4: The Corn
Eater and the Pulse in the Dark
He has to leave.
He hears the grasshoppers outside
his shack; they hiss and chatter drowning out any other sound from the forest
morning.
He has to leave and he doesn’t want
to.
He lives to serve the Pulse in the
Dark. He wandered the ridge and forest for years, feeling the Pulse’s dark
power long before he stumbled upon it. It called to him in his dreams, and
frayed his sanity while attempting to summon him. He left a family behind to
stare at its cosmic colors as it twitched and glowed, just poking out of the
dirt. He knew he saw very little of its full shape, its malevolent girth
trapped under the wright of the dirt. He marveled at the perfect smoothness and
the rainbow of dark neon colors, so strange and alien, shimmering within it. He
built the small shack around it, and its colors would reflect off the wooden
slats as if it was stainless steel. He lost his sight, for he only sees for it
now. He has been rewarded by being able to see through the Pulse, and all that
it has seen in its eons of existence.
He feels its power and its hunger.
He knows the grasshoppers will feed the Pulse, but he will taste the flesh and
taste the blood as well.
He eats only the food that the
Pulse forces to grow right around the shack. He is accustomed to the thick
thorns and sharp barbs that grow up the length up the stalk. He peels the
bright red cob expertly and eats the kernels greedily, so juicy, tangy and
bitter-sweet as it runs down his chin into his haggard beard. He has scoured
the forest for more of his food and found none. He has skipped through the
moonlit fields kept by the other humans, and found none. He knew other humans
once, but he doesn’t remember when. He has also sacrificed his sense of time to
the Pulse in the Dark.
He doesn’t want to leave and he
doesn’t know the words to express his feeling. He slaps his head; his brain
once understood the high-points of the English language but the words have
faded. He once used his voice, which he has grown to hate so much, to speak and
communicate with other humans. He knows that the same way he knows he has
survived snows and suns and storms and cuts and bruises and failure and fear.
He knows not how he knows anything, other than by the grace of the Pulse in the
Dark.
He is human.
He is human and he hates himself
for it. He loathes his shape and his skin. He longs to be smooth. He longs to
drown in the glow. He hates humans, and hates himself for being human. He sees
more than humans, so much more.
He hears the wind blow against the
shack, then feels it creep through the slots between planks and dance on his
sandpaper skin. He hears the door rattle and his bony fingers cover his eyes
and tap his forehead. He hears the grasshoppers’ song rise and fall in volume
in rhythm with his taps
He sees through their eyes, all of
their eyes. He knows the time has come. He has felt its hunger and He knew it
would come to pass. He sees through the malevolent force which birthed the
grasshoppers, as it sees through them, and it sees through him and he sees
through it.
He taps his forehead with fingers
stained blood crimson. He knows more will happen, and the Pulse in the Dark
will grow, and He will drown in the neon glow.
He stands slowly and sways in
place. He has to leave.
He can’t focus. He can’t balance or
think. He knows more humans are about to be devoured. He knows this the same
way he knows he has survived snows and suns and storms and cuts and bruises and
failure and fear. He knows not how he knows anything, other than by the grace
of the Pulse in the Dark.
He hungers. He feels the
grasshoppers’ hunger.
He sees through their eyes and He
tastes the flesh they devour. He finds it tastes akin to the food outside his
shack. He stops tapping and the grasshoppers’ song begins to fade even as
screams begin on the ridge.
He puts one hand on the wooden wall
for balance and it creaks its complaint loudly. He gathers up his satchel and
his walking stick.
He has been shown so much over his
decades in the shack serving the Pulse in the Dark. He has seen sinister cities
built from stone and metal and inhabited by beings far stranger than he could
ever imagine or comprehend. He has seen the birth of the universe and all the
violence left in its wake. He has breathed infinity in endless gulfs of freezing
nothingness. He has seen the farthest reaches of space and time. He has seen
the farthest reaches of soul and mind.
He watches now as the thousands
jump towards flesh. He jumps along with each and every one. He hears their song
blaspheme at the sky and all the flesh under it. He hears the grasshoppers call
the flies to the blood.
He feels the dry summer wind as it
blows against the heads of the thousands. He smells the primal fear of the
other forest animals as they flee the swarm.
He has felt wind so scorching hot
it would turn humans to crackling ash in a blink. He was safe in the shack. He
has felt the swirling frozen winds so cold they hold worlds entrapped in ice
for eons. He was safe in the shack. He has to leave, but he doesn’t want to.
He pushes the door open and the
dozen of black grasshoppers of various mutated sizes waiting on him flutter
their legs excitedly. He nods at the brilliant glimmering purple as if he
understands each tiny clacking stroke as he plucks cobs of his food and deposits
them into his satchel.
He hears a gunshot with his human
ears. He hears the same shot through the thousand and it echoes in his skull as
such.
He sees the human who fired the
shot. He feels flesh tear away. He feels him crushed beneath his awesome weight.
He tastes the flesh and he tastes the blood.
He knows one human has died, warm
blooded and unbitten. He sees dirt fly and feels the Pulse’s excitement as
human corpse and giant grasshopper both sink under flung dirt. He tastes more
slaughtered flesh and uses the walking stick to steady himself.
He knows he will soon see through
the eyes of humans. He knows this the same way he knows he has survived snows
and suns and storms and cuts and bruises and failure and fear. He knows not how
he knows anything, other than by the grace of the Pulse in the Dark. He feels
his stomach heave and growl at the flesh the grasshoppers are consuming. He
digs a cob of food from his satchel and peels away the violet husk with expert
swiftness. He bites into the red and black cob, allowing the crimson juices to
flow down his chin as his weak human stomach settles.
He sees through the eyes of the
thousands.
He hears their song call the flies
to the blood.
He is ready to leave.
Next 'episode' will be posted Wednesday March 26 2014.
You can more of my scribblings HERE.
What a trip....
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