Survival
Classic Moments filled Nazwick’s brain as he stumbled forward, the rain was heavy, thick almost and his hair was plastered to his skull like cranium. The girl was there equally emaciated with large dark eyes, the music filled up his brain, the conditioning. Moments, this was a moment. Her peach dress was soaked orange and her head devoid of any hair. She curtsied.
Nazwick smiled, it widened the rictus that gashed both their mouths.
Lightning streaked the sky and he thought of thorny blooms. Again the music increased in tempo and filled him, the smell of damask, of rotting rich sweetness surrounded him. He bowed and stepped forward.
‘Would you care to dance?’ he rasped. Her skull like head bobbed and she held out a brittle thin hand. He took it. Fire works exploded in his mind.
They danced a deluge, soaked and sodden and then trod into the hallway of the mansion. The allure of her was strong but he wanted to fight the conditioning, he had not ment to ask her to dance. He was loosing, big dark eyes in a sunken face, so vunerable and pretty. She should not be this way. The Classic Moments thumpered a war tatoo in his mind. Thought on humanity and love and life were entwined in a devine rage.
They held hands and squeezed what nutrition they could from the fungal matts they were given. ‘What is your name?’ he asked hollow and dry.
‘Ankra’ she replied shyly looking away.
‘Ankra,’ he replied in awe.
A creak stopped what he was going to say, what he was going to ask, what he had been programmed for.
The mansion mistress entered and the sound of the Classic Moments stuttered. He jumped up but the shape of Ankra had filled his thoughts, up even with out the music to sway him.
‘It is at an end’ the tall willowy woman said, she was more flesh than they but not by much.
‘No,’ he said, wondering at himself.
‘Ankra,’ he whispered, ‘will you conscent?’
She nodded, she was so weak he feared even the smallest of movements now.
‘Very well’ the Manion Mistress said. She stepped forward, maroon gown shifting and grabbed his sodden hair, yanking it hard his head jerked back. Ankra gasped. Something was jammed into his mouth and scrapped along the inside of his cheek. Then he was let go, he danced a dizzy circle and knelt before Ankra.
‘I will fight for you, I will fight for a world for a child, a child that can not be born from your malnourished womb, a child grown in vats that should not be. I will bring the world back for us. And if not? I will bring the meat of those who banish us for our offspring to grow fat.’ Shuddering with a new fear he kissed her shining forehead with dry flaked lips.
Standing he nodded to the Mansion Mistress who nodded but went to administer her duty in collecting cells from Ankra.
Nazwick turned, an old scared man wiry with survival stood waiting by the door. They nodded to each other and then the old man led the way out. He looked back once, Ankra was holding two viles in her hands and watching him solemly. Large tears strolled down her cheeks. He would bring her meat he vowed silently. Music filled him up as he marched to war.
Posted: Thursday, June 16th, 2011 @ 7:20 pm
Categories: Flash Fiction.
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