifference under the setting sun’s light, or perhaps it was the way we stared disjointedly across the endless horizon. Nevertheless, we arrived. Like a layer resting between all things, it rested in connection to all that was known, though it did not know it and nor did anything else in its contact. There were legends and cults in connection to such things, but they did not convey or understand the complexities of their childish assumptions. Full worlds were transparently placed upon one another, existing separately, yet silently interacting. One of those worlds was our own, and the other, the one we horribly wandered upon, was an incomprehensible place I called the variable of existence—the world where everything was the same except the beastly beings that inhabited it and sinisterly endowed upon our world a spiritual, yet unholy attribution of grace. Maybe the variable of existence was meant to be there as part of an unfathomable balance, or a rudder for a wayward vessel, but once I laid my eyes upon it, it was to me but a mysterious infection, incurable and eternal. Selected by: M. Amanuensis Sharkchild [ stations ], Sat, 21 Jun 2008 14:48:51 MST
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17: The Science Of Faith (10.16MB; download) -- Excerpt:
On the softest of days, when the splinters of time bowed to uncanny sounds, I heard the ringing. It came from some region just closer than what could be called distant. As if drifting on a river of sustaining sound, the ringing reached my ears, tickling them like the elegant prose of a poem. When I heard it, and focused upon it, it seemed to never end. It was not until it was drowned by the power of some other noise, or until I was distracted by some other task, that the ringing conveniently vanished. Though I would lose its mysterious touch, it always came again.
What I heard was the ringing of a rotary dial telephone. In its essence, to me, that fact was quite strange. In a world of vast technological advancement, this ancient piece of equipment stood its ground, undaunted. But even more peculiarly, the phone was never answered. Its function was carried out—to ring—but no one was there to act in response. What vacant hole of distaste did the thing occupy? That was just what I desired to find out. Selected by: M. Amanuensis Sharkchild [ stations ], Sat, 21 Jun 2008 14:48:25 MST
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16: Time Into Death (12.20MB; download) -- Excerpt:
One drop, three drops, twenty drops—then it was steady. The glass window facing the driveway fogged under my breathing as I watched the rain begin its exotic descension upon the glum spread of concrete and blood. My skin tingled while severe emotion shot through my body, invigorating my keenness during the very surreal moment.
The blood on the ground never fully diluted. Fresh crimson constantly flowed from the gaping and fatal wound upon my brother who lay outstretched upon the subtle gray of the pavement. Without restriction, it streamed from his neck, pooling into a harsh interaction with the rain. His breathing had surely stopped.
When the twisted indulgence had sufficed, I stared diligently at the blood coming from my brother’s neck. I stared until its motion slowed, stopped, and then reversed course. The rain began to ascend, coming off its place on the ground and shooting back up to the heavens. I walked slowly backwards, conscious of myself. I let the front door open on its own in perfect timing as I stepped backwards though it out into the moist air. I crouched next to my brother and picked up the ax lying adjacent to him. I waited until he rose from the ground clutching the side of his neck. Then, when his hands released from their sickening desperation, I reenacted in reverse that action which sent him to the ground. My brother’s wound vanished. I ran backwards to the garage and returned the ax to its place, then returned to my brother, allowing myself to alter the future of which I had just experienced. Selected by: M. Amanuensis Sharkchild [ stations ], Sat, 21 Jun 2008 14:46:47 MST
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15: Bringing Back The Unordinary (18.66MB; download) -- Excerpt:
The movie man found me at an awards banquet. It was for my swim team, and it was the last place I expected to meet someone who would change my life. When his greeting occurred, all of the awards and speeches had been given and made, and things had just begun to wind down. Loose conversations were forming around the dining room and some people were already making their way out of the country club. I had been caught in an in-between moment of solitude, casually meandering through the patches of bodies, trying to look intent as to give my uniqueness purpose.
Of course, when the movie man first spoke, I did not notice, but by the third time he said my name, I had located him and noticed his need of my attention. He sat at a table with his chair positioned out. A group of people swelled on the side, talking and laughing very loudly. I had never seen him at any of my team’s swim meets or at any other team function. A large, brown beard covered his face and though he was dressed up, he looked untidy.
He stuck out his hand and I shook it.
“Mr. Masselton,” he said, “so glad to meet you. I am privileged to have caught your attention. I have an opportunity you might be interested in. Throughout the course of the next few months, I will be traveling to different oceans around the world to shoot some scenes for a movie that is currently in production. For these scenes, I will need someone of your swimming ability. You will be paid handsomely and you will not have to worry about any expenses, whether travel or trivial.”
I was about to interrupt him, but he stopped me.
“Please do not answer me now. Just think about it and then if you would like to join me, you can call me, but I must know your answer by the end of the month.” He handed me a worn business card that he pulled from an even more worn wallet. “Goodnight, Mr. Masselton, and congratulations on the great year.” Selected by: M. Amanuensis Sharkchild [ stations ], Sat, 21 Jun 2008 14:45:32 MST
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14: The Captive Inside (14.13MB; download) -- Excerpt:
There were certain shops that had no seizing affects outside of a planned visit, and then there were certain shops that quite brutally tortured if their magical, if not haunting, space was not investigated. Alluring displays, unorthodox merchandise, and toys—these were some of the things that made me curious, but the latter, the toys—those trinkets of deep imagining minds—had the greatest pull on me. I had my dates with ordinary toyshops, but it was the hole-in-the-wall, washed-out places that really got my heart yearning. I wondered how they even existed. They were the shops of the strange and unique; the ones that sold old card decks, antique dolls, foreign games, and much, much more. Things that did not even have the right to be made were somehow resting on the shelves of these hidden and cavernous places.
I was not much of a collector; the mere and occasional trifling of these objects was enough to satisfy my taste. I touched them and played with them, though I rarely purchased them. There were a number of shops I frequented, but I was always on the lookout for somewhere new.
There was one particular shop that gave me much more than satisfaction, something much greater, but also much worse. The shop’s name was Timeless Fortunes, and its entrance rested in the shadows of a hall, tucked away between two much larger stores on either side. The name, Timeless Fortunes, was labeled on the door, but nowhere else could it be found—not outside or inside of the place. The door chimed when opened and rattled as it closed. Inside, the hall continued on with old, worn posters covering the surfaces of the walls. Each poster was of a toy or contraption no one would have ever known about: laser guns with bulbous designs, masks made in the likeness of mice and rats, build-your-own fire block kits, centipede growth inducers, headache relief halos, Corpse: The Game of Fancy Graves, and human body part sculptor sets, to name a few. At the end of the hall was a short flight of stairs—this led into the shop. Selected by: M. Amanuensis Sharkchild [ stations ], Sat, 21 Jun 2008 14:44:18 MST
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13: The Missing Come Home (17.16MB; download) -- Excerpt:
I awoke to the severe beating of my heart, which drove throbbing percussions through my temples. Beneath me, a sick, cold sweat lined the sheets. My hands were trembling and my throat was raw. I quickly rose from the bed in disgust and discomfort and stood as if leaving the compound of a putrid nest, where I lay to be the toy of playful and malicious ghosts.
Through the window, light beamed heavily from the overly lit moon hanging low on the horizon. Shadows were cast all about the room. They hung and sulked definably, forming characters in shape and personality that spoke out to me in the language of darkness.
Something did not settle right within me; in that moment, everything felt twisted and impure. There were thoughts trailing in my mind that I could not quite grasp but that left strange and potent emotional residues that lingered thickly and deeply. Like fog, they shrouded my mind and left me in weariness.
Feeling disgusting, I went to the bathroom and turned the water on in the shower, allowing it to heat before getting in. Once inside, I let the water refresh and renew my being. The water felt safe; it satisfied my resonating dissonance and brought me back to the equilibrium of my usual self. And as I regained myself, I knew that I needed to check on Sofia. I needed to peer into her crib and see her soundly sucking on her tiny thumb. I needed to touch her fragile skin and kiss her soft head. Selected by: M. Amanuensis Sharkchild [ stations ], Sat, 21 Jun 2008 14:43:04 MST
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12: Fate (10.33MB; download) -- Excerpt:
Was I the wish of a demented god? Or was I a god? Or was I the pinnacle abhorrer of malformation? My beginnings were not in my memories and my abilities were not in my mind as an aspect of learning—as I existed, so they existed. The only truths within my knowledge flew about like flies in the dark—their impacts meaningless and their presences disposable. I was both a witness and judge of the world, though for what matters, I could not grasp.
My earliest recollection of the time and place I inhabited was a lowly candlelit dining room where a gentleman quietly ate of soup with a young daughter. Sounds of serenity permeated the air as a record player sung off the somber notes of images unseen and places unknown. The man’s eyes wavered with doubt and distress, and as his daughter looked to him for the smallest sign of comfort, there was none. In the vacancy of such virtue, the girl began to reflect her father, her demeanor and movements falling even more pitiless in reflection. Selected by: M. Amanuensis Sharkchild [ stations ], Sat, 21 Jun 2008 14:41:56 MST
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11: Sounds Of The Deliverer (13.94MB; download) -- Excerpt:
The cracking voice of the mild singer brought me back from the depths of a bizarre subconscious. I looked around at the rest of Dim Lit Coffeehouse. Spots of green hovered in my sight while my eyes got accustomed to the ambiance. Everyone else appeared to be awakened from the same archaic sleep. Eyes were being rubbed. Yawns were being subdued. For the entire song, the singer had been flawless and hypnotic with her execution until this moment when she unusually broke the perfection of her sound. Having felt quite drawn to the images in my mind, I recounted them while the song progressed on.
I was rowing a boat in a large pond while colorful fish swam coolly alongside me. The radiance from their scales flourished brightly amid the moon’s immense light. My direction was unannounced, but my desires were ravishing. There was a sweet hum melodically perusing the soundscape of beauty. It rang and rippled across the surface of the water, softly slapping against my slow moving boat.
The performer ended her song. In delayed response, I clapped along with the rest of the audience, losing my place within the recollection of my reverie. Selected by: M. Amanuensis Sharkchild [ stations ], Sat, 21 Jun 2008 14:40:52 MST
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10: The Changing Feyth (Part 2) (14.18MB; download) -- Excerpt:
While others sleep, the feyth do not. While others dream beautiful and terrifying visions, the feyth always stir in the unrest of consciousness, never to experience the small pleasure of an escape or diluting respite. Memories, emotions, longings, regrets—they all linger in a swirling prison of chaos. All of them prance and prick endlessly, tirelessly. This is the mind of a feyth; this is my mind—every decision and every action remaining like bones in a grave.
Satisfaction is a curious element among the feyth. The significant damage of mental pain is always there. We may not scar, but we never heal, the open wounds scathing our insides. Each moment of breath is tinged with sadness or hatred or anger. This being one of the reasons why I chose to act and end the outrage of our plaguing existence. We are a disease among the living. I wish to be the cure.
I must be the blind dagger and efface myself to achieve the goal. My journey horrifyingly lives on. Selected by: M. Amanuensis Sharkchild [ stations ], Sat, 21 Jun 2008 14:39:14 MST
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