The Man and the Mushrooms

This may very well be my masterpiece:

There was a man named Jim who lived alone in the mountains, in a cabin he built on a beautiful bluff that overlooked the distant hills and the dark valleys and forest below.  During mushroom hunting season, which ran from October to January, he would spend his days foraging for mushrooms in the shadowy forests, sifting solitaire through the duff and sorrel that grew beneath the giant redwood trees, their towering canopies basking in the sunlight above. 

The man wandered through the forest collecting mushrooms, which sometimes grew in such abundance that he plucked them up by the handful and placed them in his pail, and ate many on the spot.  His favorite mushrooms to pick were yellow chanterelles and oyster mushrooms, for these were the only ones he could confidently identify.

One day he was out hunting mushrooms and ate some on the spot.  He proceeded to forage and soon began to feel ill in his stomach.  He sat down on the soft earth, hugged his knees to his chest, and groaned in response to his wrenching gut.  His watery eyes were closed shut as he continued to groan in pain, shifting from side to side but never falling over onto the forest floor.  He felt extremely nauseous and when he opened his eyes he threw up.  He looked at the patch of vomit which contained the remnants of the partially-digested mushrooms he had just consumed. 

He could not believe his eyes, for what he saw were portions of the mushroom goop squirming around imperceptibly.  He got closer and looked at the wriggling pieces of vomit, and then he heard the regurgitated mushrooms moaning in pain.  Still incredulous, Jim picked up a twig and flipped over a part of a mushroom, and to his horror, the mushroom had a pair of eyes that were wide with fear.  “Oh God no,” said the mushroom, “please no, oh God!” it cried.

Jim shuffled back in terror, accidentally knocking his pail of mushrooms over.  As the mushrooms went toppling over a collective wail escaped from the bucket.  He looked to the mushrooms scattered upon the ground and they also had little eyes of horror and they cried, “oh no, it’s him!  Please God no, it’s him!”

Jim trembled and crawled backward, saying, “this is impossible.”  He stumbled up and the trees and forest floor were pulsating and flowing together in rich patterns.  He left his gear behind him and made his way through the forest.  Within minutes, his insides began to twist again, and he leaned up against a redwood tree, struggling to hold down the sludge that was churning in his stomach.  He turned his head to the side of the tree, looked at it, and made eye contact with a mushroom growing from out the bark.  The mushroom let out a high-pitched scream which triggered Jim to vomit again, further regurgitating more pieces of the mushrooms that he had recently consumed.  He leaned down to peer at the vomit and here too the chunks of mushrooms were shrieking in deathly fear of him. 

Though his mind was still beset by horror, his stomach felt better and he was able to sprint out of the forest.  He ran toward his cabin on the bluff, up a hillside path that rose above the redwood tree line.  He caught his breath in the sunshine and looked out toward the forest and mountains.  The leaves on the forest canopy were swaying like waves and the clouds looked like frozen creatures that he had never seen before.  He continued to run up toward his cabin.  Once inside, he climbed into bed and shut his eyes in attempt to sleep.  After an hour of hallucinating colorful visions of things surreal, he finally was able to fall asleep.

When we woke up, things were quite normal.  There were no talking mushrooms nor talking anything, and the sun was setting over the hills.   He looked at the shimmering clouds in the neon dusk and things were as they usually were.  His stomach still felt a little off, so he went to his bathroom and sat down on the toilet.  He passed gas and took a shit, after which he felt much better.

Then, he was suddenly consumed by great fear as a voice called out from beneath him in the bathroom.  He leapt off the toilet seat and looked into the bowl.  His feces was shifting around, it had dark eyes and thick, black lips.   It began talking to him, “You dirty mother fucker,” it said.

“Oh my God,” gasped Jim, “you can’t be real.”

“Oh I’m real you little shithead,” said his shit.  

“Why are you here?” cried Jim.

“Why the fuck do you think?  I came out of your ass you dumb fuck.”

Jim reached to the to handle of the toilet.

“Don’t fucking do it!” said the shit.

“Fuck you!” said Jim as he pressed the handle down.

“Goddamnit!” said the shit as the water rushed into the toilet bowl.  The shit was swirling around in the bowl, heading down the pipe, and before it was immersed in water it yelled out, “You fucking piece of shit!”

Jim watched the shit flush down and then he flushed the toilet again.  He then wiped his ass, inspecting the excrement on the toilet paper to see if it was alive.  It was not. 

Jim stepped outside his cabin and watched the distant sun sink down beyond the mountains to the west.  He was at peace. 

Comments

[N8]

???
Interesting stuff here. Keep writing. I think I like the bus story a little more.
This story reminds me of a time when I ate pizza from that place on 19th and taraval.