fic: the jungle
title: the jungle
fandom: original
prompt: supernatural: creatures
medium: fic
rating: pg - 13
warnings: none.
summary: when i was little, i was told of the jungle and what lived within.
I sit in the jungle. Sheltered beneath a standing rock, trying to escape the rain and the wind, having long ago given up trying to keep a fire going. My defenses are weak and my perimeter is less than secure. There are sounds and sights and smells all around me. However, I try to ignore them. They only make me more fearful.
My dad told me not to go into the jungle, because there are dangerous animals in there. Dangerous animals that would swallow me whole without a second of hesitation. They would have sharp teeth, crooked claws and yellow eyes. Some of them would be large and terrifying, some would be small and stealthy. Reptilian monsters stretching on for miles. Furred creatures in packs, surrounding their prey. These dangerous animals were put in the jungle to keep humans out. Their purpose was to put the fear of mortality into children. He used to say they kill because they like it.
When I got to school, they said differently. They would say the jungle was still dangerous. Poisonous flowers and wines, marshes where people walk in and never walk out, freezing nights colder than the bottom of the sea. The jungle in itself was the danger. Animals, however, were not dangerous. Using a series of patterns, these so called dangerous animals could be studied, understood and tamed. Sharp teeth were for eating. Crooked claws were for climbing. Yellow eyes were for running in the night. They said animals kill because they are hungry.
My dad died, and I adapted, learning to push down what I now understood was an irrational fear of ruthless predators stalking for the pleasure of the kill.
Once when I was older, I walked through the jungle, and I met an old woman huddled close to a fire underneath a large rock. When she saw me, she urged me to come closer and be quiet. When I asked why, she told me I was shining too brightly. I would attract the predators. Carrying a tranquilizer gun and a large pouch of disappearing dust, I was not worried. However, as we talked, it became clear to me we spoke different languages. My predators were dangerous animals hunting prey to feed. Her predators were made of stone, smelling for victims. Earth goblins, she said.
Now, believe me when I say that earth goblins are not real. What has never been seen, heard, smelled, tasted or touched is until proven otherwise imaginary. Earth goblins, much like angels or aliens, are just the speculations of bored, originative or fearful people. The old woman claimed nevertheless that these creatures were the predators of the Earth. I asked her why.
Like myself, she had gone to school and had been taught about animals and their ways. How they do not kill for fun, but because they are hungry. Like my school, she said animals were not dangerous. Earth goblins, she claimed, were dangerous because they differed greatly from the animals. They were all too much like humans. She tried to explain this phenomenon for several hours, and I could not understand. When morning came, we went our separate ways.
I thought about what she had told me as I walked down my path. These predators did not kill for the fun, like my dad had said to me. Neither did they kill to satisfy their hunger. To quote, she said they are hungry because they kill. The hunger of their stomach may be slaked with a bloody meal, but the emptiness of their souls would only grow larger and larger. They can never be satisfied and the hunt can never end.
I came to the conclusion that it seemed most troublesome. At least the most bloodthirsty animal can sleep, satisfied, with their bellies full at night. At times I think she spoke of humans, but chose to use a different word when telling me. In this time of war, it seemed only fitting that one could recognize the ruthlessness and the terror that man can be.
Now, eleven years later, sitting beneath a rock very similar to the one she had huddled under, clutching at my last weapon and defense not rendered useless by the harsh climate, I find myself fearful. In the shadows, I believe I can see them. Small bodies and small hands, making only the lightest of noises, crawling closer and closer until they will finally consume me. Maybe there is nothing in the shadows, but not knowing does not ease my worries.
As the minutes pass and I wish for day to come, I wonder what would happen to me if they were real. What if earth goblins, like dangerous animals, existed? If I was eaten by one, would I become a part of the emptiness that is their splintered soul mangled by death, like the old woman had described? The thought did not appeal to me.
My caller is broken and the receiver is shaky. If only the Observatory would call me. I could tell them were I am to the exact coordinates, and they would come in their crafts to pick me up and take me away. If they would be able to make it out, of course. For now however, the device is silent, strung around my neck like the vice of death. The sterility of their white coats seem more like home now than ever.
I fall asleep. I never ever noticed I was tired.
As I sleep, I believe the earth goblins crawled, slithered and flew closer, inching towards the sleeping body lying on the jungle floor. Surely they would have thought me foolish, careless, stupid, to fall asleep in their territory. When I wake, there are no creatures, no dangerous animals, there is only daylight, and I am so glad to see it.
I conclude that morning that earth goblins are imaginary. I never saw one, I never heard one, I never touched one, therefore, it must not exist until proven otherwise.
Walking to my home in the Observatory, I felt saver knowing that until proven otherwise, the jungle was only filled with dangerous animals with sharp teeth, crooked claws and yellow eyes, poisonous flowers and wines, marshes where people walk in and never walk out and freezing nights colder than the bottom of the sea.
I leave the jungle.
fandom: original
prompt: supernatural: creatures
medium: fic
rating: pg - 13
warnings: none.
summary: when i was little, i was told of the jungle and what lived within.
I sit in the jungle. Sheltered beneath a standing rock, trying to escape the rain and the wind, having long ago given up trying to keep a fire going. My defenses are weak and my perimeter is less than secure. There are sounds and sights and smells all around me. However, I try to ignore them. They only make me more fearful.
My dad told me not to go into the jungle, because there are dangerous animals in there. Dangerous animals that would swallow me whole without a second of hesitation. They would have sharp teeth, crooked claws and yellow eyes. Some of them would be large and terrifying, some would be small and stealthy. Reptilian monsters stretching on for miles. Furred creatures in packs, surrounding their prey. These dangerous animals were put in the jungle to keep humans out. Their purpose was to put the fear of mortality into children. He used to say they kill because they like it.
When I got to school, they said differently. They would say the jungle was still dangerous. Poisonous flowers and wines, marshes where people walk in and never walk out, freezing nights colder than the bottom of the sea. The jungle in itself was the danger. Animals, however, were not dangerous. Using a series of patterns, these so called dangerous animals could be studied, understood and tamed. Sharp teeth were for eating. Crooked claws were for climbing. Yellow eyes were for running in the night. They said animals kill because they are hungry.
My dad died, and I adapted, learning to push down what I now understood was an irrational fear of ruthless predators stalking for the pleasure of the kill.
Once when I was older, I walked through the jungle, and I met an old woman huddled close to a fire underneath a large rock. When she saw me, she urged me to come closer and be quiet. When I asked why, she told me I was shining too brightly. I would attract the predators. Carrying a tranquilizer gun and a large pouch of disappearing dust, I was not worried. However, as we talked, it became clear to me we spoke different languages. My predators were dangerous animals hunting prey to feed. Her predators were made of stone, smelling for victims. Earth goblins, she said.
Now, believe me when I say that earth goblins are not real. What has never been seen, heard, smelled, tasted or touched is until proven otherwise imaginary. Earth goblins, much like angels or aliens, are just the speculations of bored, originative or fearful people. The old woman claimed nevertheless that these creatures were the predators of the Earth. I asked her why.
Like myself, she had gone to school and had been taught about animals and their ways. How they do not kill for fun, but because they are hungry. Like my school, she said animals were not dangerous. Earth goblins, she claimed, were dangerous because they differed greatly from the animals. They were all too much like humans. She tried to explain this phenomenon for several hours, and I could not understand. When morning came, we went our separate ways.
I thought about what she had told me as I walked down my path. These predators did not kill for the fun, like my dad had said to me. Neither did they kill to satisfy their hunger. To quote, she said they are hungry because they kill. The hunger of their stomach may be slaked with a bloody meal, but the emptiness of their souls would only grow larger and larger. They can never be satisfied and the hunt can never end.
I came to the conclusion that it seemed most troublesome. At least the most bloodthirsty animal can sleep, satisfied, with their bellies full at night. At times I think she spoke of humans, but chose to use a different word when telling me. In this time of war, it seemed only fitting that one could recognize the ruthlessness and the terror that man can be.
Now, eleven years later, sitting beneath a rock very similar to the one she had huddled under, clutching at my last weapon and defense not rendered useless by the harsh climate, I find myself fearful. In the shadows, I believe I can see them. Small bodies and small hands, making only the lightest of noises, crawling closer and closer until they will finally consume me. Maybe there is nothing in the shadows, but not knowing does not ease my worries.
As the minutes pass and I wish for day to come, I wonder what would happen to me if they were real. What if earth goblins, like dangerous animals, existed? If I was eaten by one, would I become a part of the emptiness that is their splintered soul mangled by death, like the old woman had described? The thought did not appeal to me.
My caller is broken and the receiver is shaky. If only the Observatory would call me. I could tell them were I am to the exact coordinates, and they would come in their crafts to pick me up and take me away. If they would be able to make it out, of course. For now however, the device is silent, strung around my neck like the vice of death. The sterility of their white coats seem more like home now than ever.
I fall asleep. I never ever noticed I was tired.
As I sleep, I believe the earth goblins crawled, slithered and flew closer, inching towards the sleeping body lying on the jungle floor. Surely they would have thought me foolish, careless, stupid, to fall asleep in their territory. When I wake, there are no creatures, no dangerous animals, there is only daylight, and I am so glad to see it.
I conclude that morning that earth goblins are imaginary. I never saw one, I never heard one, I never touched one, therefore, it must not exist until proven otherwise.
Walking to my home in the Observatory, I felt saver knowing that until proven otherwise, the jungle was only filled with dangerous animals with sharp teeth, crooked claws and yellow eyes, poisonous flowers and wines, marshes where people walk in and never walk out and freezing nights colder than the bottom of the sea.
I leave the jungle.