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EYESHELL
I walk over to the window of my cramped room. The candles are guttering in a new, sharp breeze; so I close it, taking a moment to gaze out over the grey slates of the long roof ahead of me. They glisten in the drizzle. The moon's muffled loneliness foams through substantial midnight clouds above. I hear a chattering from the stove, so I go over and begin preparing the meal. The large barnacled ball cracks open with a drippy mucous, revealing the huge eye within. The orb, milky and expectant, rolls in its hard socket with a slick movement. The red iris glows ruby in the candlelight. I stab at it with my long thin knife, puncturing the flesh of it and causing it to rattle inside the pan. I push harder and it stops. When the meal is finished I stand and stumble forwards, already retching. I clumsily knock over the undecorated bottle of wine on the table, but leave it to slug out onto the floor, as I am ready to puke. The contents of my stomach fall out into the bowl of my toilet. Sweating, I reach up to flush with a weary, sagging tentacle of an arm. The walk back to my room is a zombie shuffle. The stiff shell still sits on the plate, empty, encompassing only shadow. There is a soft knocking sound, and it trembles slightly. I stand over it for a moment, waiting. It wobbles again. I turn the thing over to inspect its base and see a tiny eye blinking back at me. I pitch the crusty fist-sized object across the room and it splashes into the steaming water of my sink. I slump into a chair and exhale heavily. My emerging beard feels good under probing fingers. I twist my whiskers into little bundles, like so many witches broomsticks, then stand again. My desk is as I had left it. I sit, pick up my pen with trembling fingers, and begin work on the maps that would change the world. by eggmon |