Do you not draw inspiration from the gut? Sprawled out in a mess of your own entrails; finger-painting Life, with blood.
Atipoe clapped his hands together and sat down at the edge of the steep cliff. His eyes took in the vision of forest around him. The dark clouds overhead cast a malignant spell over the otherwise beautiful morning. He opened his mouth slightly, and took in the cold taste of impending rain.
Do you not imbibe misery like the earth does water? Germinating your fears into a cactus that you may rub your face in; your human flesh hanging on to thin needles, natural, of your own creation.
A drizzle started, fast turning into a downpour. Atipoe got up and run, his little feet leading everywhere and nowhere. Leaves slapped at his face and scratched his skin, his feet splashed into mud pools , turning a golden brown. He got to a felled tree and still running, attempted to jump over. He landed badly, catching his ankle against its bark. His sprawled body rolled down the hill in quick fashion. The tiny pitch of his scream was a muffled splinter in the rain.
Do you not die, to resurrect? Slash at your throat with a blunt knife until friction gives in to wound. Fade into an endless vortex and come out a woman’s cunt. An end, a start, a start, an end.
The circled color definitions slowly came into focus, becoming the caked cracks of a mud hut. He made to turn to his side but found he had no will over his body. He tried one more time and fell back unto the mat, breathing heavily. A tiny splash of rain tickled his forehead. A cold wind blew through the tiny structure in which he was prisoner. The Huts opening was behind him, he figured. Begrudgingly, he felt his aching bones call his eyelids to sleep. He dozed and jolted up. The wind whistled a breeze again, enveloping the entire room. He dozed and fell asleep.
Do you not cast your hands over the rainbow and turn it black? Watch it ooze pus into a golden pot till it permeates any richness there ever was. Lick its vile content and ask for seconds, like a child. Suck your fingers dry and fall over your sides, to dream.
When he finally awoke, an old woman stood over him. Her eyes were tiny, sunken inside the puckered folds of her face. Hair, long and white: more than any he had ever seen before. He tried speaking but found he had no voice to. The rain had regained its intensity somehow. His shirtless chest spasmed at the coolness of the room. With a blank stare, she stretched a tired finger towards him, tracing the edges of his face. Atipoe gulped down the bulge in his throat. He could not move. She dragged her nail across his skin, rising up to the top of his head where slowly, she began massaging his scalp. A whimper escaped his lips. She spoke a strange incantation under her breath, her rubbing once slow and meticulous, changed to a rapid, rough pace as did her voice. A burning sensation run through Attipoe’s head, growing steadily into what he felt would be an explosion inside his skull. He screamed. His whole body wrenched into violent fits as he began foaming at the lips. Her chants grew all the louder.
Outside the hut, lightning struck, bringing light to the darkness surrounding the forest; revealing the faces of a dozen men on their knees.
Do you not frustrate the unknowing with your resolve to care the less? Stroke your cock at the temple of the gods. Desecrate the estuary of man and maker with your fables and lies. Spit into their ears, a lubrication for your rod. Burst into an orgasmic spiral, Without repercussion.
Elorin came out with a wrapped bundle in her arms. Through the cloth, a deeply brown color slowly spread, mixing in with the rain and dripping down her hands. She stood at the doorway staring out into nothing until she was noticed. The men hurried to their feet, drawing back in a fit of terror. She lay the bundle on the ground and stepped back. The wrapping gave way, unfolding itself to reveal the remains of a small crocodile.
“Is it dead?”
A murmur run through the small crowd.
“Where is Ansong?”
A smallish old man was shoved forward roughly. He tried forcing his way back into the huddled up crowd, but was pushed back, harder this time. He fell to the ground, at Elorin’s feet, whimpering.
“He was just a child. I thought …”
“It was Atipoe. Do you understand!?”
She bore down on him.
“It was your son.”