Saturday, February 20, 2010

the cha-moirs, 5

So at the tender age of 7, my pod was moved to michigan. by this time it had been expanded to 4 modules, a little whelp joining us during the fall of the sightings. The environment was similar to germany, with groves of olden wood, the desired mold and leaf litter, trails that led off to private nooks, but with an added bonus……we moved within running of a lake. and oh, what a body of water… could barely see to the other side. and it was deep…..and cold…..and haunted.

and so it began….the nightly visits by insectoidal creatures half the size of a small car, communal and red, with pointed claws that grubbed and tore. hauling this soul off, pushing it out to wander the void alone so that the shell could be occupied by others….others who spoke in long dead languages, rants and accusations ringing out, the pacing and draggage of flesh, patterns worn into carpet in ever increasing coils, causing havoc and terror in the small, crowded abode. then came the restraints, the medication….the futility.

Even the whelp began to wander, and each morning a hunt was launched down that long desolate stretch of beach punctuated by tossed debris, as if there had been a battle with the night. It would be found paused and dazed in a lea of a half-submerged trunk, unclothed, mute and forever blank in the watery dawn's light. the snake eater admitted defeat in this battle with the elementals and the decision was made to move.

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