"The worms
conspire,
the life I
had now has expired,
bathed in
fire,
to live again
is my desire.
Tell my family,
tell my kin,
I won't be
coming home again."
- "The Swamp Song,"
by Sulek
This was *not* how I was planning to spend my Friday... But I didn't have any say, it seemed, because no matter how hard I bit at their fingers or struggled in their grasps, they had a hold of me firmly.
After awhile, I stopped struggling, because then they would tighten their grasp and I would feel lightheaded. I didn't want to miss a single chance to escape if they gave me one, either, so fainting was certainly not an option.
Some time later, we had left the bright sunlight of the world I was accustomed to and entered into a dimly lit cavern of sorts. I was shoved into a cage, rough, callous hands groping me painfully in a tight grasp as I tried futilely to break free but was caught once more. Then the door to the cage shut and I sat there, a sudden fear and loathing spiking in my heart that I had never felt before.
More than anything, however, I was confused... There were strange smells, and I could hardly see. Then I felt sniffing at my neck and stood rigid, alert, readying for the worst of pains.
But there came none. The curious creature backed off and I could hear it pad back to the corner and plop onto the ground... or what I could call the ground, but what must have been cardboard beneath my feet.
Hours went by, and my stomach was growling when the cage door suddenly opened. The same hands grabbed me, but I didn't have the energy to struggle. As quickly as the warm, soft cardboard left my feet, I felt cold metal greet me, followed by strange little plungers being stuck on my shell. I looked up into an ugly mug, one large fang protruding from his mouth and a messy mop of blue hair sticking up greasily like grass from his scalp.
What came next is a flurry of memories; it was accompanied by a physical sensation I still feel as I capture this down on paper: a sudden numbness jolting through my veins and a hot, heavy feeling I can only assume was my blood boiling. My organs were no doubt frying as my heart jack-hammered at three times the speed of which it was capable, my vision being filled with millions of tiny lights that zigzagged and shot through the dimness as millions of fiery little dust specks before everything vanished.
I was blind temporarily, but I could feel the changes- my small, protective shell melting away and exposing soft flesh, which fell from a dark paleness into a creamy, mushroom tone. I could feel my face smoothen, and when I could see, my eyes stretched, my mouth felt soft against my tongue, and some of my teeth became pointed.
"Foul being who did this to me, I hope you know that I hate you with a burning passion. I have never felt such complexities that you taught me were "normality", and I had never dreamt in my tiny brain that I would think to such extensities, be able to express myself as I have." These are not gifts I am grateful for, and it is not up to you to play the hand of our Creator... But still I am here, nonetheless, and this is my story.
I am now a Mushroomer, wrought forth from the flesh, blood, and bone of a Buzzy Beatle, and I miss my owner. She had a soft green face and bright purple eyes; she fed me lettuce, and although I have since then evolved beyond such conditions both mentally and physically, I still yearn to be in her presence, yearn for the simplicity of the simple-minded, of the small brain of a creature, miss running not on consciousness but instinct.
Alas, the past has passed, now I am a best-selling novelist, and this work will be shoved into my drawer, because to be seen by the public it will be perceived purely as fiction. It has no place in the eyes of the comprehensive, because who I really write for will not see it and could not understand it, and to give it to them would be foul, be mistaken as food and harm their digestive tracts.
So much for a biography.
The End
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