Blights on the Landscape

The Missing Material

by Jessica Shornheart (RIP)

On Page 42 of Chapter Two, in which we learn of the Cursed Theatre of Charleston, NC, they speak of the "unspeakable play" that was performed there the night that it all went to hell. However, we're not told too much about that play, other than how it drove the audience to madness, rape, cannibalism and suicide within the space of an hour.

But wouldn't you know that there was a fragment of that play to be found? Ms. Shornheart wrote it, and intended for it to be included as a sidebar. However, they ran out of space in the last few days before the book went to bed, and that sidebar - along with a few others - was scrapped.

So here it is: a piece of the unspeakable play, itself.

)0----------------VVVVVVV----------------0(

(The scene is one of a magician's workshop, complete with bubbling retorts and strange things in half-seen cages. On the floor, lying face-up and spread-eagled in a summoning circle, is an Angel - his wings burned and plucked and his mouth stitched shut. A female Cherub stands nearby, outside the circle, weeping.)

The Master of Ceremonies enters the room from the side and claps his hands.

Master of Ceremonies: Cherub! Cherub, the angel!

Cherub walks towards him when called.

Master of Ceremonies: Coils behind! The time hands.

Cherub holds her arms above her head, and walks over to the circle, and then into it, and strides over the Angel, so that she is directly above his waist.

Master of Ceremonies: Cherub. It enters in the angel!

Cherub squats atop Angel, and begins riding him, as though they were making love. The Angel does not seem to notice.

Cherub: Aaaaaaahhhh!

Master of Ceremonies addresses audience, gesturing wildly as he does.

Master of Ceremonies: Hour walks alone. You are not never-mind. The walks that you have taken have left all people oblique. Cause watches them. Can God forsake that I make?

A mass of broken, Angels' bodies fall from the rafters and land about Cherub and Angel. She continues as though nothing else were happening, and he does not notice, either.

Master of Ceremonies: The bodies. Perhaps... perhaps, someone is alive.

He walks amongst the bloody ruin, and finds nothing but torn wings, severed limbs and shattered haloes..

Master of Ceremonies: Knot sorridiamo? Hoo-ha ha ha ha ha ha hah! A-ha ha ha ha ho ho ho... Knot.

He capers and begins picking up broken pieces of the bodies, addressing each in turn with a fixed look.

Master of Ceremonies: Have? Has! Ahhhh... Is of right to the side of me, you one seen, that your free body crawls to, right through those bodies that fall. It are in the air that we are. Stirs to you, therefore, close hour, but I do not take care myself. It has walks on me, your cable, that of the body tried to.

He now turns to regard the audience with the same fixed look. As he does, the motion of the Cherub becomes more and more agitated, as though she were building to a climax.

Master of Ceremonies: Fuoriuscirli is in your head. I would go more best behind. They are not here. Walks to the side of me, you fixed look! Me that hour. You are without house, or that periods three, amazon that watched ahead. I will render you, the talk who you are.

The Cherub reaches the climax, and the Master of Ceremonies stands behind her as she rests, cradling the Cherub's head in his hands.

Master of Ceremonies: Bong here! Your mind has cuts them to you, that been, bleeding hour. Your just one fuoriuscito, programs as an arc walks to right beyond. You that they are arrested, and to be. Your body that finds here have... he-he-he-he... everywhere!

With that, he tightens his grip and twists, and a gruesome *snap* is heard. The Cherub slumps over the Angel, dead, with her neck broken. The Angel seems to not notice at all, or at least not care.

Master of Ceremonies: Feh!

 The Ugly Truth

The laptop of the late Jessica Shornheart - which is also her Fetter - has a few 'easter eggs' on it: a number of unfinished materials, unused things, and all sorts of other goodies - even an entire book they never could get Marketing to approve of. It's all password protected, of course, but every so often E. goes digging, has a lucky "guess" to find one of these gems, and then polishes it up a little and runs it.

(He's had a few Black Dog staffers demand to know where he gets these pieces, but he largely ignores them.)

This piece in particular isn't even hers. It's part of something she asked a writer to do as part of his contract, only to have him wig out and give her hardly anything of what she needed. She was going to take this and "eat her money," as she put it, but then she discovered that the entire passage was some weird homage to an early Butt Hole Surfers song. After that she dumped it, and kept it around only as a reminder as to why she would never be using that freelancer again.

(Said Freelancer is now six feet under, owing to a recent case of accidental electrocution. One should never listen to one's old punk rock tapes while taking a shower - especially when the tape player is within throwing distance of the stall. Oops...)


 Contentz

 

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