Alchemogrification

Alchemogrification is a second person narrative which I wrote as a culminating activity for my creative writing class. While I'm uncertain it's my best writing, I know it at least displays I'm okay at experimentally writing. I wrote in an unfamiliar perspective with basically only a few days to complete it. I ended up crunching three full days into this to finish in time for the deadline. As a result, the work is a bit rushed, but I'm fairly satisfied even still. If I get positive feedback, I might write more parts.

Alternatively, the .doc file is attached at the end of this post, if you like reading in a word processor better.

At any rate, here you are. 10 printed pages of glory.

Alchemogrification

As you ascend from the labyrinthine cavern, the blinding light shines in and pierces your retinas. It is the first time in months since that you’ve seen illumination, and even longer since you beheld it from the light of the sun. The warmth, stuffiness and darkness of this narrow tunnel are contrasted by the cold, crispness, and brightness of the environment outside. During your experience inside this narrow hole, you’ve learned to enjoy the seclusion of cavern, and developed an impeccable dark vision. As you take steps forward, you feel intense pain that causes you stumble out of the exit.

Fatigue weighs down on you as your bodily state gradually becomes consumed. It feels an eternity since you’ve last eaten anything desirable or even remotely nourishing. Your everyday supply of drinking water was the extract of stagnant puddles, always mixed with the unpleasant flavor of the dreaded stalagmite, the thick moss, and the mud. You would devour whole whatever bizarre cave inhabitant that you encountered on your path, most being insects, bats and reptilians. When that didn’t work you would eat the strange vegetation or nothing at all. There was an absence of any color in the caves; everything was an unsaturated, washed-out hue. After reminiscing about these humbling moments, you decide to continue this journey into freedom, no longer bound the by the walls of a cave.

Even though you still cannot clearly see outside, you stumble ahead into the white glacial mass without hesitation. As the cold presses against your heel, your feet instinctively tremble. The sensation feels familiar yet uncommon, one of crystalline snow biting at your nerves. This prompts you to walk much more hastily and with a new determination to not die in your new wintry surroundings.

In the horizon, you faintly spot what seems to be a puff of smoke flowing into the atmosphere. Without a doubt, society is in that direction. You realize that although you are now liberated from the barrier of the cavern, you currently only have two choices in your midst: life or death. You opt to take the former, as there is little point in ending your long adventure now. It is a good decision, and in your favor if you ever wish to find the answers to the questions that plague you, or at least if you want to live a normal life again.

Your footprints trail far behind you. You have a journeyed a long distance and it shows in your stained, rugged clothing and your wavering disposition. Hygiene, sanitation, and mental stability had become somewhat lower on your list of priorities.

You gaze up into the vermilion sphere that extends for miles. The sun is setting. Night will fall upon you soon, but you cannot rest yet. You're almost there; the source of the smoke becomes clearer with each step. Just a little longer. Suddenly, as you step, you can feel you're no longer battling with the tall snow. In fact, nothing resists your next step, and your legs glide with gravity. Your body topples and twirls as it tries to find the path of least resistance. When it does, you splash into the sloppy mire. It was a ditch, cleverly concealed by the snow.

Your body is exposed to the venomous sting of the cold and an unpleasant filthiness as the dirty slush encases you. Two spectators run over to the ditch, trying but failing to hold back the laughter directed at you.

You’re not sure how, but without asking you were somehow able to figure out their names. First you examine the person closest to you. You take note of Murphy Wellington, a bearded old man with a dingy salt-and-pepper coloured Mohawk, and a frayed and tattered turquoise leather jacket, stained with artificially orange powder. Murphy sports a name-tag:

Murphy Wellington
CheeZees® Marketing Director

...Actually, maybe that's how you figured out who these people were. Your suspicions of possibly having psychic powers promptly become shattered.

You spot one Errol Telford, a well-learned man with the title of Cheeseological Engineer. This man is unique, for he wears a monocle on one eye, and an eye-patch on the other. He is pale, with swarthy patches scattered across his face. The acanthosis nigricans on his face surely is frightening and his taste in clothing is equally bizarre. His garbs are a hybrid between pirate regalia, and laboratory safety equipment. He is a very clean and precisely shaven individual unlike Murphy. Personal hygiene seemed to be more important than retinal safety. A dramatic tooth-sparkle pause occurred shortly after he laughed at you. He is someone who appears at his prime, probably in his late twenties.

“Quite th' fall y' had there, wasn't 't?”, asked Murphy, chuckling in a moderately rednecked fashion. “What business do y' have here? ...I see ma clothin' trends're spreadin' on t' other communities. No need t' introduce myself, y' can read the tag. Well, 'less you're illiterate.”

It's been forever since you last spoke to a person, so it takes you a moment before you answer. After clearing your throat, you speak: “I'm not here by choice, but rather because I'm lost. I was trapped in a cave for who knows how long. I was imprisoned there for something I wasn't meant to know.”

Errol abruptly asks you, “The Forbidden Cheese of Demigods. A cheese so powerful that its odours are able to create a dimensional flux capable of harvesting large quantities of energy. It is said the one who eats this cheese will be able to gain extraordinary power. Have you any knowledge of it, stranger? Is that the thing which you were not meant to know?”

You respond with certainty, “No. That definitely wasn't it. Although I can say it was something very controversial.”

Errol's face reddens slightly. “Are you trying to make fun of me by indirectly stating an object such as cheese cannot hold a high value of controversy or power?”

A wrong word could definitely land you in large trouble, which is something you'd like to avoid. You attempt an apology and try to resolve the conflict. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that if it sounded like I did. But I am speaking the truth when I tell you that it wasn't this Forbidden Cheese you speak of,” you reply.

“What? Are you saying you've never even heard of the Forbidden Cheese of Demigods? Where have you been? Were living in some sort of cave?”

“Likely,” you say, rolling your eyes.

Murphy Wellington quickly interrupts the bickering amongst you and your cheese-crazed adversary. “Hey now, y' best shouldn't be fightin'. This guy needs some new clothes, 'n some food in him. We can talk o'er dinner.”

After approximately fifteen minutes of walking, you arrive at a very well kept home with a marble porch, a beautiful garden and a square hedge. The hedge has the words “[expletive] yeah, [expletive]! This is the [expletive] [expletive] of [expletives]!” trimmed into it. Shocked, you turn your attention away from the incoherent shrubbery and catch up with Murphy and Errol. The home is very spacious, obviously the result of hard effort, or at least wealth. The pleasant aroma of roast beef wafts into your nostrils. You take a seat in the leather-backed wooden furniture, release your silver utensils from your stylized napkin and dig right in.

You soon realize that despite living in a cave without utensils for a lengthy time period, you have the best meal etiquette of the three people at the table. Murphy constantly smacks his lips, breathes and talks while eating as if he completely lost the functionality in his nostrils. If you were to compare him to any animal eating, you would think he is possibly related to a rhinoceros. Errol, on the other hand likes to hum while he eating, and right now you observe him conducting Beethoven's Pathétique Sonata with his mashed potatoes.

The meal tastes strange. Something about it is unpleasant, and you can't quite put your finger on it. You try and keep this to yourself. You feel uneasiness as soon as Murphy poses that dreaded question, “How're y' likin' yer food?”

You quickly and irresolutely respond, “Oh... um... It's good!”

“Are y' sure?”, he asks. Murphy must have seen through your hesitation.

“Er, yes. I'm, uh, certainly-- I mean, I'm certain.”

“Weird, cuz I thought 't tast'd like turpentine. Are y' sure 't didn't taste like anythin' funky?”

You immediately spit it out your mouthful on to your plate. The brown smear of beef splatters dangerously on impact. “Turpentine?!”, you exclaim with concern.

“Hah, you 'n yer manners! Y' shoulda told th' truth. If y' taste something wrong y' shoulda spoke up right away.” Murphy wasn't slow to laugh in yet another serious situation.

“Please tell me how turpentine got mixed into this meal.”

“Someone musta mess'd wit' th' food! Errol, how was 't that somebody snuck in while we were watchin' in th' whole time?”

Errol responded, “Murphy, nobody sneaked in. It must have been diseased meat! Tell me, adventurer, how do you feel? Are you ill?”

It's about time someone asked. But the way feel right now is strange. “Surprisingly, I don't feel anything,” you claim. Perhaps there is no problem with the meat. Maybe they were just pulling your leg.

“Ah-ha!” shouts Errol with sudden conviction, “My vision must be taking a turn for the worst! Our household chemicals are stored very close to the seasoning containers and olive oil. I must have had a little mix-up!” Okay, so maybe they weren't joking.

Murphy found this odd to hear. “No, that's not right. Y' just went t' th' ophthalmologist yesterday, 'n he said yer sight was more than just fine. Y' had 20/4 vision! And we keep th' chemicals in th' garage!” The way Murphy pronounced garage interests you, for it sounded almost like carriage. Still, this is shocking.

“You bloody idiot! You weren't supposed to tell him that I have supernatural vision!” Errol vociferated. He pauses for a moment, and then speaks in a much calmer tone, “But this is interesting. You said you felt nothing at all? Neither did we, and that can only mean one thing.”

Errol lifts off his eyepatch and drops it on the floor. Then he promptly removes the monocle and casts it at the wall behind you. It shatters into thousands of miniature shards which fall to the ground.

He clears his throat and then speaks up, “The Forbidden Cheese of Demigods. Hah, that was a clever cover-up, if I say so myself. It was simply a stupid plot to gain the trust of such an unsuspecting fool. I'm the one that sealed you off in that cave, but for some reason, you live on after death.”

You gaze in disbelief. “So you're telling me that I'm dead? How can that be? If I'm dead, how can you see or talk to me? How was I able to eat?”

“These are all questions you will soon find the answer to. By ending what remains of your futile life, I will grant you every answer that you'll ever seek.”

“Wait a minute... If you're able to speak with me, does that mean that you--” you're interrupted.

Errol cuts into your speech: “Yes, that's right. We are dead, just as you are. But unlike you, we command the lives of humans. It was as simple as ripping out their soul and then placing ours in its stead. I mean, that's exactly how you're here right now! I broke body in when I possessed it, but then I grew tired of your lack of strength, so I intentionally dove into a hail of bullets and found someone new. Unlike you, we're not only able to see the dead and communicate with them, but we're also capable of living seemingly normal lives.”

“Yar har har har,” chuckled Errol's subordinate, Murphy, who made the sudden transition from redneck to pirate, which makes little sense due to the fact that Errol was the one wearing both an eyepatch, a monocle, and the typical clothing associated with pirates, but he wasn't acting anything like a pirate despite that fact; you decide you'll just go along with this, despite the strong feeling against such facts clearly presented to you; Murphy frankly scares you and you admit he's probably a person that you'd least suspect of ever being a hearty man of the sea.

Errol folds his antique looking oak chair into a nunchaku and jumps out of disguise in a ninja suit. Murphy pulls a massive scimitar out of the bottom of the dining room table, slices his head and his clothing off in swift strokes, and then comes out as a believable pirate who appears to to be in their thirties. Do you feel at all surprised? You probably should be, so yes you are.

Perhaps it time you show them you're made of. And that you do. You self-induce vomiting, even though this is a bad idea after ingesting a corrosive poison. While puking, you temporarily divert the attention of the two foes away from fighting you. However, once your nauseate solidifies and becomes a polished steel polearm, they start to turn their eyes back to the task on hand.

A look of determination spreads across your face. “Don't kid yourselves,” you say, “You definitely couldn't have killed me.”

You thrust the spear with one hand and skewer a slab of roast beef. You roll to the side as a hail of shurikens and throwing knives just miss you. After getting out of the way, you devour the meat, and dramatically vomit it back up as a crested shield.

A frightened astonishment causes the ninjafied Errol to stand still. “Who are you? I've never heard of someone with the ability to separate poisons within their body and spew them up as metal objects.”

“Don't worry, you learn something new every day! Apparently, I'm dead despite feeling no signs of it!” you jokingly respond as you parry against an onslaught of weaponry. One slice makes it through your guard and nicks your clothing. You suppose that one more tear in your shirt couldn't hurt you, but also let it be a warning that you need to defend better.

While the opportunity is there, you stab Murphy in the leftmost of his two swarthy arms. You feel as the metal tip of your pike glides through flesh and sprays a fountain of red from his punctured arm, which paints your spear in crimson hues. This causes him to drop his sword in intense pain and it gives you a further opening to land a fierce knuckle on his face, which prompts him to topple over in agony. You remove the spear from the newly created arm crevice which is enough to render Murphy incapacitated to fight. However, when you did this, you let your guard down and your awareness of Errol's position wasn't reassured until you were struck in the neck with the blunt of his powerful nunchaku.

You cough and gasp from the terrifying impact, but are able to firmly boot Errol in the groin for temporary safety as you recover. He collapses to the ground, with shame in his eyes. You stand still, anticipating the next strike of either of your adversaries. Nothing happens. You step on Errol's neck for good measure.

With minor difficulties after Errol's very successful hit, you sarcastically speak up: “Thanks for the meal and being such courteous hosts. Now I'm afraid I have more important matters to attend to.”

As you depart from the well-furnished manor with the obscene hedgework, you obliterate the mailbox with a thorough jousting swing and leave your spear and buckler on the ground. As you walk away the sole home in the middle of nowhere, you think on the things you observed during your nocturnal encounter with the two fools. A ninja and a pirate in collaboration? These groups have been enemies since the dawn of time. Clearly, it was some sort of irrational joke thrown in your direction.

You begin to ponder. Did you, in fact, die as they said? Your memories faded greatly when the tar black cave interior drained you both physically and mentally.

But you weren't financially damaged at all, and even if you lost money, you have the ability to create perfect counterfeit coins from ingesting poisons.

This skill wasn't new to you, but rather just forgotten from a long period of time without exposure to anything poisonous enough to transform into metal objects of your choice. Your internals are empowered by alchemy; the skill to transmute poisoned lead into gold is yours.

Back to the question of being dead, though. You ponder a bit more on it, and then a vision comes to you...

The vivid picture flashes, being stabbed in the stomach as a frail and skeletal person. You were slain for forbidden knowledge. You fall against a checkerboard wall in your house, with your internal juices becoming external. With a mighty will and focused determination and a mind not accepting your own death, you fall. Because you never did accept that you were dying, your soul was permitted to live on.

As you walk along as an excommunicated soul, during that bloody morning you fall into a large hole. It was a long descent downwards, one that would have killed you had you still been living. The impact was loud and echoing.

By coincidence, a wandering man who had also ended up in this dark tunnel was nearby. At first he was feared you, but after you told him your story, we was willing to do something rash: a combination of souls. Your memories and being would become one. The wanderer only had one condition, and that was to one day see the light outside of the cave. Your soul consents and is given a second chance. That is why you are who you are and where you are today.

The ones who called themselves Murphy Wellington and Errol Telford were right when they said that you died, but they were wrong about you still being dead and also wrong about being your killers. The name of your past life was blotted from your memory, but you are now known as Zander Garek.

Walking many miles, after being taken off course by a hostile encounter, you finally arrive at civilization. The sun is just rising. You observe a humble sign on a tall oak fence with the words “Spadeshell” painted in an azure blue ink. This a strange name for a town, with strong implications of digging and mining. You've got no idea what the “shell” in the name implies, that is, until you see a gas station with a red-and-yellow oyster shell logo. You're prompted to conclude they could be oil drillers!

You spot an attractive young lady standing attentively near the entrance to the city. Her brunette hair cascades down her back, and her lush forest green eyes and pink lips sparkle with natural color. You say, “Hey.”

She responds, “Hello! Welcome to the town of Spadeshell. It's a town that has flourished through the success of the oil drilling industry in a rural community. Now it is a metropolis, with tons of exciting things to offer. Go see for yourself!”

Aha! You were right about the town name.

You want to get properly fed, bathed and clothed for once, so you try asking for directions to an inn. “Would you happen to know the way to an i--,” you say before being rudely interrupted.

She responds, “Hello! Welcome to the town of Spadeshell. It's a town that has flourished through the success of the oil drillling industry in a rural community. Now it is a metropo--”

“--the way to an inn?” you ask, trying to get you point across before having to suffer hearing her spiel again.

“--lis, with tons of exciting things to offer. Go see for yourself!”, the woman continues.

You sigh and state, “You sadden me. You can't acknowledge a man's simple request for directions.”

“Look, I'm on shift. I get paid 28 gold pieces per hour to repeat that phrase to every passerby. Since I'm nice and I'd rather not be attacked a shady looking stranger, the inn is to the right, and down three houses. You can't miss it. Oh, and you might want to go to Good Will, they have better clothes than you, which you can get for free.”

“Thank you, kind mademoiselle,” you say as you part, somewhat offended by her comment on your attire.

As you walk into the distance, you hear her respond, “Hello! Welcome to the town of Spadeshell. It's a town that has flourished through the success of the oil drilling industry in a rural community. Now it is a metropolis, with tons of exciting things to offer. Go see for yourself!”

You follow her directions to the inn, check in, eat a continental breakfast, then go to a haircare professional a door down. You come out looking like a new man; they even offered to shave your chin straggles and ugly 'stache for free. A clothing retail outlet (not Good Will) was a couple buildings down. With your new, snazzy outfit you now look like someone of the aristocratic class, as opposed to someone below the poverty line.

You have a large plate of penne arrabiata at an expensive Italian cuisine. You force yourself to eat every morsel.

Taking another walk around the town, you find the dollar store, where you purchase several packages of lead pencils. You made sure these pencils used actual lead and not graphite before purchasing them. In a very secluded area, you force yourself to eat the pencils in order to transform them into wealth. Perhaps the stupidest thing you've ever done, but you need the gold. You regurgitate golden coins, scraps of soggy wood, and eraser tops. You manage to keep your full-course Italian meal inside of you without difficulty. You look up into the sky with your hands full of gold. The sun is starting to set.

The day is over, and it's time to rest on a soft mattress after countless sleep deprived nights resting on rocks. You head back to the inn, and ask to be lead to your room. For a moment the innkeeper hesitates, not recognizing you, but then suddenly he takes note of your voice and realizes that you did reserve a room earlier today, looking drastically different. You're taken down the long carpeted hall, and are handed a key when the innkeeper arrives at your room. The number assigned to the door of your lodging suite is 39.

When you close the door and climb onto the mattress, you have no trouble falling asleep. The king-size bed serves as a chiropractic to your aching back muscles. When you awake you feel better than alive, filled with vitality and energy. You walk downstairs, eagerly anticipating another continental breakfast.

When go to reach for the last blueberry muffin with your hands full with orange juice, some cereal and a donut, a gunshot is heard. The shot is seen, as a fresh hole appeared on the wall in front of you. You quickly turn around.

The familiar face says, “Fancy meeting you here, Garek. Stealing the last muffin, violating your order of exile from the continent, breaking and entering to kill two CheeZees employees... So rebellious. I suppose I'll have to teach you a lesson again. This time I won't just wound you, I'll kill you.”

A silhouettte fires a barrage of bullets are fired at the ceiling, in order to scare any spectators away, and to show you that he means business. All you manage to say to her is, “You...”

“Haha. Can't you remember my name? Or is the thought too shocking to recall? Don't worry, I'll refresh your memory before I deliver the final blow. Shall I say: 'Hello! Welcome to the town of Spadeshell. It's a town that has flourished through the success of the oil drilling industry in a rural community. Now it is a metropolis, with tons of exciting things to offer. Go see for yourself!'”

You tumble in evasion just as she pulls the trigger. The sudden rush of adrenaline is enough to make you realize that woman disguised as a town worker was once your friend. “You never did say your name to me then, Mia.”

“I guess I didn't. It's still good that you remember, because now I can kill you without hesitation.” A bullet just skims your brown hair. Lucky.

You manage to duck behind a tall wooden bar which temporarily guards you from Mia's shots. You get an idea, after seeing large bottles of various drinking alcohols. Luckily enough, Mia needs to reload her weapon. You unscrew an unlabeled bottle and chug, and then proceed on to the next. All in all, you manage to quickly guzzle 14 tall flasks, and feel no effects of drunkenness.

Now, she is right in front of the bar, rendering you once again undefended. You make a quick move and throw an empty flask in her direction, which knocks the automatic rifle from her hands. With no time to spare, you regurgitate a fierce fire. The flame unpredictably spirals out.

“Magnesium combustion. How clever,” Mia says, “but not clever enough.” She extinguishes the fire with her right hand and laughs, while firing close shots. “Did your memory lapse again, not able to remember that I'm immune to fire? This is great, you've forgotten how to fight me.”

You stop creating magnesium flames. “Actually, I haven't forgotten. The sprinklers in the ceiling will turn on any second now.” You grab another bottle from under the counter, open it, and you drink it the sprinklers are activated. You slam the empty bottle onto the bar.

“Too bad that doesn't do anything either. You're making this too easy for me,” she taunts as she fires off more gunshots. One shot destroys the emptied phial, which explodes into finely shredded glass bits. You come out unscathed. Fortune must be favoring you.

Now is your chance. You convert the ethanol into an beam of lightning, which is amplified as it is blasted through the moisture. The beam is projected straight towards your foe. The lethal force of electricity is extremely effective in damaging her and inflicts momentary paralysis from the neck down. You run over and grab the rifle from her cold grip. “I'll take this.”

With the weapon in your hand, you say, “I have no intention of fighting with you. I have some questions that I need answered, and you'd bloody well better answer them. I demand the truth. Why are you trying to kill me? How did you know that I was fighting those two men, when they were in a solitary house in the middle of nowhere? Does that mean you were the one who had them attack me? Why was I ordered exiled? Who made you betray our friendship? Why can't I just live peacefully within the world?”

In time, your queries would be answered...

Jam it back in, in the dark.