Monday, July 26, 2010

A Poked Lip, Pukes Up Prickly Picks.

It feels like post-Apocalypse in here. You know, like all that's left is an endless, lonely stretch of dusty plains. Decayed ruins scattered meagerly throughout. Life feels scarce. Crows and vultures swarms the air, their shrieks echoing about the dead, brown sky. Silence is deafening, as the harsh wind whistles isolation in your weak ears. Your eyelids force themselves open, to struggle for sight as dry sand keeps sweeping in.

Then, you hear a quick, faint shuffing of the sands. As if there's something that was trying to make a quick escape and hide from you. You swiftly nudge your head to the source of the sound.

A brief moment of complete silence then, suddenly, a small, weary figure pops it's head out, slowly from a cracked wall in one corner.

And that head shivers by the thought of emergence. It then steal glances here and there to see, if there's actually still prying eyes that it thought had died long ago in the gap of prolonged abandonment.

Even if there are a few that's left, it wouldn't know if it shall bring it relief, or add more to the overwhelming paranoia. Would it be welcomed, or would it have it's arse be burned down to smithereens. But "Ahh, what the feck" it thought. It's now or never, and it's been too, too long.

So, it musters every last bit of air to pump it's chest forward out of his safety wall, and slowly brings his frail head, up. The shadows concealing his face, gradually gets lit up as his face motions upward. It then tries to speak, but he was too weak to even let out a squeak of a voice.

You read it's lips, and you barely make out what it's trying to say :

"I was never dead. I was just not alive for a while. Or, I could be a zombie, that you thought you killed in that Undead Apocalypse you've survived. Next time, remember to double tap, bitch."

Then, in a blink of an eye, even before your brain could interpret how lame and unoriginal the sentence was, it jumps right into your face in a one-two motion. A crouch, and a lightning-quick leap...then darkness.

Just pitch, black, darkness.


You died.

You died a bloody, horrible death. Along with the rest of the remaining few.

Then, silence.


Ahh, feels good to mush a mix of massive metaphores yet again. Instead of making pathetic apologies about how I'd start to keep this blog alive, again, and again. I decided to kill two birds with one giant fireball. I made a little story to both, make something out of the whole "coming-back" situation, and to warm these fingers up.

So, thankyou for to whoever that's left. I bid a very enthusiastic hand-wave.