The microcosm portal, p.3
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       The Microcosm Portal, p.3

           Harrison Thoreau
 
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  With blood-lantern eyes burning into the pits of Samuel's soul, Waste cracked open his jagged mouth and in a low growl spat, "Abomination.”

  Samuel slammed his forehead into Waste's nose. Waste released his grip in surprise, cradling his smashed face. Black blood flowed from his nostrils like a fountain. Without pause Samuel jumped with both feet forward, knocking Waste over the edge. The bellow of rage from the creature faded as he fell. Shaken but unharmed, Samuel grappled an overhead mirror and pulled himself up, making his way back to the surface. Then, another noise from below. A hideous shrieking hiss echoed through the mirrors.

  A dozen gray tentacles shot up all around him, coiling around his limbs and chest. He was dropped to his knees, then splayed flat on his back. More tentacles appeared from below, wrapping around every nearby mirror. Waste lifted himself into view. A gray spider in a web fashioned of his own flesh.

  Waste flexed. Samuel felt the tentacles tighten across his chest. Their hold continued in strength until Samuel could feel his ribs straining, his lungs restricted. Waste flexed again, bursting the entangled mirrors into shards. Thousands of shattered pieces filled the air, dancing and twirling end over end in a cloud of reflective matter. The anger boiling in Waste's being overflowed at the sight of his enemy still intact. No longer supported by mirrors, the two fell together into the next layer below. The force of the impact released Waste's grip, Samuel took the opportunity to draw his revolver. He drew the gun level and aimed at Waste through the cascade of falling shards. With a free tentacle, Waste slapped the pistol from his hand and went for Samuel's throat. Samuel ducked out of the way, throwing himself from the mirror in pursuit of his weapon.

  Waste dove after him, ripping mirrors apart as he went, pouring more tentacles from his body. Razor sharp claws unsheathed from the wormy protrusions and sliced at the air just above Samuel's head as he was chased down into the depths of the void.

  He saw the revolver being carried away on a mirror to his left and changed course to catch up. Four mirrors away, three, almost there. Waste's maniacal shrieking morphed into sadistic laughter. Samuel could feel the air being sliced open within millimeters of his skin. One more lunge and he managed to retrieve his gun from the face of the mirror. He turned to face the monstrosity behind him.

  Four rubbery limbs slammed into his chest and sent him flying backwards into a cluster of mirrors, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to slip between a gap. His fall was short-lived as he immediately crumpled flat against another mirror below.

  He fought against dizziness to stand, but remained on one knee, swaying from effort. Waste gracefully landed next to him, grabbed Samuel by the throat and lifted him off his feet. The gun felt heavy in his hand as he struggled to breathe. A mass of bladed tentacles ripped into his chest. Hot blood gushed from his wounds and splattered across Waste's face. Samuel felt himself spasm as the blood loss began to claim his life.

  Waste's mouth opened and kept opening, splitting his cheeks and straining his jaw. Impossibly wide and full of needle teeth that ripped through his expanding gums, filling in the shape of his newly forming mouth. The teeth gnashed together and made a snap at Samuel's head. With time clearly running out, Samuel took his last chance. He cocked the hammer back on the revolver, shoved the muzzle into the mouth of hell, and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Eight (Epilogue)

  The room had no windows nor doors and no logical mode of entry or exit, so how could Waste have possibly gotten into this room in the first place? He had no idea. One does not simply materialize in a room. He feverishly scrambled back and forth across the bowled floor, clawing at the walls and howling his fury, when from nowhere, the room began to flood. The water burned his flesh at the touch. Screaming in fear and pain and trying to leap from the rising pool, Waste saw his skin sloughing off, felt his very essence being washed away. The pain, the horror, fading.

  ***

  Samuel woke up drowning . . .

  ~~~

  Harrison Thoreau is a lifelong horror enthusiast, also deeply fascinated with surrealism, human nature, dreams and quantum physics. Born and raised in the state of Minnesota. Aside from writing, he also produces experimental electronic music under the name "The Impulse One".

 
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