Lord of the Flies

[Anonymous]

You can't expect much in a place like this.

  Earth, crusty and brittle here, murky and boggy there. Patches of wiry vegetation, lands that reached out in every direction with a straight horizon: no lumps, no bumps. A few creatures hopped around. Small, swampy creatures that were coloured like dry grass and clay. Everything smelled with the warmth of the mud, stinking and squelching, popping with nasty gasses and gurgling as if it needed to be fed. Where the dirt grew soft it quivered and spilled, breaking into patches of slippery mud. The smell was terrible.

  Small, wormy things usually loved it, but today there came the flies. Hundreds of thousands of them buzzing frantically like they had really found something good. They were pulling out their cutlery, and if they had lips, they licked them. To them, the stench was like apple pie, or freshly baked bread, or even lasagna.

  The flatulence of the bog erupted, sending tons of the insects hurdling backwards, bubbles popping and old, earthy air escaping its ancient bowels. It would present them with a gift.

  At first it looked like only a finger. The only way it moved, was with the mud,  as if the swamp was swaying alone. It came to a palm, then a wrist, then a whole arm, each crease soldered with mud and purple with death. Yet then it moved, there, at the elbow, pushing and shoving, moving everything away so that its slick body could push out onto the dry earth. Another arm flew restlessly before it, clinging to the weeds and jerking upwards with a satisfying POP!

  Whatever he was, he was mud. His body was consumed by it, all but the one finger. His eyes were held shut by the weight of it, even as he desperately began to whipe it away, to pick it from his nose, to spit it from his mouth, he was so tired. Although he had spent so long crawling from death, he now felt as if he might lie down and take it. He fell to the earth in a heap of slime and stink, each inch of him worse then the last, thick chunks of the mud holding him still by his knees.

  He heard the flies buzzing as they pecked at what morsels of flesh he had saved from the bog. Bits of elbow, bits of ear. He raised a hand lazily to smack them away -- but instead continued to push the earth away from him, ripping his mask of earth apart just to let out a strangled yell, "Hello?"

  His voice was like a child's, so human, though he appeared as such, not.

   "HELLO!" He paused, coughing up bits of everything, "HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLOOOOOOOOO!" He was annoying the flies, they grew disinterested by his ruckus, "I need a SMOKE. I need a LIGHT. I need a BATH!"

  His hollaring, he felt, could reach no ears.

[Anonymous]

[May I join in?]

No one knew for sure how many years It had lived in the Wastelands. No one really cared. It was just another wretched life wandering the ruined plains, albeit...one of the more troublesome residents...but not for all the usual reasons.

Calloused pegs stirred earth filled with the dust of old things. The familiarity of It's hunting grounds had perhaps lulled the denizen into a sense of asylum...a place for quiet wandering, where Sounds could be pulled from the air and perused at will. Here, at least, It remained unchallenged. It's goals for today were simple; a long chase and a hot meal. It's leathery meat was sore for movement. Yes...following a lean week and several frozen nights which would make Ze's carapace snap, damn them, It wanted a long chase...

The hunting grounds were lovely today. Little noises, a soft warm breeze...and not another sentient soul for Hearing, nor a desirable meal. Ze was quite used to such loneliness. But It was not to be pitied. Soon It was deep in the bogs, where the heat of the water and mud slicked It's legs, and flies coated It's skin. Ze was not built for this terrain, but something seemed to draw It inward, like a moth to the zapper. The flies sung loudly in It's mind to the point where discerning Sound was difficult, and It considered turning back...

...But then, something else.

An entity. So this was why It came to the bog today.

-I hear you, and I am coming- It's telepathic voice whispered eagerly in the ears of the stranger, be It still several meters away.

[Anonymous]

The body squirmed wretchedly, gasping for air, slathered in goo. It was as if the bog had finally given birth to its ugly mud-baby. It sat completely still now.

He felt something dry and mottled, some kind of terrible bog plant he could only assume, and it prickled his hands while he used it to hoist himself further. His strength was nominal, and his shoulders sagged with each dissatisfying pull. He seemed to be getting nowhere, but if he had been able to see anything, he could see he was getting close to freedom. The seconds ticked by like days and the hot sun began to sting his shoulders. He hadn't drank up any vitamin D in at least a good century. The worst, he could assume, would be ten years. Ten years of sleeping in the muck. Little did he know that it was the BEST case scenario. In fact, he had been there when all of this was his father's backyard, flowery and bright, overflowing with bumble bees and butterflies and emerald green hummingbirds with wings that beat with the noise of their quick hearts. He could remember it all like yesterday, because to him, it probably WAS yesterday. But the bog, it brings people down. After awhile, the stench gets so intoxicating that you can easily forget which way is up, and instead get lost breathing worms in through your nose and digging yourself a trade route to China.

There he had sat, in the womb of the bog, forgetting where he was or how he even got there. Quite alone up until this moment.

The moment he heard the first voice of the new world.

In his head.

"I hear you, I am coming."

Were they words? Was he dying again? He had already done it once, and it was quite like this, just plain bizzarre fantasy but with more flashing lights and angels. This was muck. Maybe this was hell? He deserved it, anyways. His gut twisted as he realised he was foiled once again by a greater power. Somebody stronger then him was always hanging around whenever he got the hang of things. If it was his choice, he would be an excellent bloodsucker, making the most out of his hatred for humanity and his hunger for their blood. He was so hungry. But most of all, he'd love a cigarette.

He sat up and the back of his wrist slid across his eyes, while his other hand absently tugged at a worm trying to get back into his mouth. Mud fell from him in clumps. He opened his eyes and could see...

...nothing was there.

There were no stars, there was no moon, there was nobody speaking to him. Just the flat, empty earth drifting endlessly into the horizon. He blinked, wondering if mirages could be heard instead of seen, and nothing changed.

"I'M HERE!" He squawked, frantically waving his arms with what little energy he still had, "I'M IN THE MUD! I'M THE ONLY DAMN THING IN THE MUD! I'M HERE! WHERE ARE YOU?!"