They Hang
They hang; some in bunches, others alone. Umbilical cords connect them to maternal branches. The babies sway gently in the breeze. Sun bakes forest floor.
The infants gurgle happily.
Footsteps approach, in soft grass. The man salivates, eyes glazed. Animalistic.
Pauses; sniffs the air; reveals discoloured teeth; snarls. Bloodshot eyes swivel toward a dangling foetus cluster.
Unsheathes his knife.
The infants sense danger. Scream. Agonizingly.
He falls to his knees, knife dropped. Covers his ears, which bleed through his fingers.
Foetal leeches jump, cords elastic. Countless needled jaws affix themselves.
His death is slow torture.
They drain him, withdraw. Bloated.
His alabaster corpse lies stinking in the calescent sun.
They hang, swaying gently in the breeze.
Until the next feed.
This scene will stay with me for a long time.
Comment by awolgnr — March 10, 2008 @ 10:30 am