It's hot, it's dusty, and so dry that when summer runs its rasp-rasp-rasp tongue across your skin you can't cool down. So in lieu of sleeping, there's always time to stroll in the bush and pop out a quick free short story in celebration of this most magical time of the year.
by BP Gregory
I Copyright © 2017 BP Gregory
All Rights Reserved.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This work is copyright apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968. This work may not be reproduced or transmitted in part or in its entirety in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, nor may any other exclusive right be exercised, without the prior written consent of the author BP Gregory, except where permitted by law.
This is a work of fiction. Places and place names are either fictional, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely co-incidental.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. It’s the folk who love books who help writers keep going.
Spilled out at last into the tumbling fullness of life, ravenous for existence that is for me, only for me. None match my hunger, my passion.
While packed away in impatience, waiting, I'd watched the dapple swaying over translucent shell like a secret code. Bright/cool, bright/cool. And my longing to seize and cram it in my mouth like a tangible thing near cracked me in half. The bright would burn, spicy and invigorating. The coolness would be sweetness filling me up, success, gains.
My freed siblings and I cascade over countless jade plateaus that twist and flash glorious in the sun. Bounty. Infinite fields that we shall consume, grind into ragged lace, in our frenzy to construct mighty engines of flight.
I rear up to behold it all, my kingdom. The air dashes past my bare skin, inspiring, terrifying, threatening to rip me free. It dares! I vow to destroy more than any other. To be the first to fling myself from these ravaged slices of heaven into the roaring void and make it rightfully mine. All mine.
Now through many feet I can feel my family's war drums. Come, come, the drums beckon, quickening straight to my core. Let us consume the world, for we are mighty. Come, that all this may be ours.
We mass, we seethe, and I push my length armored in mighty spines deep into their midst. Above us spines clash, they rattle, as pleasing a war cry as the throbbing drums. Thousands of siblings so like me that they might have been I. I shove my way to central domination for I alone know the truth: they exist only to be plucked. A vast fleshy shield to grant my passage to glory.
As though conjured by such a thought, searing enough to scorch reality, our army is abruptly cast into shadow.
Chaos. Confusion. Through it all drums roar, summoning us tighter and all to protect me.
I'm noble enough at heart to spare a brief prayer for the final desperate seconds of some hapless sibling, following so close on the heels of their first breath. It's facetious: I feel naught but the joyous pumping of life.
A hard mouth, a cavern, a tunnel to lightless eternity opens above and in doing so blots out the sky. It is orange, hard orange like poison, and pink inside. I see a ridged alien tongue the size of my whole world darting eagerly. Feathers rush.
Not for me!