swarm,
eating deep into his eye sockets, and millipedes weave through ragged, bloody holes nibbled between his now-exposed rib bones.
As we watch in horror, wondering what could drive a person to such an
extreme course of action... Babette, Patterson, Leonard, Archer, and I... we
turn in unison to see a lumbering, towering figure approach.
VIII.
Are you there, Satan? It's me, Madison. It might amuse you to hear we
were beset by a demon of thrilling size. This precipitated the most amazing act
of heroism and self-sacrifice—really, from the least likely person among our
company. In addition I've included more of my own background, in the event
you're interested in learning more about me as an interesting, fully faceted
overweight person.
A s our little group
stands atop the ridge overlooking the Sea of Insects, a looming figure stomps
toward us. Each of its thundering footfalls trembles the surrounding hillocks, bringing
down dusty cascades of ancient finger-and toenail clippings, and the figure
stands so tall that we can discern only the silhouette of it as outlined
against the flaming orange sky. So violently does the giant's weight shake the
ground that the cliff on which we stand heaves and shimmers beneath us, the
loose nail parings threatening to subside and deposit us into the seething,
devouring bugs.
It's Leonard who speaks first, whispering only the single word,
"Psezpolnica."
In our immediate distress, Babette appears to be far too self-absorbed,
the poor quality of her fashion accessories too blatant a metaphor—impossible
to ignore—representing her choice of surface appeal over inner quality.
Patterson, the athlete, seems frozen in his conventional, traditional
attitudes, a person for whom the rules of the universe were fixed very early
and will always remain unchanged. In contrast, the rebellious Archer presents
himself as a knee-jerk rejection of... everything. Of my newfound companions
Leonard shows the most promise of evolving into something more than an
acquaintance. And, yes, once more I recognize promise as a symptom of my nagging, deeply ingrained tendency to hope.
Prompted by this hope, made manifest by my instinct for
self-preservation, when Patterson very slowly fits his foot-hall helmet over
his head and says, "Run," my stout legs don't hesitate. As Archer and
Babette and Patterson each flee on their own tangent, I run beside Leonard.
"Psezpolnica," he pants, legs working against the soft, malleable
layers of nails, his bent arms pumping the air for momentum, Leonard says,
"The Serbians call her 'the tornado woman of midday."' Gasping for
breath, running beside me, his shirt pocketful of pens bouncing against his
skinny chest, Leonard says, "Her specialty is driving people insane,
lopping off their heads and ripping them limb from limb…”'
In a glance, I look back to see a woman who towers as tall as a
tornado, her face so distant it seems tiny against the sky, as straight-up and
high above me as the sun at noon. Like a flaring funnel cloud, her long black
hair whips and streams out from her head, and she hesitates as if deciding
which of us to pursue.
Beyond the giantess, Babette staggers, both of her cheesy, way-shoddy
shoes flapping around her feet, hobbling and tripping her. Patterson hunches
his shoulders, dodging and weaving, his cleats throwing up a rooster tail of
nail filings as if he were running a football through some defensive line,
headed for a touchdown. Archer rips off his leather jacket and tosses it aside,
sprinting full-tilt, the chains looped around his one boot clanking.
The tornado demon crouches, reaching lower with a hand, the fingers
spread as wide as a parachute, steadily lowering toward the stumbling,
screaming figure of Babette.
Granted, there exists an element of play in all of this panic; having
witnessed the demon Ahriman render and consume Patterson, and Patterson's
subsequent regeneration to a redheaded, gray-eyed footballer, on some level
eating deep into his eye sockets, and millipedes weave through ragged, bloody holes nibbled between his now-exposed rib bones.
As we watch in horror, wondering what could drive a person to such an
extreme course of action... Babette, Patterson, Leonard, Archer, and I... we
turn in unison to see a lumbering, towering figure approach.
VIII.
Are you there, Satan? It's me, Madison. It might amuse you to hear we
were beset by a demon of thrilling size. This precipitated the most amazing act
of heroism and self-sacrifice—really, from the least likely person among our
company. In addition I've included more of my own background, in the event
you're interested in learning more about me as an interesting, fully faceted
overweight person.
A s our little group
stands atop the ridge overlooking the Sea of Insects, a looming figure stomps
toward us. Each of its thundering footfalls trembles the surrounding hillocks, bringing
down dusty cascades of ancient finger-and toenail clippings, and the figure
stands so tall that we can discern only the silhouette of it as outlined
against the flaming orange sky. So violently does the giant's weight shake the
ground that the cliff on which we stand heaves and shimmers beneath us, the
loose nail parings threatening to subside and deposit us into the seething,
devouring bugs.
It's Leonard who speaks first, whispering only the single word,
"Psezpolnica."
In our immediate distress, Babette appears to be far too self-absorbed,
the poor quality of her fashion accessories too blatant a metaphor—impossible
to ignore—representing her choice of surface appeal over inner quality.
Patterson, the athlete, seems frozen in his conventional, traditional
attitudes, a person for whom the rules of the universe were fixed very early
and will always remain unchanged. In contrast, the rebellious Archer presents
himself as a knee-jerk rejection of... everything. Of my newfound companions
Leonard shows the most promise of evolving into something more than an
acquaintance. And, yes, once more I recognize promise as a symptom of my nagging, deeply ingrained tendency to hope.
Prompted by this hope, made manifest by my instinct for
self-preservation, when Patterson very slowly fits his foot-hall helmet over
his head and says, "Run," my stout legs don't hesitate. As Archer and
Babette and Patterson each flee on their own tangent, I run beside Leonard.
"Psezpolnica," he pants, legs working against the soft, malleable
layers of nails, his bent arms pumping the air for momentum, Leonard says,
"The Serbians call her 'the tornado woman of midday."' Gasping for
breath, running beside me, his shirt pocketful of pens bouncing against his
skinny chest, Leonard says, "Her specialty is driving people insane,
lopping off their heads and ripping them limb from limb…”'
In a glance, I look back to see a woman who towers as tall as a
tornado, her face so distant it seems tiny against the sky, as straight-up and
high above me as the sun at noon. Like a flaring funnel cloud, her long black
hair whips and streams out from her head, and she hesitates as if deciding
which of us to pursue.
Beyond the giantess, Babette staggers, both of her cheesy, way-shoddy
shoes flapping around her feet, hobbling and tripping her. Patterson hunches
his shoulders, dodging and weaving, his cleats throwing up a rooster tail of
nail filings as if he were running a football through some defensive line,
headed for a touchdown. Archer rips off his leather jacket and tosses it aside,
sprinting full-tilt, the chains looped around his one boot clanking.
The tornado demon crouches, reaching lower with a hand, the fingers
spread as wide as a parachute, steadily lowering toward the stumbling,
screaming figure of Babette.
Granted, there exists an element of play in all of this panic; having
witnessed the demon Ahriman render and consume Patterson, and Patterson's
subsequent regeneration to a redheaded, gray-eyed footballer, on some level
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