I Live in the Swamps
I live in the swamps. From a mighty oak, that has long since fallen, I slither out. Upon my belly I crawl, for I have no arms nor legs you see. Just stubs that I use to paddle about, like the turtles in the creek. And with these worn, chipped teeth, I pry away the loose bark, that rots from this oak, then feast upon the slugs, grubs, and beetles, before they can flee for safety. When my meal is finished, I search for loose soil, and dig with my chin, a hole for me to shit in.
It's always summer here. And my attire is the dry leaves and mud that stick to my skin. I made the mistake of bathing once in the shallow creek, nearby. I wanted to remember how it felt to be clean, and to sooth the burning itch from the poison ivy, that had spread down my back. I then basked, naked for all the heavens to see. As if I were a dandy lion, blooming beneath the sun. I laid there, wondering... how long my mother thought it would take, before the gators got to me. A few hours? A day? A week perhaps?
I was ten, when she brought me here. You see I was born this way, and I had become too big to care for. She placed me into the back seat. She didn't even bother with the seat belt. As she adjusted the rearview, she calmly said, "You and I are going on a picnic." I found this odd, for there was no picnic basket nor a cloth, to lay down on. Once there, she carried me deep into the woods, I heard her softly weep. So, I asked her, "What's wrong?" She only replied, "I'm sorry." Then rested me against the trunk of a tree, and walked back to the car.
As I laid there rewinding that day, I thought about what I would do to her, if I were to have suddenly grew arms. Then, my thoughts became dreams. My silence became slumber. I awoke to the sensation of something picking at my side. For a moment, I thought it was my mother pinching me, to show that I was only dreaming. But, when I peeled open my eye lids, sealed together with tears and sweat, I saw vultures, gathered around me. There red, skinned necks protruded from a mass of black feathers, as they pecked at my tender flesh. I screamed horribly while batting my limbs, until they all flew away. I decided never to bathe again.
When it rains, I sleep with my mouth open. Sometimes a spider will crawl in, to find a dry place to lay her eggs. And when crickets and frogs rejoice the cool evenings, I often gaze up at the stars. Many things, I draw from my recollection. Sometimes I think of the little boy, who once stumbled upon me. I laid there, perfectly still, until he poked me in the eye with a stick. I screamed in violence at him. His eyes widened, to discover that I was indeed real. He ran off, to his father, who I presume to be fishing. He screamed at the top of his lungs, "Daddy, there's a man in the woods!"
I feared being discovered. What would you do, if you discovered a helpless freak in the woods? Would you call an ambulance? Or would you just pass along, pretending not to see? Or perhaps, you would pick up a heavy stone, and bash his head into the dirt? My ugliness often reflects what's within other people. So, I laid there trembling in fear, for what fate may come. But just like alligators, he never came. He probably didn't even believe the boy.
I wonder, what stories the boy would tell his friends. And what stories they would tell there's. What sort of monster would I become in the minds of story tellers. The swamps are fertile ground for morbid fascinations. And so is the mind, fertile for wondrous phantasms. I live in the swamps... helpless and immobile. Yet, I'm a monster in the tales of folklore.
It's always summer here. And my attire is the dry leaves and mud that stick to my skin. I made the mistake of bathing once in the shallow creek, nearby. I wanted to remember how it felt to be clean, and to sooth the burning itch from the poison ivy, that had spread down my back. I then basked, naked for all the heavens to see. As if I were a dandy lion, blooming beneath the sun. I laid there, wondering... how long my mother thought it would take, before the gators got to me. A few hours? A day? A week perhaps?
I was ten, when she brought me here. You see I was born this way, and I had become too big to care for. She placed me into the back seat. She didn't even bother with the seat belt. As she adjusted the rearview, she calmly said, "You and I are going on a picnic." I found this odd, for there was no picnic basket nor a cloth, to lay down on. Once there, she carried me deep into the woods, I heard her softly weep. So, I asked her, "What's wrong?" She only replied, "I'm sorry." Then rested me against the trunk of a tree, and walked back to the car.
As I laid there rewinding that day, I thought about what I would do to her, if I were to have suddenly grew arms. Then, my thoughts became dreams. My silence became slumber. I awoke to the sensation of something picking at my side. For a moment, I thought it was my mother pinching me, to show that I was only dreaming. But, when I peeled open my eye lids, sealed together with tears and sweat, I saw vultures, gathered around me. There red, skinned necks protruded from a mass of black feathers, as they pecked at my tender flesh. I screamed horribly while batting my limbs, until they all flew away. I decided never to bathe again.
When it rains, I sleep with my mouth open. Sometimes a spider will crawl in, to find a dry place to lay her eggs. And when crickets and frogs rejoice the cool evenings, I often gaze up at the stars. Many things, I draw from my recollection. Sometimes I think of the little boy, who once stumbled upon me. I laid there, perfectly still, until he poked me in the eye with a stick. I screamed in violence at him. His eyes widened, to discover that I was indeed real. He ran off, to his father, who I presume to be fishing. He screamed at the top of his lungs, "Daddy, there's a man in the woods!"
I feared being discovered. What would you do, if you discovered a helpless freak in the woods? Would you call an ambulance? Or would you just pass along, pretending not to see? Or perhaps, you would pick up a heavy stone, and bash his head into the dirt? My ugliness often reflects what's within other people. So, I laid there trembling in fear, for what fate may come. But just like alligators, he never came. He probably didn't even believe the boy.
I wonder, what stories the boy would tell his friends. And what stories they would tell there's. What sort of monster would I become in the minds of story tellers. The swamps are fertile ground for morbid fascinations. And so is the mind, fertile for wondrous phantasms. I live in the swamps... helpless and immobile. Yet, I'm a monster in the tales of folklore.
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