Mutha Fuckaaaa (likearevolution) wrote in eat_your_brains,
Mutha Fuckaaaa

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Writing is easy. It's good writing that I can't figure out.

Quickly removing another wine-stained, bleating carcass from the soft mound of flesh that dominated the junction, she contorted across the tiles, let the supine heads of silver-black bats kneed her eyelashes, raised a jeweled paw and crept it along the edge of the porcelain basin, red talon following talon to chase the clouds from settling with the foam castles and ships. Cruel feet jammed by the icy surface of wax and sand against a wall of misunderstanding - children from her neighborhood. Driving another ewe to the one-eyed man's cleaver with shiny claws popping the eyes out of socket to settle one by one into cheap berber. Claiming insanity, one more fluff baby swore no wrong, she shook herself after speckled hooves were each driven simply put through the first epidermal layer, writhing and spitting with unseen acrobatics. For now she wouldn't just let them die. She injected herself with the scarce reason she could find midst the broken nations and bloated, stinking families. “This world is a rumor,” she offered, scoring the easy flesh on the hind legs from thigh to ankle, ripping, carving at the flaps of tail with her dictator's fist.

“Only a little longer now, the scene is leaking from its bottle and my influence will be final.” She wasn't at all ready for the fall of the curtain. She wasn't watching the beads of sweat skim down the composer's arms. She hadn't time or at least a million escape routes. She was ill-prepared to give up her dear lambs for hire, even though monthly she could manufacture at least dozens. She was thinking too slowly now, with the chalice spilling all of her secrets. She wasn't at all ready to leave the shaking bodies of the fanged and wonderful creatures. How should she consummate such a transaction? “I can't put back what's been removed, and there weren't any detours in the original schematic.” It’s damn near impossible to preserve life once you've decided the purpose and direction are flawed.

Which way did they go? Her eyes tipped back into her skull, imploring. She had not been able to anticipate or recognize their bleating charge at her heels, sucking away all hope of any retreat back to the warm space between the radiator and the foam batting. "Fuck". Fuck, this didn't even smell like home, let alone any place safe enough to conduct a serious hostile takeover. Unable to bring herself to any sort of real coherence, she called out to the police, the firemen, the militia and one-minute men, but she had already wiped them clean away with each calculated stroke of her atomic bombs and love-seeking missiles. She stopped to mutely consider the ruin of another city-state onto her clorox-white bathtub, her ruby irises chasing the children out of their beds and down the sewer, each one blending slowly into the flood of her misfortunes. The old dead flock was on the march again, driving tridents and spears into the hole in her spine; that's about when it all fell apart. Mountains and volcanoes fragmented into her face, and if she ever beat the elements, she'd just fucking cry. She had no more countrymen left but still felt slightly drunk and sleepy at the thought of never sitting on tacks again. Whales of indignant memories were mewling out her name, dragging her swiftly back to Siberia and the deserts of tile. Her cottony adversaries loomed around her, blind and bloody, forcing her to be so completely helpless. To aid herself or to end her careful coup d'etat? It didn't help matters much, having a plethora of driving instruments gouging out her spinal column, the final support for the eaves of the temple of her mother-goddess, Athena.

Screaming her doctrines into a torn and calloused thigh, she fingered the gates of hell and felt herself slip above the undertow. “I hope this wasn't mine,” she gulped in her own bodily waste along with the sea, wishing they could at least give witness to her last attempt at a decent coagulation. What’s the purpose of bravery or self-confidence? The jackal-bats answered by tearing at the delicate, opalescent skin of her throat, burning and biting her vocal cords. The idea that she wasn't going to die after all made her ankles retreat and spasm along the caulking to slam against the curtain rod. Like millions of space ship launches they failed from her shaking limbs, dumbly across her vision and into the waiting maw of the un-plugged drain. She was dragged behind the wills of sharks and Poseidon himself to the islands of fur that held sway over her toes each morning as she rid herself of imperfection, and allowed her skin to be molded and stretched until her fields were no longer bleeding, but no crop would ever take root now that she had burned the towns down and shooed the Quakers and Goodwives off of the burning bridges and into the sea.
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