Twardowski 2
Beset upon a twisted trail, dressed in budding brambles and gloomy gumweed, rests a humble hovel, its snores enunciated in the thick, blooming puffs of smoke spewed from its chimney gullet. Its boards are a thin flesh, worn by the trials of an unforgiving, gray little world. It leans with the whispering winds and speaks with a creaking dislocation, seeing through shattered and smattered eyes, mere clammy glass against the dust-dotted atmosphere. But it is the entrails which conceal the most trying of anomalous aenigmas, shadows dancing up and down a spiraling void, this ballet of voices is reinforced as the wicked, rugged rain pelts the home's balding, sunken cap, only to vanish by the morn, reduced to fleeting, oftentimes puzzling recollections. It begs a question steeped throughout time immemorial; do such nebulous, ghastly voices call out as the Earth's fury peppers a dank a drab dystopia, or were they, in fact, never there at all?
"Guh huh huh huh!" Goofy laughed as he danced around Micky's kitchen at the Micky Mouse Clubhouse.
Micky was preparing some MickMuffins in his MickOven. He'd forgotten the chocolate chips (UH OH!) but could make do without them.
"Just about ready!" Micky called in his usual sing-song voice.
"GARSH!" Goofy grinned gregariously, plopping himself down at the table.
Donald Duck wheezed in the corner of the room, his pencil-thin throat tearing itself to chunky shreds, much like a cheese grater greets a hunk of desiccated mozzarella. Donald's once-noble friends, his comrades of many years, who had fought alongside him in the great wars of old, now turned a blind eye and deaf ear to his constant suffering and pleas for death.
"Huh huh!" Micky chuckled, removing the MickMuffins from the MickOven. They came out perfectly, and Micky was sated by their simple splendor, as he was indeed a simple man, and therefore could find solace in such generic pleasantries.
"GARSH!" Goofy giggled garishly.
Micky sat the tray on the kitchen table, allowing the aroma to flood their collective nostrils with sweet scents of butterscotch and wetted forest lilies. Goofy, imbued with a typical drunken state of curiosity, reached for a MickMuffin, only for his sweaty hand to be swatted away by Micky, whose senses were the pithiest of the band.
"Now Goofy!" Micky roared with a smile wide enough to encase a newborn fawn. "You know we can't eat my MickMuffins until they have cooled. This rule is law, and we are its hearty sheriffs."
Donald Duck screamed as the top of his avian lungs, spattering saliva across the tabletop. His bugged out eyes were aglow with a restrained fury, yet his sorrow remained boundless, and thus untethered from Earthly description.
The tantalized trio sat silently at the table now, staring at the fuming tray before them. The air wafted into Goofy's grotesquely oversized nose, stinging at his olfactory nerves.
"GARSH!" the guttural Goofy gambled. His shaky hand began slinking towards the MickMuffins once more.
Micky stood from his seat now, brandishing a carver knife the size of his entire head. "No, Goofy," Micky smiled, allowing the scent of his rotten teeth and soiled breath to overpower the snack's aroma. Goofy backed down like the cornered mutt he was and kept staring ahead.
The silence grew palpable.
And it's spread was just as insidious as it's transparency.
Goofy just sat there, blurry images of his troubled past creeping their way into the recesses of his tormented mind. It made his buck teeth itch incessantly, and he scratched until the enamel was reduced to a fine powder. When his senses returned to him, Goofy found Micky asleep, no doubt overworked from his time spent cooking.
Goofy's beady eyes shifted to the platter at the table's heart. The MickMuffin's were still shrouded in an enveloping, misty fog of heat. Goofy knew he should wait, but his patience was as thin as his hairline, and soon he reached a ragged hand to the nearest muffin, plucking it from the steaming plate as gently as one might tear the wings from the back of a hornet.
There came a deep and ugly sizzling, as the muffin burned at Goofy's frail, flailing hand.
"YA-HA-HA-HOOOOOOOIIIIII!" Goofy crowed.
But it was too late. The sweltering fires of hell sprang from the floorboards and spread through the Micky Mouse Clubhouse kitchen within the beat of an eye. It called to them with merciless fortitude.
"Goofy!" Micky shouted as the tormented souls of billions cried for mercy from a place yet unseen. "What have you done!?"
Donald Duck immediately relinquished himself to the passionate embers, melting into a pasty sludge, marbled in feathers.
Goofy looked to his friend, a flicker of sanity gracing his lifeless eyes for only a second as he grasped the immensity of his terrible crime.
"HEYUCK! GARSH!" Goofy groaned ghoulishly.
With that, the fiery fingertips dragged Micky and Goofy into the abyss, to distant lands where shapes, colors, and sounds are but trivial afterthoughts, and thus their meanings are in a flux all their own.
THE END.