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Literature Text
Warm silt and gently swaying reeds; it is in the swamp that I live. Under brown water, I listen to your heart as it pulsates within your chest, an ululating thrum. Since long before you were born, I have blanketed myself with the clay in the winter and swam the great rainforest in the summer. For long after you are dead and gone, I will skulk after hot flesh and blood.
You come here, with your rifle and boat, your thermal imagers and your canned food, with your ducksuits and your paranoid hair-trigger attitude. You do this in an eternal search for me, a dedicated hunter without the skills others of your kind possess when they come through in search of alligators. To your own people you are little more than a laughingstock; in a sense, I suppose, I may serve to help you prove them wrong.
I grace your legs with my tail. I stab your femoral with my venomous teeth so quickly you hardly feel it. I wait for you to slide deeper into the water, into a calm sleep. Then I feed, and I leave your remains in your boat as a warning. To those who follow you I only say,
Happy hunting.
You come here, with your rifle and boat, your thermal imagers and your canned food, with your ducksuits and your paranoid hair-trigger attitude. You do this in an eternal search for me, a dedicated hunter without the skills others of your kind possess when they come through in search of alligators. To your own people you are little more than a laughingstock; in a sense, I suppose, I may serve to help you prove them wrong.
I grace your legs with my tail. I stab your femoral with my venomous teeth so quickly you hardly feel it. I wait for you to slide deeper into the water, into a calm sleep. Then I feed, and I leave your remains in your boat as a warning. To those who follow you I only say,
Happy hunting.
Literature
Songs From a Lesbian's Hymnal
she and I found each other
in the middle of being eaten alive.
for months I had been
a ghost yearning
to be more dead. I haunted
the drawers and cupboards of my house,
looking for answers to the
secret aches within your bones,
you kept slicing open your wrists,
hoping to go deeper each and
every time I was hiding in the dark
listening to the breath of my mother and
wondering how do you tell someone that
you wished you'd never been born, wished with
every candle you blew out that
I could just cure myself of my own existence
because it feels more like a void than something even
reasonably half full.
you wanted to purge your
broken soul o
Literature
Love
Love
Flower, flower
Sweet, red and mine
You make my world spin
You make my words rhyme
Blossom, blossom
How pretty you are
The te
Literature
Love
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If Luca Brasi was sent to sleep with this fishie, they wouldn't have had to kill him first.
© 2013 - 2024 SgtPossum
Comments5
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Overall Vision
Originality Technique ImpactHmm, this is interesting. I wasn't too sure about it in the beginning but as it travelled along I found myself becoming all the more entranced. The final paragraph was what hooked me and got me to love this story. I like how you have this narrator somewhat mysterious, we, the audience, is left in the dark about what is going on. I don't see any mistakes, only minor change I would make is add "the" before "winter" so it flows a bit better "...myself with the clay in the winter...". Nice job on the shady writing, it still has my mind whirling which, I assume, was your intention.