“Silly Mythos Endings” contest winners!

A couple of weeks ago, I posted about some of the unintentionally funny endings in Mythos fiction, and proposed a contest: Write a flash fiction Lovecraftian story with a silly ending.  Here are the results of that contest.  Enjoy — I hope it brings you a smile and helps your day go a bit faster!

By Julio Toro San Martin (contest winner):

It was then that Neville decided to dial the phone and make his last call for help. After what seemed like shambling aeons someone finally answered.

Neville: Oh little and great dark Gawds! Oh Gawd! Can anyone hear me! I can barely speak!

Listener: Is that you, Fred?

Neville: Listen! It must not find me! Something is lumbering outside, something big –and lugubrious –it draws near –please ! lä! Almost here! –please! lä! –disorder –here –

Listener: Sorry, no pizza ordered here. You must have the wrong number. My neighbor, Henry, he usually orders pizza. Our phone numbers are similar.

Neville: lä! Hastur!

Listener: No, I said Henry. Hello –are you listening?

Neville: lä!

Listener: Good. So listen up. No pizza ordered here. Ok?

Neville: The outer dark –the languid piping of a flute –Great Gawd –listen –the tentacles are reaching for me, they are everywhere! –They come! They come!

Listener: Well tell them to go! To go! I didn’t order any seafood pizza! And I’m not paying! Did I make myself clear?

Neville: –Too late –

Listener: Well, I’m not paying. I’m reporting this to your manager.

Neville: –I’m being slowly drawn away –

Listener: I knew that would scare you away. I’m hanging up now. Bye.

Neville: (weakly) Tsathoggua fhtagn!

Listener: Is that Italian? Well anyways, good talkin’ to you!

And as the phone was hung up, poor dead, dead Neville never got a chance to say good-bye to the world. lä fhtagn!

By Daniel P Florence (contest winner):

I realized I was most likely chronicling the last few moments of my existence as I observed the monstrosity squeezing through the portal. A gaping gnashing maw, encircled by countless flailing tentacles, blew noxious fetid vapors into the spacious bedroom. The abominable scene was enough to freeze every muscle in my body -save for my writing hand.

Ever so slowly the foul beast oozed toward me, a gelatinous horror of black writhing death. It paused every few moments as if to gather its strength, each time resuming its painfully slow progression. A less intelligent man may ask why, in the approximately thirteen minutes it took the creature to traverse the room, I did not see it fit to orchestrate my escape. But one simply does not understand the paralysis, except of course for my writing hand, the sight of the creature inflicted upon my person. Oh the horror the shambling thing created, I could barely place the words to paper. It drew ever closer, a tentacle finally close enough to caress my face. Now it holds me fast dragging me toward it’s cavernous mouth. Oh, if only I could compel my body, save for my writing hand, to react. The mouth is so clo…..glub!!!

By Chad Anctil:

Oh dearest Madeline, I fear this letter will be my last! How I wish I could look upon you once again and hear your sweet voice, but all I hear now is the thing – that terrible, shambling THING making it’s way up the stairs. It comes for me, Madeline, and I know if it reaches me I shall not survive the encounter! It is evil incarnate, and death is the only gift it brings.

Oh why did we enter that cursed tomb and read that blasphemous book? What terrors did we awaken by disturbing that ancient grave, by taking that bizarre amulet from the mummified corpse within? We are being punished for our sins, Madeline, and it comes for me now – it is in the hall! I hear it’s sick, wet footsteps coming ever closer, I can hear the inhuman rasp of it’s breath as it nears the door!

It is in the room now, Madeline – I cannot describe the thing, it is terror and malevolence incarnate. It’s lifeless black eyes gaze upon me, and I feel my very soul draining from me… my breath grows short and I feel the icy grip of death upon me. It comes for me, Madeline… it comes!!!

By Wendy Anctil:

The burrowing fiends have gotten under my skin! I can feel them crawling chaotically in the flesh of my arms! Ye Gods, how I wish I had never been to that accursed ancient city, nor that I had slipped and fallen into the putrescent ink-black water around the loathsome altar!

They’ve reached my neck now and the gnawing of the worms is causing such intense itching! If only I could scratch at them with both hands! But you must know the truth! They are not from this good, green Earth, and they will take my mind next, just like poor Wilmarth! My eyes! I cannot see…and now my head, how it burns! My brain…it…the colors are so brilliant! I see the stars!

By Jon Carroll Thomas:

I heard the words. Spoken aloud from the book and into the sacred artifact—they called to me, and I followed. From worlds beyond, I have come—to shed my mantle of smoke and darkness and bow before my new master. For him, I am prepared to wage unholy war, to overthrow gods, to shake all of creation to ruin. I speak in the language by which I was summoned, “Oh great necromancer, what is your bidding?” But the man seated at the desk will not stop writing. He glances up only briefly—eyes wide and bloodshot—and then couches behind a heap of yellowed parchment to resume his mad scrawl. I draw nearer. A bead of sweat rolls down his blotchy, naked scalp and drips onto his rapidly filling notebook. “Excuse me—” I begin to say, but he cuts me off with an expulsion of inarticulate gibbering. Now, one thing I cannot abide is a rude necromancer. I force him to look upon me but it is more than his feeble body can take. He shrieks and falls apart in my grasp like so much wet sand.

After I make sense of his notes it all seems like such a silly misunderstanding. And I made such an awful mess of his library. The least I can do, I suppose, is to write this last entry. Whoever reads this, please excuse my handwriting; I could only use my littlest finger to write with and there was only one thing I could use for ink.

By Bruce Priddy:

The eggs she laid down my throat have compelled me toward the coast. I’ve got as close as I can. Maybe if I could drive I’d have reached the ocean as the eggs are begging of me. But I’ve become too swollen to fit behind the wheel. So I walked as the the birth pangs allowed. The pain has become far too great, and I’ve collapsed atop a dune, the water distant. Still, my belly bulges and reaches towards the cold reflection of the moon upon the waves. The eggs will hatch soon. I’ll write as long as possible. What will happen has to be known. The pain! The eggs are hatching. My belly tears. Blessed Mother Hydra, the pain is almost too much to bear. Have mercy! I dare not look at what is spilling out from me, squealing, whistling and clicking. Dear god, they are eating me! Needle teeth rip at the ragged edges of what used to be my abdomen. But I still will not look. Instead, I concentrate on the colossus that has risen from the ocean, blotting out the moon and silhouetted against it. She has come to welcome the children home. A high-pitched song sweeps over us, calling the hatchlings to her. Our children skitter away from me, squealing in harmony with their mother. The end is soon. This pen is heavy. I am fadi….

By Robert Masterson:

The moldering, greasy dust of the pages clung to my fingertips, a nasty, dirty feeling that was only bearable for the fantastic words and images revealed with each page turning of this eldritch tome. Each new glimpse of strange geometries, insane maps of diseased worlds hungry for sustenance of horrifying implications, masks of gods not yet emerged from the effluent of Elder Ones and even Older Ones and their lunatic offspring. Each page was a revelation in degradation and, as the scales fell from my unblinking eyes, I saw the world and man for what they were, small events of smaller consequence barely noticed, if at all, by those who strode across dark gulfs of space and time. When I came to the incantations, the summonings, and the callings, I knew I should just keep my mouth shut, but I was excited and eager to know it all, so I began to wrap my human tongue around those inhuman renderings. I knew I shouldn’t form those words, let them loose into the air, but I could not check my overwhelming need to know it all.

“P’tha…..” and then I was dead.

By Patrick Verret:

This place… I don’t know if I should feel lucky that my end will come soon, or horrified by the creature… no the monster that will come for me. The find was exhilarating, the team, rapidly assembled. A lonely platform in the middle of the pacific ocean, unused for years. They all disappeared so fast, some even lost their mind before they were dragged in the dark depths of the murky waters. Picked one by one, as if this thing had a plan for all of us. What unspeakable horrors will I be subjected too, as were my colleagues, before my untimely death in these god forgotten ruins.

As I write these last lines I can hear it slowly making its way up to me. Its arms sliding effortlessly around the structure of my hiding place. Should I call them tentacles? Oh… God… the sounds they are making. I knew that even to the top of the crane I wouldn’t be safe, its reach is too great. I think I prefer to die than give that beast his prize… Fear make the drop last a lifetime. As I fall I can see dozens, no hundreds of sickly luminous orbs looking, laughing at me. I hit the water… Please help me I’m still… alive…

By Ryan Wheeldon:

My dearest Barnabas,

I write this in the utmost danger and with the intent to warn you of recent activities. Maxwell’s death was no accident. They killed him and they are coming for me. They know what it was that we summoned and it has led them here. I hear them outside now. It is my hope to hide this letter from them that the maid may post it to you with all due haste.

No matter what you fear, no matter what the whispers in the darkness tell you, you must NOT open the box. To do so would be to invite doom upon the world. The Book was wrong. We were misled. I hear them now, their damnable chanting echoing through the house. I am out of ti

We are coming for you!

By Robert Ostrosky:

My last letter posted to my wife.

My love I send this to you so that you would know of my demise. As I write, the nameless beast is shredding my front door, coming to devour me. I look out the window seeing your face my love on those passing by. My last thoughts are of you. Agggh, it is here,!!! I am gripped by horror as it begins to devour me. My love, thoughts of you ease my suffering as I am consumed. Uggh!!! My hands which lovingly I used to touch your face are no more! Farewell my darling.

Your loving husband,

Robert

By R. Daizan Turner:

That book I bought off eBay was a joke. Forbidden knowledge of blasphemous shadows…my ass. I followed the instructions to the letter. Hell, I even spent a night in jail for collecting grave soil. Anyway, I had all the ingredients. I drew all the right diagrams and said all the right words. OK, I tried to say all the right words. I mean, how the hell are you supposed to pronounce “f’thagn”?

Nothing happened. Not even a puff of smoke. I contacted customer service to try to get my money back, but they told me that the user Nyarlathotep1920 doesn’t exist. I checked my email; none of the messages I had sent to him were in the history. There was just no record of the transaction. That’s strange…the lights just went out. Hang on a sec… OK, this is really weird. The lights on the rest of the street are working but mine are out. Holy shit! There is something outside my window. I’m going to call 911. The phone is dead too? The eyes are gone. Maybe it was an owl or something. Yeah, I know. It’s just kinda freaky that I was talking about Nyalathotep1920 and all this shit started happening. I gotta run. There is some kind of strange smell in here. I need to light an incense or something. Dude! I’m dead!

By Stephen Mark Rainey:

Yes, I was able to translate the ancient text. I found more of the key than I ever expected just using Google. But if it was that easy for me, just imagine how many others will do the same thing. That HAS to have been the creator’s original intention.

Do you think anyone would really do it?

Why wouldn’t they? The temptation is too strong NOT to.

I think you’re just imagining things.

NO! I can hear them now! It’s too late for me. Whatever you do, DO NOT use that key!

If you say so.

Oh, God, here they come. The terrible baying! It’s the Hounds of Tenderloins, their claws renting the roof, their voices the hard bringers of finagling doom. Ceiling cat holds it longer! Ayeeee!

WHAT???

For God’s sake. Hounds of Tindalos, rending the roof, harbingers of final doom, THE CEILING CAN’T HOLD ANY LONGER! Damned autocorrect. Ayeeee!

By Darick Anderson:

The fog steadily came in from the sea and with it came the beastie. In my study late, I heard the slovin yearn from its soft mouth parts. My oil lamp flickered as it climbed the stairs. Its labored rasp for breath matched my still beating heart as the wooden floor boards buckled at the threshold.

I made my retreat to the wardrobe in my berth just as the study door broke. My mind raced as to what it could be and how long before it found me. The odor came first then-sucker cups with terrible hooks-dear lord that huge eye could not belong to anything of this earth-Ahhhhh! Glug!

By Bill Hanson:

Incredibly, my research has led me to the exact Inn spoken of in the late doctor’s notes. Now I fear I may share his fate. This may be my last entry. I hear the unmistakable squeak on the stair outside my room. A fetid odor assails me now, making my eyes water and my stomach convulse. The sound of wheezing on the other side of my door makes me gasp involuntarily. It knows I’m in here now. With a rattling phlegm-filled moan it attacks the door. I look for a hiding place. The closet is too dark. I’d never be able to see what I’m writing in there. I look over my shoulder from my desk. The door is starting to splinter. Oh no, the door flies apart under the onslaught and a monstrous form stands in the doorway. Human in form, but with way too many joints in its arms and legs, it unfolds itself and glares at me. Its eyes….I cannot bear to see them. I turn back to my journal, but the creature is upon me in no time. It grabs my arm with inhuman strength and rips it out of the socket. The pain is excruciating. Oh no, it grabs my other arm and pulls mercilessly. With an awful tearing sound my other arm is plucked from my body. I grab the pen with my mouth. I will try to continue this entry but my life’s blood is flowing and my penmanship, I’m afraid, is suffering……oh the horror, the horror. Swoon.

By William Wood:

Raindrops ran down the lens of the security camera, pattering here and there on the seaside veranda, the table, the serving tray. The plate of squid and eggs sat cut into bite-sized pieces, but otherwise untouched, on Emil’s plate. Half his life he’d slaved in the kitchen at Tavern on the Bay. Head Chef for twenty of those thankless years and now, two months from retirement, the Old Ones return. Where was the justice? Where was the karma? Where was the time to relax on the beach and enjoy letting someone else cook for a change? Despite predictions, the Old Ones were in no particular hurry to destroy the world. Surfacing, rising or otherwise manifesting, at their leisure. In the meantime, a man had to make a living. He had to put food on the table. Only no one came to the beaches anymore. No one took rooms at the B&Bs, shopped in the beachfront gift stores, ate at the fresh seafood restaurants. Not with the end of the world coming, any day now. Or any month. Or any year.

Tavern on the Bay was completely deserted except for him. The ocean stirred on the horizon. He leaned forward, heart quickening, watching as the tsunami wall rose high enough to block the sunrise, the local Old One rolling over as it slept beneath the waves. Emil sneered, quickly taking a mouthful of tiny tentacles and eggs, and began to chew. “Futh-thu, Cth—”

By Cliff Miller:

The long history of eldritch tales doth beg the question, “How is it that humankind is still here? How have we survived the enmity of the Elder Outsiders, those who through disinterest alone might wipe humanity from existence with the merest twitch of a hind-most tentacle?” As Sherlock Holmes once said, “So many have said so, yet here I am.” It is because of those, who like me, refuse to surrender, who in terror and humility, fight to stop those whose cursed experiments threaten to unleash cosmic horror, those benighted ones whose ape-like curiosity would harry all of us down into the stinking pits of dissolute horror and perdition.

One such has agreed to meet me this evening and despite my disquiet at the selected hour long past those in which devout mortals would devote to slumber, I agreed, first spreading the ash from long buried holy ones at my door, burning a forbidden stinking incense in preparatory anticipation of the doom he surely brings to end my interference with the horrible rites practiced by those easily mislead. My terror grows by the moment, for I have heard a sickening slithering sound, I shudder as the house trembles though no wind disturbs it, and now the evil smell of eons-old putrefaction penetrates the oily odor of burning ambergris and dead Asian Orb-Flowers, so I know my nemesis lurks outside. I’ll just get off this last text message, my thumbs pound virtual keys as…NO…NOT THAT…I CANNOT…IT CANNOT BE…HOW DOES IT NOT SLUMBER AND HOW ….

By Laura Hill:

A torrent of bubbles cascaded up through the rust plankton haze. Dan had been plucking scallops from the wall behind the granite crag and now, the bubbles, his bubbles were trickling to a stop.

My heart thundered, my regulator failed to give me air, then I screamed! A great tentacle reached for me through the murk and wrapped around my neck. I flailed at it with my knife, stabbing, slashing and I saw the great, huge eye, unblinking, staring! And a beak, a great hooked beak….

By Fred Herman:

–Of the entire party, only I remain. I, and the donkey I lead step by wary step towards the summit of the winding path which ends—so it is said—in a cave wherein lies that which will grant all desired wisdom. I shall not be denied! Doom has followed us up this treacherous stony way, and one by one my companions have fallen to their deaths—or else, something has taken them in the night. But I am not to be deterred. And now I see—yes! Around that bend! It is the cave before us! And within—

Oh, the terrible beauty and power of that dark magnificence! It calls to the basest foundations of my soul, and I must follow, as soon as I finish writing this! Already it is all I can do not to run forward to my destiny in uncaringly blasphemous joy! Iä! Iä! Why, even my donkey feels the call in its animal heart! It struggles, but it goes, ahead of me! Into the cave! And as it precedes me into the dark where I soon shall follow, it acknowledges that call with its own brayful worship! Hear, it speaks: Iä! Iä! Iä!

By Raven Daegmorgan:

Fragment Found on a Magnetic Tape

*recorder clicks on*

–nd it is coming for me now. I will endeavor to record, in what I fear are the last few moments of my life, the narrative of what has happened here in the hopes it may reach–I can hear it…*sound of shattering wood*…oh, oh…oh my…god…

*scraping, crashing, distorted -unidentifiable- noises*

No! No! Get back, fiend! I can see it finally, its shape is vaguely squamous, but the lines of it…vaporous, an unholy form no mortal eye can follow, nor describe in its awful tesseraction… tesseractation? Tesseractness? I’m not sure if those are even words. I need to check a diction–

*unearthly roar, crunching noises, screaming*

AHHHHH-AHHHHHHHHG! MY LEGS! Oh, the ineffable agony of the eldritch beast’s gelatinous ichors as they dribble down to sear and devour my pallid flesh like turgid, globular maggots! I am gripped by the existential horror of dismemberment, even as the thing sucks and chews at my marrow, for what now will I–or even CAN I run with?!

But I must tell. I must! Listen to me! Whatever you do, do not open the door, the black door under the i–OH THE PAIN! Now my squalid intestines shine and writhe in effluence from their piteous mortal cavity as this daemonaic horror slurps them into undimensioned orifices! Before I am thus consumed utterly and even my atoms rendered into effluvia, I must make clear to you, in hope my belabored tale be carried to your ears through timeless cosmic gulfs, tumultuous though they may be, you must hear me, Warren, don’t op–*gurgling, snapping, crunching sounds*

YOU FOOL! WARREN IS DEAD!

*recorder clicks off*

By Thomas Nicol:

I haven’t much time. Even now, pen shaking in my hand as I write this last entry in the expedition log, I feel the end. It came for Dr. Walters first — curse the moment we laid eyes on that amulet! When he began to sweat, we blamed it on the sun. But no amount of shade and cool water could relieve his discomfort. Only now, upon translation of the symbols engraved on the piece, do I know the truth. The horrible truth! But as my own sweat seeps into the paper and smears my works into illegibility, I welcome it, for how can I live on with this terrible knowledge? Stars — stars in my eyes! Did Walters see the stars? Or Smith, or poor Mortimer after them? They spark, and grow — it’s beginning! The flames! My eyes burst in the blessed inferno, boiling humour splashing onto the page before me… the rushing, the power, it flows down my arms! My hands are ablaze, engulfed by the beautiful cleansing flame! The pages on which I write curl, smoke, and are consumed! If God is merciful, it will end qui–FWOMP

By Adam Joffrain:

I know I shouldn’t have opened this old book, bound in human skin. I also know that I shouldn’t have read aloud those strange alien lines, written in unknown letters, which sounded so weird. But now that I have spoken the forbidden language, I must accept the truth… the horrible truth.

Behind the closed door of my room, I hear hissings, scratchings, and strange, guttural sounds… And, as I write these lines, and I hope someone will find my notes, I can clearly see a shadow crawling slowly through the locked door… God, it’s so tall, so dark… I, I can see… eyes, red eyes, staring at me and… and now, those claws, around my head… so much pain… those sharp claws, which are deep within my flesh, lacerate my head, my brain … I’m almost, almost… beheaded…behea… ahhh

One response to ““Silly Mythos Endings” contest winners!

  1. Great stuff! Very funny! DO you know about the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest? It is dedicated to writing the worst possible first sentence ever for a novel. It is a real treat to read the entries each year.

    http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/

    Now you need to do the same thing each year for mythos fiction but you need a great name, one that will inspire generations of insipid pastiches! I not so humbly suggest the Lynn Carter Mythos Fiction Writing Award.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s