Plantae
5th July 2007, 03:45 PM
I do realize this is my second thread in less than a week, but it is a necessity. This is, again, a story delivered (late) as a present to Weasel Overlord. It is shorter than and clearer than my last entry, I think.
SPECIOUS SPECIES
The sun beats down and the sand boils. The heat is unbearable, and all becomes dust. One needs little to describe a desert. In this day and age, it has ceased to be a terrain and become a lifestyle. Every night, when the great red sun goes down, the world rejoices. The life here once reveled in warmth; even the tempter, the serpent, would bathe itself on the rocks. Now, though, all we do is wait, feverish, for the last night and its cold to come. For now, as we do... no, not we, but I. In speaking for myself, I speak for my people. As I do, the world treads across a bed of coals, and the salvation of death is always as far as the horizon.
We are not a people that die by age. It is a matter of our birth. There are certain legends, which, given enough time, cease to be of one culture or many, and become universal. There are creatures that exist in every set of myths. We, the daughters of Atargatis, are some such beings. As long as man has existed, we have swam in his waters, tantalized his sailors with our beauty. We sang songs and were called Sirens and Rusalki, or as spirits of their fountains, we were Crinaeae. Our form changes, from story to myth, from sea to stream. We have walked as ghosts, and flowed through oceans. Some say we have half the body of a fish.
Though I walk on two legs, human enough, I could not tell you that you were wrong about the fish tails. Much as I would like to say that it is a silly fancy of men, I cannot. I do not have proof of fact, but only my own opinion. I would like to say I remember my family, and that they looked nothing like that; that they were beautiful, as I imagine myself to be, with hair as long as mine. I would like to say these things, but it would be my word against theirs, the humans. I do not remember my family, or even that I had one at all. I cannot even remember the last time I saw a face like mine, and if it were not for my own certainty, I would be forced to believe that I am truly alone and that I always have been. Sometimes I do think that, and I walk hopelessly, my long hair dragging across the sand. I wish to cut it, but then I remember: I must preserve myself. I have to keep myself pure for them, for my people, even if they live only in my imagination.
But that is not true, for there is one more place they live. Those rare times when I sleep- for the sun "goes down" for a few hours only every week or so- I dream of them. I know we must have lived in seas once, even if now the only evidence of their existence is the vast valleys of a dead world. I know, because I remember the salty breeze. I remember the nets too, or I think I do. How our children, foolishly, would get caught in them before they knew better. They would be taken onto the leviathan boats which loomed above us, and they would never return. I was never caught, for I know, if I was, I would be dead. But somehow, I know how my kin felt when they were. I can see cloth held high, swirled in color, with metal nets underneath; various dark shapes move within, all of them so-called freaks. I watch as the humans pass through and cast their glance on my sister. They view her with wonder, but only for a little while. She begins to disgust them, for all she does is languish there, pathetic, in her metal prison. They throw their refuse at her, demean her.
She is alien to them, and they hate it, and her. After a little while, she begins to pass away, and her captors wonder why. They cannot fathom this creature before them. They do not know that she longs for the sea, that her heart aches for it, that it makes her scream inside to love something so much. Though our people are immortal, they say, she dies of grief before their eyes. All of them blindly continue on, and they never know what they missed.
I do have one real memory, though. I remember a vast shallow pool, with all manner of aquatic beasts. I could see none of my own kind, but it was difficult, given that I had collapsed. I was curled in a ball, surrounded by a school of flopping tuna, cherishing that last bit of water that remained. It was one moment, suspended stilly for days, perhaps even weeks. Every day, the pool would grow a little smaller, and more would die; I would shiver, not of cold, but from my own heart. Each time it beat, I felt as if I had been run through. All that time, I lay there, my mind as austere as the dunes. And one day, all the water was gone. I stood up, though I did not have the energy to do so, and found I was alone, surrounded by skeletons.
I have continued on since then. I do not know why I am still here. I still need the water that is my lifeblood, which is the lifeblood of all, even if every step I take is on the ocean floor. But that need has subsided to a dull ache, and I have to wonder. I do not understand. If my nightmares are real, and all my species has died of that desire for the sea, why do I remain? Why am I the only survivor of a people that would be otherwise extinct? What did I do to deserve this?
Every so often, when I ask myself those questions, I am answered by the whisper of the wind. A zephyr here, though, has become almost as uncommon as rain. Usually, there is no sound to greet me at all. It is not so much silence, but instead the complete absence of sound, as if it had fallen in on itself and vanished. I am not greeted by silence. I am greeted by nothing at all.
Again I tell a lie. There are things here, crab-like creatures which skitter across the ground, for all I know, subsisting on rocks. They are certainly ugly enough. It is as if their whole carapace was made of the dregs of all other life. In their horrid "faces," if they could be called that, I see all the evil in my dreams reflected back upon me. Emotion is impossible now. There are no sentient creatures to express it to. Sometimes, though, I can still feel its imprint in places. Places where, maybe long ago, some tragedy occurred. I can feel a seething evil, just buried beneath the sand. When I look at one of those beasts, with their pincers held in comical defiance, that is what I see. I feel hatred, the greatest loathing that man has ever known, has taken up residence upon that craggy back, in the curl of those legs. It takes all my strength, but in those moments, I cannot stand idly by. It takes little force of will for me to lift my leg, as it is what I must do with every step I take, but it takes all of it to bring it down with a crash. It takes all of it to break the creature's back, in my exhaustion, to splinter its body across the dirt. I crack open its legs, as repulsed as I am, and drink any liquid which comes from its veins. Most of the time, though, my kill is as dry as everything else is in this insufferable hellhole.
In times like this, I sink to the ground and I try to weep... but there are no tears. There is no anything. There is only me, and arid, empty air.
SPECIOUS SPECIES
The sun beats down and the sand boils. The heat is unbearable, and all becomes dust. One needs little to describe a desert. In this day and age, it has ceased to be a terrain and become a lifestyle. Every night, when the great red sun goes down, the world rejoices. The life here once reveled in warmth; even the tempter, the serpent, would bathe itself on the rocks. Now, though, all we do is wait, feverish, for the last night and its cold to come. For now, as we do... no, not we, but I. In speaking for myself, I speak for my people. As I do, the world treads across a bed of coals, and the salvation of death is always as far as the horizon.
We are not a people that die by age. It is a matter of our birth. There are certain legends, which, given enough time, cease to be of one culture or many, and become universal. There are creatures that exist in every set of myths. We, the daughters of Atargatis, are some such beings. As long as man has existed, we have swam in his waters, tantalized his sailors with our beauty. We sang songs and were called Sirens and Rusalki, or as spirits of their fountains, we were Crinaeae. Our form changes, from story to myth, from sea to stream. We have walked as ghosts, and flowed through oceans. Some say we have half the body of a fish.
Though I walk on two legs, human enough, I could not tell you that you were wrong about the fish tails. Much as I would like to say that it is a silly fancy of men, I cannot. I do not have proof of fact, but only my own opinion. I would like to say I remember my family, and that they looked nothing like that; that they were beautiful, as I imagine myself to be, with hair as long as mine. I would like to say these things, but it would be my word against theirs, the humans. I do not remember my family, or even that I had one at all. I cannot even remember the last time I saw a face like mine, and if it were not for my own certainty, I would be forced to believe that I am truly alone and that I always have been. Sometimes I do think that, and I walk hopelessly, my long hair dragging across the sand. I wish to cut it, but then I remember: I must preserve myself. I have to keep myself pure for them, for my people, even if they live only in my imagination.
But that is not true, for there is one more place they live. Those rare times when I sleep- for the sun "goes down" for a few hours only every week or so- I dream of them. I know we must have lived in seas once, even if now the only evidence of their existence is the vast valleys of a dead world. I know, because I remember the salty breeze. I remember the nets too, or I think I do. How our children, foolishly, would get caught in them before they knew better. They would be taken onto the leviathan boats which loomed above us, and they would never return. I was never caught, for I know, if I was, I would be dead. But somehow, I know how my kin felt when they were. I can see cloth held high, swirled in color, with metal nets underneath; various dark shapes move within, all of them so-called freaks. I watch as the humans pass through and cast their glance on my sister. They view her with wonder, but only for a little while. She begins to disgust them, for all she does is languish there, pathetic, in her metal prison. They throw their refuse at her, demean her.
She is alien to them, and they hate it, and her. After a little while, she begins to pass away, and her captors wonder why. They cannot fathom this creature before them. They do not know that she longs for the sea, that her heart aches for it, that it makes her scream inside to love something so much. Though our people are immortal, they say, she dies of grief before their eyes. All of them blindly continue on, and they never know what they missed.
I do have one real memory, though. I remember a vast shallow pool, with all manner of aquatic beasts. I could see none of my own kind, but it was difficult, given that I had collapsed. I was curled in a ball, surrounded by a school of flopping tuna, cherishing that last bit of water that remained. It was one moment, suspended stilly for days, perhaps even weeks. Every day, the pool would grow a little smaller, and more would die; I would shiver, not of cold, but from my own heart. Each time it beat, I felt as if I had been run through. All that time, I lay there, my mind as austere as the dunes. And one day, all the water was gone. I stood up, though I did not have the energy to do so, and found I was alone, surrounded by skeletons.
I have continued on since then. I do not know why I am still here. I still need the water that is my lifeblood, which is the lifeblood of all, even if every step I take is on the ocean floor. But that need has subsided to a dull ache, and I have to wonder. I do not understand. If my nightmares are real, and all my species has died of that desire for the sea, why do I remain? Why am I the only survivor of a people that would be otherwise extinct? What did I do to deserve this?
Every so often, when I ask myself those questions, I am answered by the whisper of the wind. A zephyr here, though, has become almost as uncommon as rain. Usually, there is no sound to greet me at all. It is not so much silence, but instead the complete absence of sound, as if it had fallen in on itself and vanished. I am not greeted by silence. I am greeted by nothing at all.
Again I tell a lie. There are things here, crab-like creatures which skitter across the ground, for all I know, subsisting on rocks. They are certainly ugly enough. It is as if their whole carapace was made of the dregs of all other life. In their horrid "faces," if they could be called that, I see all the evil in my dreams reflected back upon me. Emotion is impossible now. There are no sentient creatures to express it to. Sometimes, though, I can still feel its imprint in places. Places where, maybe long ago, some tragedy occurred. I can feel a seething evil, just buried beneath the sand. When I look at one of those beasts, with their pincers held in comical defiance, that is what I see. I feel hatred, the greatest loathing that man has ever known, has taken up residence upon that craggy back, in the curl of those legs. It takes all my strength, but in those moments, I cannot stand idly by. It takes little force of will for me to lift my leg, as it is what I must do with every step I take, but it takes all of it to bring it down with a crash. It takes all of it to break the creature's back, in my exhaustion, to splinter its body across the dirt. I crack open its legs, as repulsed as I am, and drink any liquid which comes from its veins. Most of the time, though, my kill is as dry as everything else is in this insufferable hellhole.
In times like this, I sink to the ground and I try to weep... but there are no tears. There is no anything. There is only me, and arid, empty air.