Drill, and Drill Some More

The drill descended, constant whirring noise, towards Stan’s mouth, screaming nighttime fears into his skull. This was the fourth time this week, the fourth time in as many hours. He needed this done, desperately. When one leaves something to fester for so long one becomes almost immune to it, it’s rot a part of you and homely, in its way. But it had to go.

 

She’d screened him for decades, waiting for him to come to his decision. The drill descended, constant whirring noise, and cracked: a slight scream and silence. Blessed where those who took the rot, took it and held it, nurtured it and kept in fresh, virulent and ready. Drill descends, drill cracks and makes whole again.

 

Stan felt fresh, renewed and reformed. He was to be a mighty warrior, a crusader for the world, for she and decades forever after. Stan descends, makes the world ready: cracked, with a slight scream.

Shit Me, Remember This Thing!

The beetle brain knows it was once human. The six limbs, scrabbling as they do against the wooden surface, remember when they were but only two. It was, the thing admits, a more complicated time, before the great ascendancy to that forgotten plane. Adjectives meant more, seemed to settle words more firmly in their place. Now it knows no words. It knows nothing but the wood under its six limbs, and that the six were once two.