Showing posts with label draft. Show all posts
Showing posts with label draft. Show all posts

Tuesday, October 08, 2024

the pig men were becoming a real problem

The hybrids had escaped from the lab and were eating all the crops and generally wreaking havoc. They were only 33.3 percent human, to get around the 29th Amendment to the US Constitution, that had decreed a minimum threshold of 40 percent DNA of human origin was enough to grant human rights. (And yes, we know how genes work and that we share DNA with many creatures, all living things are made up of the same basic building blocks, but this specifically refers to the source, not just the sequence.). 

They were more like pig centaurs, I guess, but without a clear delineation between the pig part and the human part. Imagine a regular pig; now stretch out just the neck, up and out like a horse's, but about twice as long. More like a llama. Then give it the oval shape of a human head, but much larger, with small, deep-set eyes, a pig snout, triangular ears, and bristles poking out all over. Many of the males will grow tusks. 

And right underneath the head, jutting out from under the chin, are a pair of small arms and hands. They look like someone stuck the arms of a five-year-old kid on them as a joke. They have five fingers, but no fingernails. 

It's the most unsettling thing about them. They are mostly active at night, but sometimes during the day you can see them resting under a shade tree, eyes closed, with those little arms folded underneath. 

Or the way they drink water by dipping their whole heads just above the surface of the river or pond and the little hands will scoop up the water and they'll slurp it up. 

Once, as I stood on my porch with the sun setting behind me, I saw one shading its eyes with its hands as it crept up to the edge of my vegetable garden. 

It's hard to keep them out. With those damn hands, they can open gates and latches. Even doorknobs. 

Someone really outta do something about those pig-men.

the end? 

Not really because this was/is a draft, one of many where I start jotting stuff down, and it's not even what I would call a story because nothing happens. Describing odd stuff is not a story. There are threads there, at least. There are definitely lots of opportunities for creepy hand things. Picking their teeth. Digging. Greeting each other by touching each other's faces. Or maybe face-holding. Pigs are omnivores and will eat any meat they can get so it seems natural that eventually these pig-men will try to eat someone. We'll see. 

Sunday, September 29, 2024

The Oldest Story

A ringing bell, elsewhere in the house. Never seems to be at the same time of day. Or night. I've chased it deeper and deeper. 

Some music has lyrics we don't understand until it's too late. 

I don't have time for that kind of music. 

Monday, August 12, 2024

Integument Number 42

These scars are a gift
(yes it's maybe not completely healthy
to mix injury as optimism)

I leave my left side unmarked 
Awaiting your next creation. 

I will remain off-balance 
Asymmetrical 
Until then 
(which is not my preference but it's what I'm choosing)

My skin is a canvas of maybes 

A thrill of delight 

There's still so much of me
left for you

Sunday, August 11, 2024

The Garden Of Forking Drafts

I imagine the conversation was pretty straightforward. An ultimatum. I don't begrudge you your choice. It's the correct one. 

And then, perhaps, some simple instructions. Something like: No warnings. No clues. No goodbyes. Cut him loose. 

However it happened, it happened quickly. I felt my lifeline go slack, and I tumbled into the void. 

Fortunately, I am naturally pessimistic. In case something went wrong, I had packed a solar-sail, a portable de-aetherization still to make more oxygen, and tucked a multi-tool into my boot. 

I imagine you knew I'd be okay. 

Well, not okay, but that I'd survive. I'm not activating the distress beacon; that might give away your position. 

I always have a plan. Although I admit, this plan is pretty straightforward.

Stay alive, until you can find me. 

Sunday, December 10, 2023

Sculpting

The pain crept up from nowhere. It seized his mind like a toothache, a rotten tendril snaking up the synapses already worn raw by regret. He tried to ignore it. The clinking of his point chisel against the marble as he worked seem to stave off the worst of it. 

The sculpture was coming along slowly. The figure inside didn't seem to want to come out this time. He'd caught a glimpse of it, in the marble quarry, beckoning to him, and he had selected the stone. 

Even now, in the clouds of dust that swirled in the evening light, it breathed. 

The pain would get worse, he knew, once the figure was free. But then it might get better. He worked on, in the last of the light. 

THE END FOR NOW