Brigit's Flame -- "Fuel"
Prompt: "fuel"
Word Count: 214
Warnings: pretentiousness? D:
Summary: Hunger.
Author's Note: Never liked this one, but some other people did. Originally here.
FUEL
I’m starving.
The ground beneath me is ever so slightly damp in places, and I can’t help the satisfied hiss that escapes me as I suck it dry. I turn the shriveled leaves to charred dust and move along.
The trees, next, perhaps-they raise crooked arms in supplication to the sky. I crawl towards them, dart up them, and gnaw at their wrinkled skin, thick and stiff and tasteless, barring me from the tender flesh of their insides. When I manage to cut through, I drain them and leave the withered shells to mark the place like gravestones.
My voice isn’t much to brag about and never has been, but I sing to myself as I trip cheerfully down the hillside, the grass crackling with me in a cacophonous harmony as I spread my arms wide to embrace it all, to blanket its breadth. We must look so lovely, joined this way, melting together, but eventually I must abandon the hill as well. I paint it black to give it something to remember me by.
I breathe into the sky, and fragments of ash twirl like snowflakes, flirting with the breeze that ushers them, stinging, into eyes and lungs and mouths. I laugh softly, and no-longer-greenery sighs.
I’m still hungry.
I’m always hungry.
Word Count: 214
Warnings: pretentiousness? D:
Summary: Hunger.
Author's Note: Never liked this one, but some other people did. Originally here.
FUEL
I’m starving.
The ground beneath me is ever so slightly damp in places, and I can’t help the satisfied hiss that escapes me as I suck it dry. I turn the shriveled leaves to charred dust and move along.
The trees, next, perhaps-they raise crooked arms in supplication to the sky. I crawl towards them, dart up them, and gnaw at their wrinkled skin, thick and stiff and tasteless, barring me from the tender flesh of their insides. When I manage to cut through, I drain them and leave the withered shells to mark the place like gravestones.
My voice isn’t much to brag about and never has been, but I sing to myself as I trip cheerfully down the hillside, the grass crackling with me in a cacophonous harmony as I spread my arms wide to embrace it all, to blanket its breadth. We must look so lovely, joined this way, melting together, but eventually I must abandon the hill as well. I paint it black to give it something to remember me by.
I breathe into the sky, and fragments of ash twirl like snowflakes, flirting with the breeze that ushers them, stinging, into eyes and lungs and mouths. I laugh softly, and no-longer-greenery sighs.
I’m still hungry.
I’m always hungry.