• Home
    • Blog
  • Writing
    • FLICKER(2)
    • The Man From Philadelphia - Release
    • Morse Code [On Hiatus]>
      • Prologue
      • CHAPTER ONE: THE RORSCHACH
      • CHAPTER TWO: THE ASTEROID
      • CHAPTER THREE: THE WOMAN
      • CHAPTER FOUR: THE MESSAGE
      • CHAPTER FIVE: THE BODY
      • CHAPTER SIX: THE HOLE
      • CHAPTER SEVEN: THE PROBLEM
      • Interlude I
      • CHAPTER EIGHT: THE ARRIVAL
      • Morse Code: Illustrations
    • Thursday Stories>
      • Flowers Under Foreign Skies
      • Rabbit Rising
      • The Hungry
      • Mosquito Holocaust
      • The Jungle Comes
      • The Starship's Wife
      • The Carpenter's Tale
      • A World Deferred
      • All Quiet on the Western Wavefront
      • The Earworm
      • The Dissapearing Man [Part 1]
      • Season's Greetings
      • When Joe Came Back
      • The Cobalt Man
      • The Stranger And the Turtle
      • Ben's Fridge Journal
      • The Mutiny on the Protsvetanie
      • Fishies
    • Freelance Work
    • Scratch Pad>
      • Poetry
      • Soldiers of Eden (excerpt)
      • The Whales
  • Biography
  • Contact
    • Pay me

Soldiers of Eden (excerpt)


Author's Note:  This is a bit from a stalled writing project of mine.  It may get finished at some point - and, again, it may not.  







The children play at being real boys, in the cluttered cavern of the blind.      


In the dim light of the nursery, the Johhnys hustle through empty corridors, and the glass jars of infants glitter in the cold and sterile lighting.  The infants slumber in amniotic dreams, decebriated, brains untangled into a gray halo through the fluid surrounding them.  They twitch, now and again, synaptic puppetry jerking frozen muscles.          

Twenty by twenty by twenty the jars are arranged.  Snaking bundles of tubes and wires run to and fro across the floor, blooming into strange flowers that tangle with meat and muscle inside the gently exploded craniums. 
    

There is a clock, somewhere, and its faint metronome is the only sound; save a faint rasp, now and again, as a jar is shuttled off somewhere, or a new one arrives.  Occasionally a baby wakes, or cries out in it's sleep, but its lungs are full of fluid and no sound escapes.    I stand in the corner, watching them, for the longest time.  

Long enough, I think. 
Bookmark and Share

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.