n3m3sis43 | Last Chance Idol, Week 1: In the Garden

Deep in the bowels of the city, a garden grows.

The city itself is sickly and gray, choked by the smog that swathes it day and night. Buildings stand empty, windows broken and boarded, and no weeds push through the cracks in the crumbling pavement. Pallid people come and go, sad, silent bundles of twigs trundling past dead trees in sidewalk cages. Their eyes are dull, despondent as the grimy glass fronts of the few surviving stores. Only the near-feral children show signs of life, roaming the streets in grungy packs.

But within the garden, the air is always clean and fresh. Sunlight filters in through an impossible canopy of green. Enormous blooms of every color imaginable nod in the gentle breeze, and the ground is carpeted with soft grass and sweet-smelling wildflowers.

And within the garden, she waits, her massive jaws open wide.

Her mouth is a brilliant fuchsia blaze. Near her wicked, glistening teeth, the flesh fades to a delicate pink, translucent as an infant's ear. She yawns, stretching sluggish extremities; the winter has been long and so has her slumber. But now a warm breeze blows and a pungent, earthy aroma rises up all around her. And the wind brings with it another scent, this one weaker but far more tempting: prey.

A deep, aching hunger gnaws at her insides. Her leaves quiver; liquid drips from her fangs. Two-legged beasts, not just one but many. Vines unfurl, slithering through streets and creeping around corners. They zero in, near enough to hear. To touch.

Six of the animals dash through the city, big and brawny juveniles, pursuing their own quarry. Their sweat and shouts fill the dry, dead air. Up close, the smell of fresh meat is maddening; she longs to grab the nearest one and be done with it. But she knows better. She needs more than one, and she can't ensnare them all from this distance. With grim restraint, she turns her attention to their target. It crouches in an alley, panting. This one is scrawny, hardly even enough for an appetizer. No matter--she'll save it for the wildflowers.

With one trembling tendril, she reaches out and taps it on the shoulder.

This way. She speaks directly into its mind, what little it possesses. You'll be safe here.

In the delirium of near-starvation, she senses something impossible. Something beyond the primitive, gabbling thought process of which these creatures are capable. There are words, full sentences, with a cold coherence that can only be a hallucination.

It's probably a trap, it thinks, but what other choice do I have?

She feels a flicker of doubt, but the beasts are not intelligent; everyone knows that. They are food, pure and simple.

Follow the vines. She curls a slim feeler, beckoning. I will protect you.

Howls of triumph ring out; its hiding place has been discovered. Its compact body explodes into action and its tiny mind falls silent. She hears only the rasp of its quickening respiration, the slap of its shoes against the ancient asphalt. It moves toward her, its would-be predators following. As the beasts approach, her consciousness winks out of existence. The urge to feed eclipses all else.

They burst into the garden. With her last shred of self-discipline, she bats the small one aside. Her serrated jaws snap shut around the others; their tender flesh gives way and hot juices drench her tongue and dribble from her lips. She sighs, relishing the crunch of bones between her teeth. A pleasant lassitude steals over her. Her leaves droop, and for a time the ecstasy of fullness is all she knows.

Why didn't you eat me, too?

She comes back to herself with a start. The small beast stands near the edge of the garden, its fur-tufted head bowed like a blossom too heavy for its slender stem. Outrunning its pursuers has come at a cost; its bony chest heaves with every labored breath. She wonders why its lungs, unlike the others', are not adapted to the city's poisoned air. Why it hasn't tried to flee nonetheless.

I'm not from the city. It lifts its head to look at her, its pupils dilated. I don't have anywhere else to go.

Her insides twist once more, but not with hunger. It won't last a day in this city. Though she's devoured countless of its kind with no compunctions, this one is different. She unrolls her vines, baring her stem in a gesture of welcome. You have somewhere now.

It blinks at her, a silent, strange intelligence in its dark eyes. Cautiously, it crosses the garden to meet her, wrapping its spindly arms around her stem. This is its way of showing gratitude, she surmises. Secure in the knowledge she has done the right thing, she sighs. Gorged on food and fellowship, she enfolds her new companion in slender shoots of greenery, and--

"I'm sorry," it says in a cracked whisper. "With what you'll fetch me on the black market, I can eat for a year."

Something sharp pierces the soft spot beneath her jaws, and the world goes black.

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grail76.livejournal.com

I like the images. Good tone.

From:

Scribblings of a Madwoman

Last Chance Idol, Week 1: In the Garden

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