Siberian Horror

(The following is a work of fiction, except for the last line, which is true.)

In the deepest darkest reaches of Siberia, there are areas where humans rarely if ever go. Not only because of the horrible winters, the summer mosquitoes big as your thumb, the quicksand made even more deadly due to thawing permafrost, the lack of fast-food franchises or wi-fi connections, but also due to legends of evil surrounding the areas, and forests so thick, deep, and full of trees so gnarled that a human would have to crawl on all fours for miles to find an open area. Legend has it that there are sulfurous bogs within these forbidden areas that belch hot gas eruptions, made more foul by the stench of decomposition of animals unlucky enought to stumble into them and die by the dozens. The dying screams of these animals can be heard by caribou-herders miles away, if the wind is right. They don’t sound like any creatures known to any locals. On nights like these, the locals shut the doors to their homely cabins even tighter; their dogs hide their ears under their paws and whimper.

Within one of these “forbidden” areas, there is a legendary creature, said to look like a sort of cross between a wolf and a bear, but with a hideous bald head like a vulture. No one has ever actually seen it, except, it is claimed, for one old woman, a woman who is legendary herself, of an unknown age, who claims to have been a little child who remembers the distant Tunguska explosion of 1908. The locals hate and fear her, as they say she has “the evil eye,” and can cause infertility or fatal disease with one glare. She is said to be able to communicate with dead ancestors of people and animals alike. Though they fear her and loathe her, people from miles around will come to her as a healer of last resort, especially for their sick children. Though she shoos children away from her anemic little garden and her sickly animals, she is said to have a secret soft spot for them, and is claimed to have cured many deathly ill little ones, though she will not lift a finger to help an adult. She has no fear of bears or wolves or any other standard taiga creatures, but even she bolts her door when the screams of dying creatures are carried on the winds. It is said that she feels sorry for the wolf/bear, because it is the last of its foul kind. Get up a little liquid courage of your own, ply her with enough vodka, and she may tell you what she knows about the foul beast. She will tell you that it was the last of once-proud but dying species, so hidden in the taiga forests that no one but her family, all who are gone but her, had ever seen them. When the big explosion came, they were all wiped out but the one, and its head, which had been, if not handsome, at least appropriate for its body, had morphed into its vulture-like hideousness.

The wolf/bear cannot really be felt sorry for, though. It has nothing but malice in its heart, though it feels horrible self-pity for its lonely fate, a fate that appears to include an inability to die a decent death that would put it out of its constant misery. It has several broken limbs that it lumbers/slithers around on. It periodically gets stuck in the muck for days, due to its almost infinite stupidity and inability to learn basic lessons about where to walk and where not to. With its great and horrible strength, it finally is able to pull itself out of the muck after hours and even days of straining. It eats carrion so foul that even eagles, vultures and the sickest and oldest wolves won’t touch it. If children get lost in the forest, it is said that they were devoured by the wolf/bear.

The creature is forever plagued by mosquitoes, mange, and ticks that are the size of a small cupcake. It is home to generations of blood-sucking, evil, monstrous ticks with bites so sharp and painful that, though the creatures dull wits have been dulled even more by its foul surroundings and foul existence, its base maliciousness toward earth and sky and plants and animals, and especially toward the few humans it has ever seen, dulled by time to just a low disgust for itself and everything else, it can still feel the sharp pain of each moment of each tick’s time on its body. The foulest, most malicious of these ticks lives right at the entrance to the diseased asshole of the creature. It relishes the foul stench coming out of the creature and seems to thrive on the horrible material coming out of the creature in a hateful stream, washing over the ticks body. It pulls its head out of the creature’s orifice at irregular intervals, though it doesn’t need to, simply because it thrives on the evil joy of inflicting a new and ever more painful bite on the wolf/bear. The most foul tick on the most foul spot of the most foul creature stuck in the most foul bog of the most foul area of Siberia has a name. Its name is Donald Trump.

Thanks for reading.


This entry was posted in Fiction, Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Siberian Horror

  1. ksbeth says:

    the last line is non-fiction for sure.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s