He would have screamed, had the parts of his body necessary to scream been functioning, or even attached.
His grandmother had always told him that in times of extreme stress, he should imagine a peaceful ocean with waves lapping upon the beach. He tried this, but instead of water the imaginary ocean was filled with acid. Laughing demon faces floated on the surface, their voices mimicking the sounds of those he’d loved and lost. Their giggling grew louder, louder, louder as a spike-laden whirlpool formed, sucking him down into a vortex of serpents and pitchforks.
He returned to reality and cursed his grandmother. Such a foul crone!
The pain grew even worse as some spilled fuel leaked upon him.
The pain grew exponentially worse as his still-smoking hair ignited the fuel.
If you asked most professionals how long a human being could survive a full-body burn, they’d think about it for a bit and then ask why you wanted to know. When pressed, they’d give you an incorrect answer while surreptitiously checking to see if you were in possession of matches. But even the most optimistic estimate would not have come close to the
Every day, he prayed that he would starve to death. And every day, the former orphan who lived at the bottom of the hill provided him with a glass of water and a crust of bread, just enough to sustain his life.
Steamspell did not have a last will and testament, nor did he have any living family members. So ownership of his orphanage empire was determined by a grueling race, where ten participants raced across untamed territory for nearly a week to reach the finish line. The winner was to receive Steamspell’s vast fortune, while the losers received death by hanging.
Though Tyler Rothenwurt won the race by committing acts of which he would never speak, not even to his wife, he was a kindly orphanage owner, and the children all loved him and flourished under his care, going on to live long, happy lives. The downside was that most great accomplishments are borne of resentment, and had Steamspell remained in charge, a certain Clovis Hart would have discovered the cure for the common cold as well as a means of healing broken bones in half the time. Instead, he settled for a life of blissful mediocrity.
Elsewhere, Mongrel fired again, the bullet missing Nathan’s head by barely an inch.
“Please stop doing that!” Nathan shouted. “I’m sorry your theatre is no more!”
Mongrel shot and missed again. This had to be embarrassing for him.
“Can’t we bargain?” Nathan asked.
“You’d have to do eighteen shows a day, seven days a week, for fifty years to make up for the damage you’ve done!”
Nathan considered the offer. Then he remembered that he’d burned down the theatre in an effort to get out of doing a mere one show. “No deal!”
“I wasn’t offering you a deal! I was explaining how a deal is impractical, you little fool!”
Nathan felt a bit sheepish. Then Mongrel fired more bullets, missing with every shot and emptying his gun, and he didn’t feel so bad.
“That’s it!” shouted Mongrel. “I have become so frustrated that my own safety has stopped being important!” He grabbed hold of the steering wheel and twisted it to the right.
“I still care about my safety!” Kleft said in protest, but it was too late.
The art of the Unreliable Narrator is a tricky one. When the narrator has specifically said that a noble horse will survive, is it wrong to later reveal that the horse did not? Would this sever the bonds of trust between the storyteller and the reader, or would it perhaps strengthen them, causing the reader to realize that this is a tale without a safety net, where anything could happen, where perhaps even Nathan himself might perish with dozens of pages remaining?
Most likely the reader would hurl the book against the wall in anger and never purchase another tale from anybody associated with its telling.
Once again the horse leapt into the air, as if it had wings.
Mongrel and Kleft’s car swerved underneath the mighty stallion.
And then it landed upon the roof.
Nathan could not hear what the men beneath him were screaming, but it seemed to be variants on “There’s a horse on the roof of our car!” The horse’s hooves had left a very deep dent, which may or may not have been near one of their heads, so it was also possible that they were screaming about that.
As the horse leapt off, the car plummeted off the side of the road.
Mongrel and Kleft were not as villainous as Steamspell, and did not suffer so horrific a fate. Which is not to say that things did not work out badly for them. The car landed at the bottom of the hill, bounced thrice, and came to a stop. Kleft, shaken but mostly unharmed, peered out the window.
“Does that look like quicksand to you?” he asked.
“It does,” said Mongrel.
Their slow descent offered plenty of time to share their feelings and discuss where they’d gone wrong in life. It is safe to say that if they’d been rescued, they would have emerged from the quicksand as better people. Instead, their improved personalities were to be forever submerged in the muck.
Nathan, of course, knew none of these things, and assumed that his enemies were merely unconscious at the bottom of the hill, awaiting arrest.
He was free!
He could return home to Penny and Mary!
He could see Jamison again if he hadn’t died yet!
For the first time since being dragged off to jail, Nathan felt as if things might be working out in his favor.
Except that the horse wouldn’t stop.
“Whoa, boy,” he said. “We should turn around. Home is the other way.”
The horse continued to gallop straight ahead.
He tugged on its mane. “Let’s turn around. When we get home I’ll give you carrots and I’ll brush you every day and we’ll get you a proper saddle. Such fun we will have!”
The horse continued to gallop straight ahead.
“I don’t think you’re understanding me. There’s nothing for us this way. In the opposite direction, now
The horse continued to gallop straight ahead.
“Argh,” said Nathan.
Jumping off the horse seemed like a good way to break a leg, and breaking a leg seemed like a good way to starve to death all alone, so Nathan decided to stay put until the horse got tired. Before too long, the stress of the evening overpowered him, and Nathan wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck and went to sleep.
When he woke up, the horse was still running and it was daytime. He wasn’t sure if it had run all night, or if he’d slept through its resting period.
“Please turn around,” he said, nudging it on the sides with his feet.
The horse continued to gallop straight ahead.
It ran throughout the day, galloping across fields, through two different forests, and through a town where all of the residents thought he was kidding when he shouted “Stop the horse! Stop the horse!”
He fell asleep again.
When he woke up, it was completely dark out and the rotten horse was still running.
“At least let me stop to get something to eat!” he begged.
Again he considered just jumping off, but if he wasted this much time only to end up breaking his leg anyway, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to bear it. The horse had to stop
Night became morning.
He grudgingly admitted that he had to admire the horse’s unwavering dedication to running in that particular direction. It was certainly not a wishy-washy creature.
Morning became late morning, which became early afternoon, which became afternoon, which became late
