Thursday, October 22, 2009

The Island of Tortured Crops

The land is plagued by daemon. They torture the people of the rock. I run away on a maxi-taxi horse with no name. I run from the country to the old neighbourhood to escape the legions pursuing me.

I must enter a strange and unfamiliar house. I must lock each door as I enter each room. This will slow them down, but stop them it cannot.

I reach the last room. In that final room, behind the last door there is a man tied to the post of a tree. He is just a man, and only an example of any other man. I must torture him to free myself. I take up the blow torch and I cleave the skin from his flesh with one hundred percent accuracy. As if it were practiced. As if it were writ. As if I were already a daemon myself.

The flesh glows orange in the wake of the torch like the coals and embers and fires of hell. Blood pours from the open chasm of those wounds like a river from the urn of life.

I must tie the man even more in an attempt to bind and lock the door. The moment I finish, the moment I turn to the door, the one leading to my freedom, the daemon pursuing me enters the room.

He tells me to keep walking, to keep moving and to never look back, and this I do gladly. The moment I cross the threshold however, I feel the tide shift, and I hear him beckoning me to return.

I keep walking. I do not so much as hesitate. The humans, the tortured, are scattered across the land, are scattered across the country, are scattered across the world.

They move in mysterious ways, full of electricity and energy, full of intensity and spark, dashing and shivering like lightning, only to slow, only to stop, their movements becoming stiff as they strike myriad poses, like flies, like dead things, only to zoom away once again.

The grace and fluidity of life has been bled from their bodies, but the bodies remember the song. The daemon find this dance and drama amusing, for they are the farmers, and they have harvested well. We, the mere crops, have been reaped and have been yielding.

This is the end. The scene is dead, the story is dying and so is the small world on the stage. Here halts the dreaming. Beautiful nightmares to you all...