epsilonaught

What's a blog?
...
Here's some words I wrote one time:

Egg.

"The serpents are hungry," or so thought the starving physician in his humble cellar, walls spastically stained with the splashes of ethanol he once doused himself in for no reason more than to evade the fetid tentacles of the tedium that had recently become his life. He was suffocating in the pit of rancid waste and slurry which he regretted to call his existance, so much so that he had totally lost interest in his perverse little experiments. One of which was precariously leaning upside-down against the south-east corner of the physician's cell. A fleeting glance toward it reminded him that he should dispose of its remains, lest the serpents become irate. Presently, the physician - let's name him the Hyperion for the sake of clarity - lifted his discarded plaything by its crooked left ankle and dragged it sluggishly toward the opposite, north-west corner of the dank tomb which encased his entity. There, he pulled a rusted iron lever which revealed a chute, opening in the wall to his left, into which he heaved the mangled remnants. Moments later, the chute closed automatically. The Hyperion stepped away from the corner, ignoring the sounds of the grinding buzz-saws and disposal-machinery inexplicably concealed beneath the damp, muddy ground as they separated flesh from bone, driving meat-pulp into the storage chambers buried underfoot, where countless ophidians surely awaited a meal. Though this was not even close to ample.

The Hyperion was not amused. He approached the mildewy iron ladder bolted into the bricks of the eastern wall. Climbing to the top, slowly and in sporadic spasmic twitches of muscle convulsions, he glared in disgust down upon his home, nay prison. It wasn't his choice to live there. It wasn't his choice that he would someday die there. It was just how things had come to be. As he reached the ceiling, he forced the heavy stone trapdoor up and hoisted his feeble, sweaty body through the manhole. As always, the Hyperion was indifferent to the detailless white scenery of the surface of this foreign world above his cell. From a detached perspective it would appear as though he stood atop a white sphere, hurtling through an empty grey universe. This was all that the Hyperion had ever known. This was all he had needed.

He meandered as if guided by some hidden beacon through the empty scenery until he reached his destination, a completely unmarked area, in no way distinct from anywhere else on the small orb. The Hyperion started scratching with his fingernails at the smooth, white floor. He then peeled a translucent layer of film from the ground, under which lay a somewhat gelatinous white substance. The Hyperion began digging into this floor until a runny xanthous liquid oozed forth from the ground at a depth of roughly 1.33 metres. He then thrust his forearm into the liquid and reached for something frantically. After some struggle, his grip closed around a thin, boney limb. Instantly he then tore this appendage forth from the yokes that entrapped it within the ground. Connected to this frail limb was an equally frail torso. That of a bald, deformed, malnourished young hen, around the size of the Hyperion but much thinner. Its beak short and crooked, its eyes blind and grey. The decrepid creature's wings were mere skeletal hooks covered in a thin layer of pale, coarse flesh. The Hyperion kicked the chicken in its shin before it had time to rise to its pathetic feet. Then he proceeded to drag the sorry bird by its left wing back towards his cellar.

Upon reaching his dominion, the Hyperion violently thrust the frail beast down the manhole and followed suit. Withdrawing a vial of colourless liquid, he grimmaced slightly. After drinking the entire contents of the vial, he sat on the dank floor, his operating gown sullied by the filth within which he permanently dwelled. The Hyperion presently grasped a scalpel in his left hand and fingered it nervously. This was to be his final task. He wanted it to be a success.

As the physician approached the cowering mass of boney joints, talons and beak huddled in the corner a faint stroke of genius overrode his internal operating system. He recalled his countless previous experiments, as indeed they were all he could recall, and the underlying futility of his operations. Instead of attempting to improve this specimen by "fixing" it in his callous manner of massochistically disrupting its life processes, he would, for the first time, allow it to live and monitor its behaviours. At least, for the time being.

And it was such that the chicken-beast stayed in the physician's cellar. It, however did not move from the corner. Frightened, cold and blind, it was unable to trust this new environment. Never before had it experienced anything beyond the warm, tender embrace of the sphere's nurturing whomb. Yet here it was, so close to its birth place beneath the surface, trapped in a lonely stone cellar with a psychopathic surgeon. Cold and broken, it could not move, nor did it desire to. In the blank emptiness of this invisible, blind prison, the chicken slowly lay itself to rest.

The Hyperion, after patiently waiting for several weeks and being dismayed by the lack of progress decided to instigate an investigation into the problem. The chicken-thing had not moved in the last 13 days and he began to detect a malodourous new scent. He simply could not accept another failure. His sole purpose in existance was to operate, and success was the only option. Yet he had ultimatley failed with all of his prior attempts. Feeling the few remaining ties that bonded his mind to sanity slowly dissipating, he twitched slightly and advanced upon his patient. After kicking it a few times, he deduced that the bird had stopped like all of his previous experiments. He then fell to his knees at the avian cadaver. Confused and desperate, he shook the cold, lifeless mass of flesh until he collapsed upon its remains. Weeping, he embraced the bird. What could have gone wrong? He didn't even use his surgical tools and the beast had stopped. It was an inconceivable situation. The Hyperion wept and wailed. His final test subject had failed. No, he had failed.

There was nothing left to do but dispose of the body. It was a waste to leave it in tact. The serpents were hungry and they had to be fed. Disposal was not only necessary, but somewhat appealing, for the first time. There was nothing left to do, nor ought left to be done for. So that was exactly what he did. Pulling the cold lever one last time, the Hyperion toppled into the chute and within moments, the machinery began its churning monotone. For the first time he felt. Something stimulated a response in his nerves. For the first time. Something was happening. For the first time, he was happy. And then he was cold and empty like the cellar from whence he was birthed. But it was of no consequence, for he was now fodder to the serpents. And they needed to be fed.



Sprayed from the bowels of Ben Roberts.