Post by Deleted on Apr 17, 2016 20:53:36 GMT -5
Hector Sellars, or Heck as his friends called him, was a small man in stature alone. Within his barely three-and-a-half-foot-tall body lay the mind of a chess player, the heart of a romantic, the fingers of a piano player and the balls of Clint Eastwood, Tom Berenger and Daniel Craig all rolled into one. He'd never married, nor had many lovers in his 47 years of life, but those 47 years had seen few complaints. He'd often told Ralse of the adventures he'd gone on in his youth and the countries he'd visited, travelling on his own dime. Heck, as far as Ralse knew, was a good man with good stories and better jokes than most. He was also a dead man, again, as far as Ralse knew.
Hours earlier, before his reunion with the talking dead, Ralse picked his way through the blue darkness of southeastern Nebraska twilight. Bare branches tugged at his clothes, stabbed mutely at his beard and left small pink scratches on his skin. His legs were beginning to lock up on him and just an hour ago, he'd been seized with the kind of splitting headache that most whiskey benders preceded. He knew it was hunger, but he'd stubbornly refused to deplete his already-low supplies to simply satiate a hungry belly. Eventually, he came to a stop in a grove, his will finally weakened to the point of concession. He'd just passed through some town called Glastonbury and, despite the town having a few homes still intact and sturdy-looking, he couldn't bring himself to invade the home of another. His own feelings of home still grabbed at him whenever he stopped for too long; the touch of those wistful, bony fingers reminded him of laying naked in the moonlight with the smell of his wife's hair in his nose and the taste of her sweat on his tongue.
He slapped himself across the face a couple of times to shock the nostalgia out of his brain and decided to take a break. He sat with his pack cushioning him against the trunk of a great tree and dug in the small fanny-pack he'd picked up a few towns back. He'd transferred some of the food he'd taken from Ricky and Elgie's camp for easy access, though he was having a hard time seeing what he was picking through in the dark. His fingers felt the smooth, warm surface of a plastic bag tied at the top. As he lifted the bag to better see it in the moonlight, he saw the short, stubby caps of wild mushrooms. His stomach lurched and his mouth watered so badly he almost spat at the ground between his legs. Without thinking, he opened the bag and began to eat. Normally, he wouldn't eat mushrooms like this. The taste was none too appealing, but when you were travelling on an empty stomach... well, a dry leaf could taste like pork rinds.
Had Ralse the presence of mind to consider the mushrooms with a more careful eye, he'd wonder why the mushrooms were wrapped up the way they were. He'd also wonder why the mushrooms were kept entirely separate from the rest of Ricky and Elgie's foodstuffs. Fortunately for him, the taste of the mushrooms didn't bother him that much. They were somewhat chewy and slightly fragrant, but he managed to get one down after the other.
Unfortunately for him, he had just eaten a handful of gymnopilus braendlei, a breed of psilocybin--see: psychadelic--mushroom commonly found in Kansas.
Once the bag was about half-empty, Ralse tied it back off and stuffed it into his fanny pack. He belched, felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed it and pounded his chest lightly with the flat of his fist. He let his eyes close for a few seconds and listened to the sounds of the forest around him. Wind brushed the grass in even, patient strokes. There was a scent of something sweet on the air. "Honeysuckle?" Ralse whispered to himself, shortly before he lost consciousness.
Hours earlier, before his reunion with the talking dead, Ralse picked his way through the blue darkness of southeastern Nebraska twilight. Bare branches tugged at his clothes, stabbed mutely at his beard and left small pink scratches on his skin. His legs were beginning to lock up on him and just an hour ago, he'd been seized with the kind of splitting headache that most whiskey benders preceded. He knew it was hunger, but he'd stubbornly refused to deplete his already-low supplies to simply satiate a hungry belly. Eventually, he came to a stop in a grove, his will finally weakened to the point of concession. He'd just passed through some town called Glastonbury and, despite the town having a few homes still intact and sturdy-looking, he couldn't bring himself to invade the home of another. His own feelings of home still grabbed at him whenever he stopped for too long; the touch of those wistful, bony fingers reminded him of laying naked in the moonlight with the smell of his wife's hair in his nose and the taste of her sweat on his tongue.
He slapped himself across the face a couple of times to shock the nostalgia out of his brain and decided to take a break. He sat with his pack cushioning him against the trunk of a great tree and dug in the small fanny-pack he'd picked up a few towns back. He'd transferred some of the food he'd taken from Ricky and Elgie's camp for easy access, though he was having a hard time seeing what he was picking through in the dark. His fingers felt the smooth, warm surface of a plastic bag tied at the top. As he lifted the bag to better see it in the moonlight, he saw the short, stubby caps of wild mushrooms. His stomach lurched and his mouth watered so badly he almost spat at the ground between his legs. Without thinking, he opened the bag and began to eat. Normally, he wouldn't eat mushrooms like this. The taste was none too appealing, but when you were travelling on an empty stomach... well, a dry leaf could taste like pork rinds.
Had Ralse the presence of mind to consider the mushrooms with a more careful eye, he'd wonder why the mushrooms were wrapped up the way they were. He'd also wonder why the mushrooms were kept entirely separate from the rest of Ricky and Elgie's foodstuffs. Fortunately for him, the taste of the mushrooms didn't bother him that much. They were somewhat chewy and slightly fragrant, but he managed to get one down after the other.
Unfortunately for him, he had just eaten a handful of gymnopilus braendlei, a breed of psilocybin--see: psychadelic--mushroom commonly found in Kansas.
Once the bag was about half-empty, Ralse tied it back off and stuffed it into his fanny pack. He belched, felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed it and pounded his chest lightly with the flat of his fist. He let his eyes close for a few seconds and listened to the sounds of the forest around him. Wind brushed the grass in even, patient strokes. There was a scent of something sweet on the air. "Honeysuckle?" Ralse whispered to himself, shortly before he lost consciousness.