Fictionism
Creating a means of expression.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Networking
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Tuesday, May 8, 2012
The Day My Hunger Died
Hunger. I awake, gasping for breath. Where am I? The
mountain, I’m beneath the soft overhang of the mountain—I must have been out
all day. I’m starving, when did I last eat? An hour ago? A day ago? A week ago?
I’ve got to get something to eat before I collapse again from exhaustion and
lack of food. It’s dark again; my senses perk up—food. I can barely see a thing
in this blackness around me. I crawl away from my resting place, sending out
feelers fumbling around in the pitch black, searching for nourishment—all the
while that smell of some unidentified delectable alighting in my nose, urging
me on. I can’t leave my hiding place and venture into The Open. Many a roach
has been snatched away unawares never to be seen again for going out into The
Open.
The Enemy. It’s
always there, ready to pounce—controlling the elements, turning light to dark
and dark to light at will. How many has it taken? It must be thousands or more
at least. Wasn’t it just the other day that I heard about the roach that was
caught trying to climb into the tower of refuse? My own father disappeared
while he sought to sate himself drinking from the fountain of sporadic waters,
not only was the water boiling hot on that particular day but it gave away his
position to his killer. The thought of
the faceless Enemy with its thundering approach, signaling doom to all who hear
it, sends a shiver down my carapace. Enemy or no, I’ve got to eat—I need to
find that food and quickly.
Staying in the
relative safety of the protective overhang, my antennae probing the ground in
front of me, I search for my illusive meal. Crawling around the metal boulders
of various shapes and sizes that litter my world their cold touch reminding me
of the sad state I find myself in this night. I pick my way through the massive
cavern that has been keeping me safe and out of sight, inching, always inching
closer to life, food, the reason I exist.
The food! I
sense it. There, ahead of me. I rush toward it until I reach the outermost
limit of the overhang that has been keeping me out of the ever-present gaze of
The Enemy. I see it now in the dim light of the dark night; it looks like a
piece of the orange, fish-shaped substance. Possibly one of the most plentiful
finds to be found simply lying in the Open like this. Unless I was willing to
risk life and limb scaling the plastic walls to the bounty of the silver bag,
you take what you can get out here. Beggars can’t be choosers after all.
By now the
smell of the orange delicacy in front of me is unbearable, my stomach groans
within me—speaking to me of its barren emptiness and pain. I can’t risk it! But
I must, I’ll either die here for want of food or risk a suicide mission,
setting off into the perilous no-man’s land known as The Open to get it—not the
best scenario for a bug. I can imagine the savory saltiness of that orange
treat, the crunch of it in my mandibles intoxicating me…I lull off into
fantasies of chewing the crunchy, salted substance before me. If I don’t eat it
someone else will. I’m going—there’s nothing to lose.
I hesitantly
emerge from the towering citadel of safety out into that vast dangerous expanse
of unknown. Using extreme caution I creep toward my edible goal—all the time
feeling around, listening for danger. Curse this darkness! I can hardly see
anything. I’m close now and getting closer—my trusted antennae quickly groping
the hard exterior shell of my prize. I can’t wait any longer; I take a bite and
chew with ecstasy—savoring every mouthwatering crumb between my jaws. I lose
myself in the abundant feast before me.
What is that
sound? Like the concussive and repetitive thud of distant thunder I detect the
approach of The Enemy. One more bite, just one more—I can risk it for it may be
my last. Before the salted deliciousness is upon my teeth I see it.
The Light! I
can’t see—my eyes are burning! I’m blinded for a moment as The Enemy utilizes
its control over the sky and removes the shroud of darkness hugging the room.
I’ve got to get back to the cave. I stumble right and then left—I’m
disoriented, I don’t recognize surroundings in the sudden profusion of light.
The deep rumbling grows louder and faster and draws closer.
In an instant,
before I can run, I am hoisted into the air with no degree of concern for my
well-being or comfort. I’m enclosed in some kind of soft blanket of sorts, but unable
to move. A moment later, a tremendous pressure is applied to my frame and
closes in around me from all sides—I’m being crushed! My limbs and feelers are
smashed without mercy and my lower body nearly severed from my upper half. The
pain is exquisite—kill me now please! How am I not dead yet? My body has now
become a tangled mess of limbs, innards and shards of exoskeleton. ‘I will not
survive this’ I think to myself and then I begin to fall.
Water! I’m
sinking, I’m paralyzed to try and swim to safety, I can’t breathe—I’m drowning!
I close my eyes as my lungs fill with cold water—letting the pain take me
withersoever it will. Before I collapse from my broken body and liquid-filled
lungs I hear the sound of a great rushing water and feel that I’m being pulled
down, down into a place from I which I know I won’t return. Flushed out from
existence.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
"The Toughest Man I Ever Fought"
Ron Lyle
gingerly jumps up and down in quick succession, his eight-ounce boxer’s gloves
dangling from his muscled arms like a pair of lead weights. Never since his
first match at Colorado State Prison had he fought a more important match. George
Foreman, the reigning heavyweight champion, could he win against a foe so
formidable?
DING! DING! DING! No time to think about that
now. In a flash, Lyle is lunging toward his larger opponent. They meet, their
gloves gently tapping, testing, looking for an opening to make the first move
and take the offensive—all the time he is bounding around Foreman like some
kind of hulking kangaroo. Lyle notes something; Foreman’s left side appears a
tad weak. An opening? A chink in the impenetrable armor?
In an instant, Lyle throws all he’s got into a
right hook aiming for the mouth-guarded face of his assailant—a costly mistake
for within moments Foreman’s own gloves briefly connect with Lyle’s jaw sending
his mind into a brief reel, alerting him to his faux pas, promptly reminding
him to keep his guard and his fists up. The two boxers still continue their
dangerous dance around the ring, locked together for fear of each exposing an
opening to his enemy—their sweat mixing and filling nostrils with the pungent
odor of perspiration.
They separate; straightaway both
fighters are employing every ounce of their skill to beat the other to a pulp.
With fists flying, the view in front Lyle is instantly bombarded with the
mighty swings and jabs of his larger opponent—punctuated ever so briefly with
split-second glimpses into the eyes of his attacker. He dodges and ducks;
deftly maneuvering and feinting every which way to avoid the onslaught of punches,
parrying, biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment.
NOW!
A quick left jab hits home on Foreman’s face; he immediately follows his
success with a powerful left swing to the side of his erstwhile attacker’s
head. He’s got George on the run now—he presses the attack, unleashing a
barrage of quick but painful punches to Foreman’s body and face. He’s got him
scared now, his cocky arrogance that was so apparent at the beginning of the
match is now gone, the mighty George Foreman is starting to feel something he
hasn’t felt before. Slowly a feeling of fear and doubt creeps down his spine.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
The Mists
…It
was during the hot hours that The Mists came, at the apex of the warm season.
Unwarranted, unprovoked, they rained their vitriolic venom down upon us; down
upon all those who were not quick enough to find sanctuary from the deadly
fumes. One never knew when or why The Mists came. We never knew where they came
from. Those caught in the open air and unable to find shelter were greeted by
the most horrific and exquisite pain followed by a quick and silent death. If
one were lucky enough (indeed if it can be called luck) to be caught in the
middle of this deadly maelstrom, The Mists would pour down upon you like a
cascade of deadly waters, flooding the lungs with its noxious vapors and ending
life rather quickly. Those many unlucky however, who found themselves caught at
the outskirts of The Mist’s rain of death suffered the most excruciating pain
and agony of body. The Mist would burn its way through the senses, searing the
skin and slowly singeing away all smell, taste and hearing like a gaseous,
fiery plague. Instantly it enters the brain, severing all control and
connections to motor skills and sensory organs, disorienting its victims and
leaving them helpless to die a dark, disoriented, delirious, and paralytic
death choked with pain. Nothing survived contact with these silent killers.
I
had just returned from my food delivery routes. The group had just trudged the
fifty mile round-trip journey from the safety and protection of the Colony,
over the vast, unexplored Wilderness to the Trash Heaps and returned,
heavy-laden with food stuffs for the Colony’s hungering thousands huddling
underground. I had just passed under a giant blade of green grass when the
tragedy struck.
No
one heard it of course, one never did. It was always the same, the ripple that
spread down and through the walking trail between the Trash Heaps and the
Colony, filling every member of the gathering parties with a sense of panic and
terror; something that alerted the senses and caused one’s instincts to take
over. Those not immediately killed by the deadly onslaught of The Mists and who
were still in the open left the safety of the well-known walking trail and fled
into the open Wilderness; fear overtaking each one until The Mists overtook
them all. Hundreds died in an instant with no way for those of us that survived
to retrieve their bodies. Sometimes The Mists left as quickly as they had come,
allowing us to gather the lifeless, contaminated corpses of our fallen
comrades, slowly dragging them back to the Colony’s sheltering embrace. At
other times the Mists would remain for what seemed an eternity, their hunger
for death and destruction never sated until they had wreaked havoc upon all in
their sight. At other times they would return as quickly as they had vanished
to continue their ghastly work anew. I do not know for how long they will stay
gone this time…
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