Satire Non-Fiction posted December 18, 2014

This work has reached the exceptional level
Dean Kuch's Mind

Be Scared--There is Danger Among Us

by Spiritual Echo

I am very, very frightened. Trying to be brave isn't something that comes natural-like to me.

Thinking I'd found the best of two worlds, I've been able to hide in an obscure part of Canada, alive, but existing between two dimensions. I mustn't say where--I mustn't. HE hasn't found me yet. My electronic signals assure 'HIM,' and keep undue attention from focusing HIS mind-sweeping north. I'm still safe.

Some folks have not yet suffered affliction--the obsession--with HIM. I watch them on the television, and faithfully read my CNN news flashes. There are still some people that live in a delusional cloud, leaving their homes, going about their business, pretending or acting as if nothing is happening. I know different.

Instinct tells me that it must have started sooner--much sooner than my first journals indicate--but my first conscious awareness of HIM began last year.

It was spring, my once-upon-a-time favourite season of the year. A morning like any other, I settled in my den and logged into my garden. For years I took comfort in the bluebells and butterflies, the blanket of snow or the crimson carpet of leaves. The poets in my garden take their responsibilities seriously.

Instead of trumpeting daffodils or velvet rose petals, my innocent walk turned into a nightmare. From within the bowels of my computer, an insidious growl began, culminating in a graphic image--dripping saliva, gnashing teeth--glaring at me from the screen. The glean of the black fur--as the wolf revealed his power-- threatened me. I immediately shut down all systems. Something very bad was in my garden. I was almost tempted to seek refuge outdoors, far away from the electronic lure of my world--almost.

After changing my trousers, I reinforced my dwindling courage with the added ingredient of a shot of brandy in my coffee and ventured back down the path to investigate.

Others detected the scent. Elders congregated to discuss the interloper and declared his presence as chicanery. "Cheap tricks," one statesman declared. I was not convinced, despite my reverence for the speaker. My confession as to the effectiveness of the wolf was presented with Exhibit A, my original trousers of the day. Although it was unnecessary to produce the evidence--my reputation for honesty still intact--my emotions were dismissed.

The village around my garden is inhabited by an eclectic group of citizens. We have waged holy wars, buried our dead and praised our warriors for their conquests on distant shores, but we settle back into our nests and adjust to the evolution. Still, the rumblings and discontent bubbled beneath the surface like a threatening earthquake.

As a 'spiritual echo,' it is not my place to judge, but to gather and document the triumphs and folly of villagers. I send my missives to the gods--those are the terms my muse demands. I survived my initial fright, and acknowledged the right and presence of HIM.

Oh, but it doesn't end there. For HE began to plant seeds in the garden and fertilized depravity, nurturing fear and spit out weeds like rogue meat stuck between his ever-lengthening fangs. It was no longer possible to accept and ignore his presence, and I became increasingly aware that I must study his movements.

Trying to foster serenity in my life, I chose to create a fantasy about HIM. HE was not really the devil incarnate, but rather some writer plying HIS trade. It was easier for me to justify HIS blood-sucking cannibalism as an art form. And to that end, I found myself reading HIS stories, never once admitting that these supposedly innocent yarns might actually be prophesies--a warning of things to come.

Continuing my vigilant awareness, I've charted HIS insidious ascent, HIS determined climb up the poetry lattice, spinning webs and leaving traps to reel in HIS prey. Perhaps HE has become bored with the raw gristle of prose writers, but my wonder at HIS invasion into the world of faeries and twilight, leaves me to believe HE is gaining momentum and fuelling HIS black soul. For what, you might ask?

If it were possible to invade HIS mind to determine HIS motives, intention and retribution, it might resemble a darkened fortress, chambers leading into dungeons outfitted with honed steel and titanium chains. No one would dare to launch such a journey and mercies would not be granted, for HE has spread the word--be scared, very scared.

And though I am often very frightened, I am using this small shard of courage to warn my fellow villagers. Is HE a writer or does HE spend his nights with Damian? I dare not ask. I don't want to know.

HE will invade your dreams. HE will seduce you with his seamless prattle, his stream of flawless language. Be scared, be very scared and stay vigilant. HIS name is Dean Kuch.

Inside the mind of Dean Kuch contest entry


Dean Kuch is an exceptional writer. The above submission is offered with the highest respect for what he has accomplished here on FanStory, the least of which is turning me into a horror/thriller fan.

Aside from an incredible imagination (or not--God help us) he has added innovation to his submissions and entertained with every story and poem he posts on this site.

My personal assessment, through his writing Dean will become a household name and I will be able to say, 'I knew him when..."
Pays one point and 2 member cents.

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