You’re finally on your way home, it’s been a long day… “It’s been a long two months.” You think as you pull to a stop.
The red glare from the traffic light refuses you passage toward your bed. The night makes no move or noise and you’re stuck in never-ending limbo.

The red grudgingly releases its grip to green.

You make your sharp left autonomously while your mind wallows deeper into its thoughtful stupor: “Like a Rubik’s cube these girls: They’re only amusing until you figure them out, until you know how to solve their problems and make them neat on all sides. Then they become monotone colours, conventional patterns…
Boring. The irony is that after all the time you’ve invested in ‘fixing’ them, it scrambles them back into that beautiful brokenness when you leave… Cyclical.”

The streetlights pass you by, whispering a harsh glare on the haunted trees, no illumination, only a different metallic sheen to the cold leaves. These sinister lights silhouette human forms that might at one time have been innocent, these specters that now stalk the shadows in search of mischief, perhaps in search of another, hated, silhouette.

Your rear view mirror screams at you: “They’ve found their victim!”
Or perhaps the streetlights are simply puppeteering the shadows, dancing on the graves of your morality and sympathy that once might have compelled you to turn back and help.

Your subconscious finds your driveway as your hand switches gears without your knowledge. You’ve come to a halt, the seat’s headrest feels soft against the back of your head…
No, you have to get out.
You lurch toward your bed, your final cigarette lights your way down the styxian corridor, to the comfortless routine of your bed and your mind shuts down before your head hits the pillow. You enter a dreamless oblivion. There is no joy in this.
there is no joy, there is just this nothingness. Nothing exists any more.
No thought
Just nothing.
No feeling.
Just nothing.
No colour

But as you sink deeper into the Hades of the nightmares you won’t remember a society rages around you.: alien, frantic, fearful and aggressive.
It chitters with life and death, every moment is its Ragnarök. Heartbeats jerk with all the spasmodic irregularity or Rigor Mortis.

This ecosystem never sleeps, it has never known the oblivion that you crave, it only knows the endless now, the perpetual ‘mate,kill, feed, repeat.’ excuse for life.
You will never understand the fear here. The raw instinct dictating what the absence of conscious thought cannot. It does not wait for you and you barely impact on it
But with your slumbering flesh exposed there is a new element introduced into it. A new facet of this society opens her eyes with ravening hunger in her gut. The parasite that would seek your life’s essence.

Known to you as a mosquito, she has never thought of anything resembling a name for itself, she has never touched the idea of identity, nothing has ever mattered to her except filling her everlasting hunger with the crimson of your blood.
She approaches your skin, wary of any movement, any sign of danger that might delay her quest, the males are not vampiric, but this female has no purpose other than the sweet nectar that fills your veins. Her whine is a siren’s song that disturbs your already troubled sleep, and as you sigh your unconscious irritation she drops down, silencing the damning buzz of her passage. Pheremones trailing from your skin bind her to her already singular purpose, and when she finds purchase on it her mind fills with the numbing ecstasy of the most potent heroin you will never experience. In that moment danger is ignored. Peristaltic motion ripples through her as her belly grows ever more red, and then she leaves like a silent lover in the night, the whine of her wings invigorated with newfound energy. Drunk with her prize she buzzes past the droning masses that gather blindly to the light that you’ve forgotten to murder this night. The masses of infinitesimal motes are overshadowed by the lumbering hulks of moths, all questing for the same lie. The light holds all the mystery that they can not begin to grasp that they do not grasp. To their eyes there exists nothing but the magnet, the heaven that can never be reached, they are on a cruel pilgrimage that simply can not be completed, and ever taunts them with a destination that will remain mostly beyond their grasp, and that will be the final destination of those who manage to enter its heat. They pursue this Utopian Canaan with all the fervor that you quest for your own purpose, all the while the background whine of drunken flight slips farther from their apathetic knowledge.

The delight of her victory has passed and the cold withdrawal has already begun to sink into her. Everything turns acrid again and the stinging pain of hunger will soon jab her again. Moonlight reflects off of the half-opened window that she will escape under to nest, brood and wait for the following night. This moonlight casts a thin glint to her consciousness a moment before her terror is finally realized, one wing is not moving anymore, and the other sends her into a spiral around the trap set by the Octavian overfiend of the night. All the energy she has gathered will be expended in a quest for escape. She will never know this escape. The many eyes of the Arachnid are upon her, they never close as they make their slow descent to where she lay the helpless victim to their trickery. Harmless ‘Daddy Long Leg’ to you, and ‘Shelob’ to all that can not escape his poison. His trek takes him past the cocoons of victims that still scream for life even as their innards are dissolving into his nourishment. These cocoons might have found bliss in the lie of the light, but an all-encompassing darkness seals their fate with silken bonds of adamantine. He stalks through his domain to the parasite that never deserved life, your life essence still pumping through her veins as her confusion accentuates her absolute terror. Her fate has been sealed. There is no escape, but she lacks the knowledge of the forewarned and she will struggle in ignorant futility until every organ in her body fails her in their liquid states. The pondering spider dexterously manouvers his way to his new prey, and he begins spinning her coffin. He takes his time, for he is the great manipulator from whose bondage you may never be saved once your wings are clipped by the false promise of free passage his invisible web croons to you. He finishes the rotation and the mosquito is sent into her death knell with his fatal kiss. The breath of death spreads through her as her pseudo-mind is wracked with the helplessness of her situation. She never deserved life, yet she never deserved this agony. She didn’t ask for her link in the food chain, but the spider is also merely fulfilling his role, and to save the fly would let the spider die. The mosquito is caught in this fatal rhyme.
With his task finished the spider waits for a new victim, a new prospect to be delved into.

The octavian overfiend waits once more.

Peristaltic motion ripples through the most helpless of all the lowly creatures in the domain. The earthworm does not know how it came to be in the xenos earth that can not be burrowed into, but it quests blindly for rich soil which it might burrow into and live off to the aid of all the hermaphroditic plant brother-sisters of the insects. The terrain grants it no more leniency than the mosquito whose screams cannot be heard, and its tremor sense tells it only that something is near. It would flee if it knew which way safety and solitude was, but this luxurious necessity is denied to it, and it only registers the pain as a clamp digs into one of its myriad segments. In that instant all hope that might have been graced upon it is lost, for it is now within the military jurisdiction of the most indomitable of all the denizens of the night.

The first ant has left its pheremone trail up to the cache of energy that slithered awkwardly through its territory, the worm was weak and will therefore be absorbed into the more deserving colony of the strong. More and more ants gather upon the trail of smell that has been left as their guide marker, they march in perfect unison upon their target, they might be the only ones that feel no fear, for they are more than anything that may assault them, they are all singular cells in an organism much larger than any foe that stands before it, they cannot be conquered for their unity marks them above all that would seek to contest their might. More and more of them execute their singular purpose of shredding pieces off of the worm to be taken to their queen. The worm’s membranous skin vomits forth its innards as it struggles with the same hopelessness of any cocooned creature, this worm will suffer one of the slowest deaths that can be bestowed upon it. It does not understand what is happening and it cannot attribute its functions ceasing to the tremors and shards of pain that shoot through it. Its punishment for being benign is the hot spike of torture that will be its final hours. The ant hive mind does not allow itself rest after this minor victory, it expends the minimum resources possible to gain the energy that can be gained. It extends its eyes upon threats and opportunities alike while its immobile heart spews gooey birth to more and more cells that will do its bidding. There is no end to its hunger for there is no end to its hostile potential. The only thing that can stop the avalanche of its progress is its own success: When it gathers, hunts and devours all the resources it has available. The omnivorous omnimind seeks more energy sources to fuel its Mongolian expansion, it will soon find an injection of this exact necessity.

Shelob crawls up the wall, seeking out new corners in which to stake his claim, eyes constantly browsing for anything that moves while mandibles salivate uncontrollably, its insanity is matched only by its maddening hunger. He makes his arrogant ascent without seeing the consummate hunter. Perhaps this creature is to be feared more than any other in your room, it has been called god by the tribes of the south and it inspires wonder and fear alike in humans. It neither knows nor cares about its titles or reputation, all it cares about it is the hulking octavius that narrows down to the uncharted geography of the roof. She has just finished mating, and as a consequence she has just finished eating her mates head, letting it drop down to the sand specks below that will swarm over it to add it to the arsenal of the hive mind. She sits upon the light, eyes following Shelob without moving. Soon the spider will be within her grasp, and she will feast upon him.
Feed. Feed. Feed. Feed. Feed. Feed. Feed. Feed. NOW! She explodes into spring-loaded action, trapezoid mouth flailing downwards to consume what her talons decapitate. She hacks of two of Shelob’s legs before he is aware of her.
Shelob knows her kind and turns around in a split second, locking his many eyes with her two. Both mandibles flail outward spewing pearly saliva in a fury that might have been a shriek. The Praying mantis is upon him and hacks off another leg, letting gravity do its work upon it as she bites a piece from his thorax. The murderous insanity between them can not be matched with the constraints of human emotion, it is finished as a single talon punctures through the spider, impaling him in the wall while he simultaneously injected his venom into her eye.
She begins feasting on her final meal as inertia sets in. She is dying even as she is consuming, and they both fall downwards, the clash of the titans is over and there is no winner. There is never a winner, only more of them acting upon their routine insanity. The two fall downwards and land on your bed, where your head rests. Entwined with each other like lovers.

They will both be consumed by the hive.

A bleak sun will rise.
You’ll wake up.
You’ll smear the sleepy rocks from your eyes to crumble over your face.
Your legs will slide from the bed like lifeless worms.
You’ll get up into another dreary day,
and never will you know what has transpired here tonight.


~ by William Webster on May 16, 2010.

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