RHP Prose Competition 2019 voting thread
08 Jul '19 11:30#12 Vincent
Superstition had cost him an arm and very nearly a leg. A perfect storm of misfortune put in motion by the impulsive purchase of an old gothic mirror, too large to carry but carried anyway to save a few bucks on delivery. As is always the case in these matters, the weight of the mirror, manageable for the first dozen strides soon began to weigh heavy in Vincent’s arms. The wooden frame dug into his chest, the smell of neglected walnut filling his nostrils and disturbing his mind. The wind now too conspired against him, blown in suddenly from some forsaken land to antagonise his burden, threaten catastrophe.
As he struggled along Michigan Avenue, petulant faith in the vigilance of oncoming tourists and shoppers, his ears were tormented by the fearful screams of a car alarm and the calls of a persistent street vendor, seemingly oblivious to the load he carried, devilishly determined to sell him a plastic tub of discounted plums. Vincent pressed on defiantly, oblivious himself to the scaffolding and leaning ladder that impeded the sidewalk just ahead of him outside Bloomingdale’s. Only at the last moment did he spot the hazard and instinctively lunge to the right to avoid passing under the ladder. He failed to see however the large black cat crossing his path or indeed the elderly lady carrying a bag of salt, giving him the evil eye.
The dance had begun, choreographed surely by some demonic force of pure malice and cruelty. The cat hissed as Vincent’s erratic stride led him to trip over its hind quarters, sending him crashing headlong into the old woman, dramatically spilling her salt as she cursed his very existence. Completely off-balance Vincent tumbled sideways into the scaffolding which rattled furiously with anger and foreboding. - An insidious moment of calm preceded the avalanche of masonry that fell without mercy from the gods of Bloomingdale’s down onto the hapless man still clutching his heavy burden as though his life depended on it. The mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, as Vincent was buried under a ton of bricks, his broken and defeated body lying there motionless, and now missing a left arm, severed completely by a jagged piece of glass methodically gothic in its amputation.
You know that sickly feeling you get when you think for a moment you have lost your wallet or mobile phone, that sudden wave of cold panic that hits your very soul as you frantically check your pockets? It was to such a feeling that Vincent awoke in hospital, immediately certain he was missing something vitally important. It was a little after twilight and dusty light crept through the gaps in the blinds casting eerie shadows on the beeping equipment that surrounded his bed. Barely able to move his neck, Vincent looked down at his body, his bare chest wired to the machinery and both his legs in plaster right up to the hip, the right one elevated diagonally towards the ceiling. His right arm too was plastered to the shoulder, the fingers that protruded purple and grotesquely swollen. But it was a glance to the left that confirmed his worse suspicions as a stump swaddled in bloody bandages revealed the horror of a missing arm. Quietly he lay there enveloped in his woes, his glazed eyes barely acknowledging the array of flowers and cards by his bedside. Hazy flashbacks haunted him, the smell and taste of acrid dust, the look of death on the face of the old woman, the hissing of the cat. It was then that the pain began, slowly at first, an uncomfortable tingling at the base of his bloody stump. A strange ache was to follow, an ache in an arm he no longer had, an ungodly phantom pain that stretched right down his absent forearm and to the very tip of the fingers he no longer possessed. Suddenly the pain increased, Vincent crying out as a biting sensation seared through his missing elbow and crunched through his non-existent wrist.
The medics never did find Vincent’s severed arm, despite a thorough search of the area. They couldn’t understand what could have become of it, how it had vanished from the scene of the accident. Of course, the old stray dog had already carried away the bloody limb long before the emergency services had arrived, buried it hastily in a nearby garden. Happy with its prize it had returned later, when the light was low, and the streets deserted, to dig it up and take its time gnawing on the juicy bone and sinew. As the hound enjoyed its meal, Vincent screamed in agony in his hospital bed, the arriving ward nurse powerless to mitigate the pain in his missing arm as an old dog’s teeth devoured flesh and marrow.
Superstition had cost him an arm and very nearly a leg. A perfect storm of misfortune put in motion by the impulsive purchase of an old gothic mirror, too large to carry but carried anyway to save a few bucks on delivery. As is always the case in these matters, the weight of the mirror, manageable for the first dozen strides soon began to weigh heavy in Vincent’s arms. The wooden frame dug into his chest, the smell of neglected walnut filling his nostrils and disturbing his mind. The wind now too conspired against him, blown in suddenly from some forsaken land to antagonise his burden, threaten catastrophe.
As he struggled along Michigan Avenue, petulant faith in the vigilance of oncoming tourists and shoppers, his ears were tormented by the fearful screams of a car alarm and the calls of a persistent street vendor, seemingly oblivious to the load he carried, devilishly determined to sell him a plastic tub of discounted plums. Vincent pressed on defiantly, oblivious himself to the scaffolding and leaning ladder that impeded the sidewalk just ahead of him outside Bloomingdale’s. Only at the last moment did he spot the hazard and instinctively lunge to the right to avoid passing under the ladder. He failed to see however the large black cat crossing his path or indeed the elderly lady carrying a bag of salt, giving him the evil eye.
The dance had begun, choreographed surely by some demonic force of pure malice and cruelty. The cat hissed as Vincent’s erratic stride led him to trip over its hind quarters, sending him crashing headlong into the old woman, dramatically spilling her salt as she cursed his very existence. Completely off-balance Vincent tumbled sideways into the scaffolding which rattled furiously with anger and foreboding. - An insidious moment of calm preceded the avalanche of masonry that fell without mercy from the gods of Bloomingdale’s down onto the hapless man still clutching his heavy burden as though his life depended on it. The mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, as Vincent was buried under a ton of bricks, his broken and defeated body lying there motionless, and now missing a left arm, severed completely by a jagged piece of glass methodically gothic in its amputation.
You know that sickly feeling you get when you think for a moment you have lost your wallet or mobile phone, that sudden wave of cold panic that hits your very soul as you frantically check your pockets? It was to such a feeling that Vincent awoke in hospital, immediately certain he was missing something vitally important. It was a little after twilight and dusty light crept through the gaps in the blinds casting eerie shadows on the beeping equipment that surrounded his bed. Barely able to move his neck, Vincent looked down at his body, his bare chest wired to the machinery and both his legs in plaster right up to the hip, the right one elevated diagonally towards the ceiling. His right arm too was plastered to the shoulder, the fingers that protruded purple and grotesquely swollen. But it was a glance to the left that confirmed his worse suspicions as a stump swaddled in bloody bandages revealed the horror of a missing arm. Quietly he lay there enveloped in his woes, his glazed eyes barely acknowledging the array of flowers and cards by his bedside. Hazy flashbacks haunted him, the smell and taste of acrid dust, the look of death on the face of the old woman, the hissing of the cat. It was then that the pain began, slowly at first, an uncomfortable tingling at the base of his bloody stump. A strange ache was to follow, an ache in an arm he no longer had, an ungodly phantom pain that stretched right down his absent forearm and to the very tip of the fingers he no longer possessed. Suddenly the pain increased, Vincent crying out as a biting sensation seared through his missing elbow and crunched through his non-existent wrist.
The medics never did find Vincent’s severed arm, despite a thorough search of the area. They couldn’t understand what could have become of it, how it had vanished from the scene of the accident. Of course, the old stray dog had already carried away the bloody limb long before the emergency services had arrived, buried it hastily in a nearby garden. Happy with its prize it had returned later, when the light was low, and the streets deserted, to dig it up and take its time gnawing on the juicy bone and sinew. As the hound enjoyed its meal, Vincent screamed in agony in his hospital bed, the arriving ward nurse powerless to mitigate the pain in his missing arm as an old dog’s teeth devoured flesh and marrow.
Back to Top