Response to God and the Scorpion
I clenched my pedipalps in time with the tango that drifted in from somewhere. Mama had been gone for a long time and we were hungry and eyeing each other.
My carapace ached. I wished cytotoxic venom on the person playing that damned tango, whose rhythm was so infectious that I found myself scuttling along the rough surface of the floor, arching my telson and swooping it with dramatic flourish. My brothers and sisters snapped in time and we all succumbed to the crazy beat of the music, swaying, trying to entrance each other and win a little snack before Mama came home with dinner.
The music ended abruptly and we were left stranded in an awkward circle and staring at each other. The rumblings of my abdomen were replaced with my barb dripping wet from hunger. Since I was mother’s favorite, we all knew I could have a little snack without her getting pissed about it. And, it follows, that if one of my siblings tried to snack on me, Mama would be murderously mad. I enjoyed my high perch on the totem pole and wagged my telson arrogantly, flaunting my status and infuriating the other scorplings.
The splitting pain returned to my carapace. Gasping, I realized what was happening. It happens to every scorpion. Mama was so proud the first time we all molted, drawing us close and carrying us on her back everywhere. It meant we were growing up and could soon be on our own, if we wanted to be. It also meant we were vulnerable. Soft things to be preyed upon.
The scorplings crowded around me, their telsons high. They had none of Mama’s finesse. She could turn the proposition of being our dinner into an enticing bargin. All I have to do is die? Sign me up!
As they drew closer, I realized the music hadn’t stirred them at all, but they witnessed the excitement it inspired in me and were just trying to make me move more wildly, undulating loose my exoskeleton. Expanding the gap. Perhaps they had some of Mama’s cleverness after all.
I crouched, ready for them. It was just then, with my brothers and sisters approaching me with their barbs high in the air that we smelled the most delicious aroma. Mama had returned with dinner. It was the most soft and tender thing I had ever set my mouth on.
My carapace ached. I wished cytotoxic venom on the person playing that damned tango, whose rhythm was so infectious that I found myself scuttling along the rough surface of the floor, arching my telson and swooping it with dramatic flourish. My brothers and sisters snapped in time and we all succumbed to the crazy beat of the music, swaying, trying to entrance each other and win a little snack before Mama came home with dinner.
The music ended abruptly and we were left stranded in an awkward circle and staring at each other. The rumblings of my abdomen were replaced with my barb dripping wet from hunger. Since I was mother’s favorite, we all knew I could have a little snack without her getting pissed about it. And, it follows, that if one of my siblings tried to snack on me, Mama would be murderously mad. I enjoyed my high perch on the totem pole and wagged my telson arrogantly, flaunting my status and infuriating the other scorplings.
The splitting pain returned to my carapace. Gasping, I realized what was happening. It happens to every scorpion. Mama was so proud the first time we all molted, drawing us close and carrying us on her back everywhere. It meant we were growing up and could soon be on our own, if we wanted to be. It also meant we were vulnerable. Soft things to be preyed upon.
The scorplings crowded around me, their telsons high. They had none of Mama’s finesse. She could turn the proposition of being our dinner into an enticing bargin. All I have to do is die? Sign me up!
As they drew closer, I realized the music hadn’t stirred them at all, but they witnessed the excitement it inspired in me and were just trying to make me move more wildly, undulating loose my exoskeleton. Expanding the gap. Perhaps they had some of Mama’s cleverness after all.
I crouched, ready for them. It was just then, with my brothers and sisters approaching me with their barbs high in the air that we smelled the most delicious aroma. Mama had returned with dinner. It was the most soft and tender thing I had ever set my mouth on.
Labels: Prompted
posted by InkSpot | 2:52 AM
2 Comments:
Kafka meets Eisenberg meets Colomb, great stuff!
Greg M.
Hey Jess--You are awesome. I am a dork who wants to write more. Love,
S
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