Watson Brown
Stories (4/0)
Josah and the Mothman
Josah and the Mothman Josah sat in a small wooden home on a farm carved out of a dark and dangerous forest. He sat drinking to ease his grief knowing It would be of little use. Josah lived in one of the few quiet corners of a country that no longer exists, in a history before history. Josah and his wife knew that there was conflict just two mountains and a valley away. They like most people of their time got their news from travelers, or if they happened to catch a bar playing at the pub, but the closest pub was a half days ride from their house. Months back a traveler had told them about several tents, wagons, and three large, frightful necroidal menagerie pens brought in on the backs of giant undead mammoths known as Marwmammut. The traveler who was heading back to the nearby coastal city of Havagno said the growing army had battled an enemy battalion and appeared to be setting up more permanent buildings. In the months to come Josah would slay two necroidals that had become trapped in the underbrush on the outskirts of their farm. Both were once human, both presumably killed in the recent battle they carried large baskets containing decaying human heads. After he killed the terrible things, he burned them in a deep pit and buried it over. He knew they were considered royal property and destroying them was punishable by a slow death, or worse.
By Watson Brown3 years ago in Horror
Roman's New Notebook
Roman had been wanting a new notebook, so he was excited to find a really nice almost new black Moleskine notebook at the thrift store. Roman was an amateur investigator, researching strange phenomena and paranormal activities, and lately his little city had been buzzing with strange reports. He bought the notebook, he was surprised at the cashier’s response, the cashier snatched it out of his hand and quickly thumbed through it.
By Watson Brown3 years ago in Futurism
Monster Slayer and Box Boy
A grubby child maybe 13 or 14 sits on the wooden porch of a trailer home bruised and dejected, ravenous. He has been beaten by a drunken father for eating paint off of his bedroom wall. He is skinny and always hungry though he gets three square meals a day. He eats hair, dirt, paint, and sometimes nails or other bits of metal. His bizarre appetite has left him with an untreated case of tape worms. His hair is dirty, long in patches almost hiding the other patches, patches of raw scalp where the hair has been pulled from. He picks up a stick and begins to walk around the ugly desert that is his back yard. I say an ugly desert because this is not a desert of beautiful saguaro cactus, flitting wrens, and magical sunsets, instead it is a desert of illegal dumping, trailer meth labs, and acres of rusting junk some his fathers some not. The boy picks a few pieces of the remaining, sun faded paint, from the rickety splintered porch railing he stuffs them greedily into his mouth then picks up his stick and plods into the desert. In his mind’s eye he sees himself freed from the trappings of human hood. Wandering an alien landscape scorched and hateful. impossibly tall and gauntly thin where hands once were now dirty augmentations. There is a crude flame thrower on one stump and a forked spear on the other. Something moves a two headed Gila monster or maybe just a one headed rabbit. Lightning fast he stabs it, cremates it and wolfs it down, one back leg still kicking. Back on his ugly piece of earth, he spies a large brown pile something new and he begins to make his way toward it.
By Watson Brown3 years ago in Horror
The Stow Away
What good is all the money in the world when you are dead? Micky asked himself as he hid in a dark corner of an abandoned warehouse, behind a strange piece of equipment that seemed too new and shiny for its surroundings. Micky was a bright kid, but he always seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He managed to get through high school but never cut it at the community college or working an honest job for that matter. So, he got by on a life of petty crime and running errands for a two-bit gang. When he wasn’t up to something shady or downright illegal, he was dreaming of traveling and writing a book about his journeys. A week earlier Micky had ducked into a little thrift store; not that Micky was particularly thrifty, he was just hiding from the cops and some hoods from the Prosciutto gang. While Micky pretended to browse, he was suddenly drawn to a worn little book. He picked it up and cracked it open; he was fascinated thinking maybe it had names and phone numbers of some real classy ladies. When he opened the book there were no phone numbers, no classy ladies, just strange notes in a language he could not read, and even stranger maps. There were at least a dozen maps he recognized most of the locations and thought it might be cool to check them out. Micky waited until the coast was clear then bought the little black book and disappeared into the night.
By Watson Brown3 years ago in Criminal