STORY IDEA #324: Old Knobby

A new story idea every single day.

Ideas can be shit, detailed, loose, tight, scenario-based, character-based, or could just be a single line of dialogue which might later unfurl itself into a glorious tendril of butt-tickling wonder-magic … or something.

Stole this concept from @ryanklindsay.

Check out the previous ideas here.

#324: Old Knobby the Pervert Tree

There's a tree out there, down the garden, over the fence, at the edge of a copse. It's an ancient oak tree with spindly knobbly fingers reaching into the sky above. There's a hollowed out blackened chunk cut from its front with one small and one large scar above, where large boughs previously branched out a lifetime ago, long since broken away to reveal those deep set blackened eyes beneath.

The kids who smoke and drink out there, or who used to, call it Old Knobby or the Pervert Tree, because of the way it seems to watch you with its goofy almost-bovine stare.

I only stumbled upon the thing after climbing over the back fence in search of Mixy, our 13-year-old cat. I still haven't found her. But still, I found Old Knobby and I instantly knew that it wasn't its name.

Its open mouth, trapped mid-scream, seemed to speak to me, and as I brushed my hand over the large hole that made up its bigger eye, I thought for a second it moved, but it was me. My fingers thrummed and for a second I saw its true face, heard its true name.

They used to worship this tree. Naked dancers with blood sacrifices. I was sure of it. They scream and sing to it -- Adad.

I left it alone, and climbed back into my back garden, unable to take my eyes away from it until the last moment, 100% convinced that if I were to turn away and look back I'd catch it, reaching for me, talking to me, asking for more. It had taken Mixy as its sacrifice. I'm sure of it. The idol was starved and it wanted me to take more to it.

But I ignored it as best I could. Only the more I ignored it the more I heard its dog-whistle cries in the night, like wind over a sea of plastic bags.

And then I saw it reaching up. The tail end of its root (or is that the mouth-end), reaching up and out of my kitchen sink. Small and greenish brown. I knew then that Adad wouldn't stop now. Not until I fed it. Not until I took it another, bigger sacrifice, and I danced and sang for it.

Adad, the old god needs me. It needs my worship.