The Found Moorfields Journals

In Three Parts:

Part the First: Of Madness & Melancholy
Part the Second: The Stone of Folly
Part the Third: Divine Lunatics

*Attention: ADULT CONTENT (not so bad....but still adult reading. Thank you)

Remember: This is a blog and therefore shows recent posts first. Scroll back to read in order.

Content unedited.

Saturday, October 20, 2012

Chapter I Continued.....

I tell you now, in sooth my friend, I did indeed swing the iron stew pot mightily, with double fists,
landing it square to his lordship's balding and lice scabbed pate,  knocking his unnaturally tiny feet from under his swaying girth, causing him to topple backward into an unsuspecting lot of laying hens minding their business by the fire.

More's the pity for the hens.

I confess that the site of him scuttling his limbs about like to an upended stink bug in the garden whilst gagging upon loose feathers and dried chicken shite nearly caused me to laugh aloud and show him a small mercy.  But somehow, somehow I did not end it there.  

Though to this very morn I do not regret one whit.

A rage, blinding purple in its hue, overtook me then as I looked down upon his vile bloat and it was but a short step afore I had straddled him as one would a fat hog at sticking time.  Holding the bread knife, taken in haste from the hearth table, to the multitudinous folds of his stinking neck, I whispered a prayer for all that had befallen me, both past, present and betwixt.

But in that moment of devout petition, pleading to whom I knew to be an unjust and pitiless God, the sightless rage left me as it came; quickly, painfully.

I looked down down upon him to search his eyes for further danger but found none.  Heaving and drooling, he posed no imminent threat to me, the welt rising in the middle of his forehead sufficient to render him senseless if indeed he could e'er be said to have possessed the quality of sense afore.

"By God's teeth, ye heavin' puss-bag," I whispered through my own sour spittle as I pressed knife blade to pink flesh.  "I could slit thee fat gullet to tiny prick and feed thy foul guts to the wild hogs wit' none bein' the wiser.  An' the Devil and yer own self mark mine own words, I wilt see it through if ye e'er lays a filthy, loutish mitt about me person again."

The bubbling wet, ensuing fart and rising stench spake that he believed me.

1 comment:

Welcome to the Moorfileds journals.
I'm so pleased that you are willing to share this unique experience with me.
Please feel free to leave a comment, but do know that I have chosen, out of respect, to decline the answering of any specific questions regarding the journals. I feel that the story, as written, must speak for itself.
Fair Winds, my faithful readers. I do hope you delight in this goodly intrigue as much as I have!
love, Foxmorton