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io9.com Writing Prompt
The crushed throat of an animal, does it make it impossible to bark? Will the village still close in on the poor thing as it begs with its eyes? I am not used to not speaking. There are a million articulations I now miss. I am unable to feel the tickle of the word “crush” even as I think it. Even as I think of “throat”. The inability is maddening.
St. Sebastian had a million arrows piercing his body as they hung him from a tree. They slung and swatted the wood and flint until it knocked loose his metallic and shining skin. Tearing the flesh as we would tear armor, except his skin was his armor. We are all inclined to have this armor, only if God allows us to glow like Labradorean stone (polished or rough). I sat in such a way on a stead from Pluto to now. From Pluto to a catch-all basin of plasma sinking into the velvet claws of space.
The glass visor is made of the same material as milk bottles. Not as calm as the wet rings that came from earthly sweat when my sister laid each bottle on the coffee table at home. Not calm at all, but like armor again. My eyes are protected, but they’ve seen me fall apart. Like Sebastian, I fell from the tree when they pierced me. I fell like a baby with restless and dumb limbs. Here I go. I am not an athlete, but I have tested my body to its total limit. Function is only apparent in these words. I hope to live, even as I look like Sebastian.