Random Literary Shenanigans

Miziziriz

Skeletron
So, here's my random collection of Terraria-related short stories and poems that I thought deserved a place on the forums but weren't long enough for their own thread. Enjoy.

Short Story(s)
"The Longest Short Story Ever" is not the title of this story. In fact, this story doesn't have a title. I think it's better without one.

She stumbled into my office at twenty to midnight, covered with bloody cuts and scratches, breathless, raving about zombies and nymphs and pixies. She looked around the room, with a wild, crazy look in her eyes. Her gaze rested briefly on a painting, then she screamed and backed out through the door. Her footsteps echoed through the halls of the institute.
Strange, I thought. She must have a serious mental case. I stuck my head out of my office door, hoping to catch her running through the halls so I could show her to a professional, but she was gone. The only trace of her was a row of bloody footprints.
I decided to follow. After all, she could be dangerous, or in danger. I returned to my cluttered office and reached for my briefcase, which I never left home without. It contained all my work, a laptop with a cracked screen and several jammed keys, and a revolver. I never used the gun, and never planned to, but still, better safe than sorry.
I clicked the latch on my briefcase shut and turned towards the door to leave when my eyes fell on the painting. I dropped my case and took the art down from the wall.
The painting was interesting, and had an interesting story behind it. It depicted a young girl riding a unicorn cheerfully over some sort of happy-land, filled with fairies and trees that might have been made out of cotton candy and fluffy, pink grass. My great-grandparents had purchased it at an art show, but, with failing eyesight, misread “V. Costa Moura” as “Vincent Van Gough” and the seller, taking advantage of their misconception, sold the painting to them at $2000 when it was really only worth about $10.When they discovered their mistake, they demanded a refund, but the salesperson who had sold them the painting had long since disappeared. So, when my great-grandparents died, they left the painting to my mother, who gave it to me when I was a child.
I studied the painting. I took it out of the frame, viewed it under a black light, checked for chemicals, the works. But there was nothing I could find that would upset even a healthy woman, much less a mentally ill one. I came to the hasty conclusion that there was something about the art itself, not the physical painting, that was bothering her, then packed my briefcase, pulled on my coat, and called a taxi to take me to my apartment.
That night, I dreamed that a massive horde of zombies was approaching me as I hastily tried to build myself a measly shelter, encouraged by a man who was bigger, probably stronger, and claimed he was smarter than me, and couldn’t he please help with the building? But he refused, only telling me that I needed a workbench, and metal ores, and that being outside was dangerous, and the zombies were getting closer...
I woke up the next morning with one thought on my mind: I needed to find out more about the woman.

I was in luck. I found the woman pacing outside my office, murmuring incoherently. She quieted when I approached, studied me intently, and asked, "Shop?"
"Say what?" I was taken aback.
"Shop," the woman repeated.
"In afraid there aren't any shops around here." I chose my words carefully. "But, if you want, we can get you healed up by a doctor."
The woman seemed to fly into a panic. "Heal?" she half-asked, half-yelled. "No? Okay. I don't give happy endings. Quit wasting my time!"
"So... you don't want to see a doctor, then."
She looked at me quizzically.
I thought for a moment, and tried again. "So... You don't want to be healed by a doctor."
"No? Okay. No? Okay. Lisa - chewing on my foot!"
"I guess that's a 'no', then," I mumbled as I led the woman into my office.
She was calmer than last time. She looked carefully around the room, noting with approval that I had removed the unicorn painting. But soon enough, she noticed something that prompted her to attempt to drag me from the room.
I panicked. I had worked with crazy people before, but I had never been physically attacked. Where was my revolver? It might make her think twice, it might make her release me... the woman's hand were strong as iron. The room was still dark, but if I could remember where my briefcase was...
Suddenly, the lightbulbs flared to life, and the woman released me, blithering on about suitable housing. I turned, and it appeared that she has backed into the light switch. However, unless she was achluophobic, which she clearly wasn't, she had no reason to drag me out of the darkened room-or did she? I, after all, didn’t know where she came from. Maybe she grew up learning that the dark was a dangerous place. After all the other peculiar behaviors she exhibited, it seemed more than likely.
I took a seat behind my desk and gestured to her to sit as well. She refused.
I offered her my sandwich. She turned it down.
I took out the rest of my lunch and let her have her pick. She chose my bag of marshmallows, contentedly eating one every ten minutes and staring out the window.
I savored my lunch. Where had this woman come from? What was she doing in my office? Did she have a family? A home?
Lost in thought, I barely noticed when the woman squealed in excitement and dropped the remainder of my marshmallows on the floor. She pushed on the door in an attempt to leave, but, as the door opened inwards, she couldn’t open it. I swallowed my last bite of yogurt, picked up the marshmallows, and opened the door for her. She raced down the hall, laughing. I followed.
A cold gust of air blew into the facility as she threw open the doors. I wished I had brought my coat.
When I reached the exit, the woman was laughing as she rolled around in the... snow? Only an hour earlier, it had been vaguely sunny and mildly warm. Now the grounds were covered in almost 3 inches of snow. I shivered. I supposed it was possible for so much snow to pile up so quickly. I dismissed it as a freak of nature and continued to watch the woman making snowmen and immediately knocking them down.
I thought this could be a peaceful afternoon. It wasn’t. After only a few minutes, a man walked by with an enormous black dog, and the woman stood up abruptly.
She cowered behind me. She’s afraid of dogs, I told myself. It’s fine. But I couldn’t help thinking that her strange behaviors were related to my dream, or vice-versa.
We would’ve been fine if the dog hadn’t turned around and barked at us.
That did it for the woman. She snapped. Her strong hands molded a snowball and flung it at the dog. He flew into a frenzy, breaking away from his leash and jumping on top of her, knocking her to the ground.
I rushed in to help. So did the dog’s owner. Together, we pried the barking, frothing dog off the woman. By now, people were gathering on the sidewalk to watch.
The owner reattached the leash to the dog’s collar and apologized profusely. “I’m sorry,” he moaned. “I don’t know what got into him. Is your woman okay? I’ll call an ambu-”
“No!” I cried before he finished his sentence. “I-I’ll call an ambulance myself. But first I have to get her out of the cold.”
I picked up the woman and carried her inside. She was breathing. The crowd dispersed.
I brought her to my office and lay her out on the sofa. I decided not to call a doctor. Instead, I wrapped her bites with the last strips of gauze from my First-Aid kit and let her sleep it off. I glanced at the clock- it was almost three-thirty. Too late to finish my lunch, but too early to leave for home. Instead, I made myself some tea and fired up my laptop.
When the tea was ready and the laptop had connected to the building’s weak Internet, I opened my browser and searched “V. Cousta Moura. There was only one hit.
I clicked the link, and it directed me to a webpage advertising the very same art show that my great-grandparents visited, except at a later date. I was about to try again when I noticed that there were biographies of all the artists. I scrolled down to Maura’s and read:

Veronica Cousta Moura was born September 19, 1928, to parents David Earnau Moura and Julia Spendou Moura in Crystal Cave, Hallow. She became interested in art when she was a child, after she drew her sister riding one of the unicorns that regularly prowled in the forest around her home. This painting, entitled “Unicorn Crossing the Hallows”, eventually sold for $2000 in Moura’s later life. She is best known for her painting entitled “Father of Someone”, as this painting was the last one she painted before retirement. Many copies of Moura’s paintings are sold for cheap in retail stores throughout the country, but don’t be tricked. Terra Ria Art is the only place to buy the genuine masterpieces.


I was taken aback. This Veronica, I thought, must be completely bonkers. Everyone knows that unicorns aren’t real. Right?
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door. The woman was leaving. Without bothering to shut down my laptop, I grabbed my coat and hurried after her.
She was just leaving the facility when I caught up with her, careful not to let her notice me. She didn’t, or if she did, she gave no sign.
We walked silently through the snowy maze of the city, the only sound the crunching of my boots. The woman made no sound. She had to know I was there. Why didn’t she acknowledge it?
We were in an unfamiliar part of town when the woman stopped, took out a set of keys, and opened the door to one of the many identical townhouses. So she did have a home. She fiddled with the keys for a moment, then opened the door. It looked like another normal townhouse on the inside. I felt almost upset.
I thought the woman would enter. She didn’t. Instead, she shut the door, locked it, and unlocked it using a different key. The door opened with ease, but her body obscured the view inside. I tried to peer past her, but with no luck.
The woman pondered for a moment, then went inside. I ran up to the door and caught it before it closed. I didn’t want to lose her.
The door was surprisingly heavy, and I fought to keep it open. I was entertaining the notion of giving up and leaving when a strong gust of wind blew the door shut, trapping me inside the woman’s home. Or was I inside?
As my vision adjusted, I noticed that I was outside, and the door I had fallen through was now the door to an ornate wooden house. But there was no time to admire the decorations. A primal terror was washing through me, and I fought to keep my bearings. I pounded on the door, I pulled as hard as I could on the handle, but it wouldn’t open. Somebody had probably piled furniture on the other side.

Meanwhile...

The girl inside the house turned and looked at the strong, handsome man sitting beside her. “Zombies?” she whispered.
“Zombies,” the man replied.

I gave up pounding at the door and tried to climb on the roof of the house. If I could get high enough, I could escape the mindless, shuffling beings that were coming by the hundreds. I searched for a crack, a hole, anything I could use as a hold, but the house was perfectly crafted. A new idea found its way into my head: run.
I sprinted away from the monsters, trying to make the distance between them and me as large as possible. I was not looking where I was going, simply stumbling blindly through the woods, tripping, falling. I rested. I ran. They were never far behind.
I ran until I could run no more. I sank to the ground in defeat. They were coming, marching across the land, intent on my destruction, closer and closer, until I could smell them, rancid and rotting. I recalled my dream. Now I understood. These were the horrors she had faced. This is why she was looking for help. There was a moment of intense pain, then I was one of them.

A week later:

“Thank you, thank you so much for coming,” Jonathan told the police officer. “He was our neighbor. He’s been missing for a week now. We thought he was on vacation, but he’s never away for more than a day at a time. Do you-”
“Stay there,” the officer grumbled. On any other day, he’d be in a car chase, interrogating suspects, or investigating murders. Now he was wasting valuable time searching for some bozo who was probably half-crazy and had more likely than not gotten lost at the local mall.
“He could clean out his office if he’s going to leave,” the officer said.
“It smells like a moldy sandwich, sir,” Jonathan pointed out.
“Yes. I wonder why?” The officer gestured to the half-eaten sandwich on the table, which sat next to an almost untouched bag of marshmallows and an empty bowl streaked with dried yogurt. In doing so, he almost brushed the laptop off the table.
“Careful!” called Jonathan.
The officer scowled and picked up the laptop. He read what was on the screen and smiled.
Jonathan gasped. “Did you find a clue? Do you know where he is?
The officer returned the laptop. “Nah,” he replied, “It’s just a biography of some crazy old artist. And whoever wrote it,” he paused for breath, “was completely bonkers.”

Poem(s)
The sun is sinking lower in the sky,
The moonglow starts to shine ever so bright.
Above me flies another demon eye,
And there will be a blood moon tonight!


The moon, the seas, the ponds have turned blood red,
Disease is spreading, an illness, a blight.
You'll never again sleep safe in your bed,
Because there will be a blood moon tonight!


The zombies come and break down all the doors,
They certainly are putting up a fight.
If you don't help, your life will be no more,
Because there is a blood moon tonight!


The female NPC's are getting angry,
They argue when another is in sight.
And corrupt bunnies, with fur coats so mangy,
Are making way for the blood moon tonight!


Your house is gone, your safest base is tattered,
The only way to live is to take flight.
Say goodbye to everything that mattered,
You must escape from the blood moon tonight.
 
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I am jealous of your talented writing; it's so good! And your poem as well, really reminds me of the singing in the books in the Redwall series.
 
Thanks for the support, guys!
I'm trying to write some more... I'll add stuff as I finish it.
Thanks!
 
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