Sunday, October 17, 2010

Log Nine

Tics are the only things that seem to like this place.

They're everywhere. During the evenings I can see massive clouds of the bastards flitting across the matted surface, making the flesh of the Dogscape quiver as they drink their fill. Sometimes candid legs of various size and deformity burst through the surface to scratch at them. It doesn't work. All the dogscape gains are vast stretches of scar marks, which the fleas feed upon.

Sometimes I rest on the side of a large outgrowth and only realize it's a monstrous tic. They latch on to one of the Deep Arteries of the Dogflesh and endlessly leech of the new world's lifeblood.

I saw a man once. It was hot that day. I was making my way for a dogpillar and saw him in the distance. He wasn't moving and as I approached I saw why. He was covered in tics. Not a single spot on him was clear. What little clothes remained on him were stretched over the fuckers There was no wind, so all you heard was the faint scuttling of their tiny legs scratching against their ludicrously swelled bodies. He must've heard me, because he opened his mouth and tried to say something. His voice was raspy, and his mouth was red, but he did manage to say one word.


No comments:

Post a Comment