Dance of the Droning Goat, A Horrifying Single by J. A. Crook

Dance of the Droning Goat

A Debut of the Author of Amid the Recesses: A Short Story Collection of Fear

Written and Edited by J. A. Crook

Cover Art of 'Amid the Recesses' by Georgios Dimitriou

Copyright © 2012 by J. A. Crook

All Right Reserved

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is completely coincidental.

This book may not be reproduced in whole, or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission of the author.  Making or distributing copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

This story is merely presented as a preview of my writing style, to inspire you, the reader, to perhaps invest in my more complete works.  Enjoy this disturbing little short and please, if you do enjoy the experience thoroughly, consider my collection, 'Amid the Recesses: A Short Story Collection of Fear' available for the Kindle through Amazon.

A warning, this story is not for the faint of heart.

Dance of the Droning Goat

By J.A. Crook

   It was the most disgustingly twisted sound I could imagine.  The pushing of air through the severed heads of a dozen goats, staring blindly forward as their sickly call spread across the city, funneled through large, brass horns that rose through the ceiling..  I could hear the remnant gurgling of the vitae that once sustained their life as the engine pushed the sound from their pried open mouths.  I basked in the occasional warble from the fluttering of their dead, grey tongues, in what was otherwise a guttural drone.  This was not a manifestation of a macabre imagination; it was a necessary sound of warning.  Fortunately, this sound was inescapable.

   It began on a day as any other day.  I wandered the market that surrounded the large Steam Square.  The pitter-patter of shoes along the cast iron grating that separated our small sect of civilization from the infinite depth of pipes and tubing below us was my blithesome chant, their metallic symphony occasionally soloed to by the relief of high-pressure steam through them.  Pistons shot to-and-fro like an ardent lover while large gears passed the baton of mechanical requirement from one to another until they completed their circuitous tasking somewhere far from where they labored.  Our sky was not that of blue emptiness and white clouds, but instead was the rolling of industrial pollutants, marching on like a majestic army in the heavens, always defending.

   The market itself ran along the fringes of the Square, iron, rusting tables covered with white paper from large rolls the common decor, and between them only slight differences in their commodity.  I swear now, should one run by them all, it would be a subtle animated slide-show, each difference so minute that attention would have to be given to see the movement within.  There was one difference this day and differences in this city of greys and browns shine like a lighthouse beacon to a lost ship.

   On this day we had an unusual livestock.  It wasn’t uncommon for us to have cows, often too sick a selection to seem more appealing than the nursery vegetation abundant in the market.  No, but these were creatures almost from a different planet.  They had the most unusual eyes.  I recall thinking of them like ‘minus-signs’, with my engineer’s brain at work subconsciously as I observed them and presumed they observed me back in my passing.