The Island

A Tale of Power.

Wess Haubrich
Horror Hounds

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Source: CNN

A horn blasted through the edifice on the hillside. We all dreaded what that meant. The edifice itself looked to be as old as the Paleolithic Era. And maybe it was, no one knew that answer — let alone much of anything else on this island.

Time itself forgot this vast and narrow space. No watch worked here and telling time by the sun was virtually impossible in the thick, jungle canopy.

The edifice itself was nothing more than a huge, hollowed-out space in the Earth with a gigantic boulder in front. Two burly guards stood watch 24 hours a day/365 days a year. I was expected as a tribute after we the serfs cast lots, so they rolled the boulder away and bid me entrance.

In the candle-lit darkness, I could make out the curvaceous figures of all the sexy women on the flight. I felt Persian rugs beneath my feet that the flight had apparently been shipping to a destination no longer known to us.

In the room’s centerpiece lay an overstuffed man on every single pillow the plane had. He rather looked like Jabba the Hut in Jabba’s Palace — a real glutton and libertine. Two Coke bottle blonde stewardesses sat with him.

“Sit,” the figure motioned to another stack of pillows accented with candles the flight had been carrying.

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Wess Haubrich
Horror Hounds

Horror, crime, noir with a distinctly southwestern tinge. Staff writer, former contributing editor; occultist; anthropologist of symbols.