The stench of rotting meat fills the room.
The carrion pulsates with a grotesque rhythm,
bones cracking each time the mass heaves.
Bugs skitter about erratically
hurriedly picking at chunks of the meat
to devour in dark corners of the room.
A vile, guttural sound can be heard each time it “breathes” in.
The earth seems to warp beneath it,
as if the ground itself is repulsed
by such a disgusting thing laying upon it.
It writhes and contorts,
leaking all sorts of fluids
that are just short of those that come from humans.
Its tendrils crack and snap at every opportunity,
frenetically probing
for any bit of life that may exist around it
And yet, they dance.
Dozens of people,
dancing lightly
about the writhing mass at the center of the room.
All clad in diamond studded dresses,
dancing a gossamer dance
Their faces serene, their steps gentle, their skill unmistakable,
Their nimble feet always expertly placed
between the writhing tendrils covering the room,
Always just out of reach when the carrion snaps itself towards their ankles.
They all move in
perfect harmony.
But every so often, one of them steps out of line.
A foot misplaced, a brush against another dancer’s dress.
Minor mistakes.
But the carrion does not care.
It lurches, snaps, flails towards the dancer
with a pace far beyond anything of that size should be able to manage,
snatching them up with one of its many gnashing “mouths”.
Bones crunch as the carrion feasts,
unclear whether the sounds be from
the bones of the dancer
or whatever perversion of bones exists within the meat.
And yet, they dance.
It’s as if nothing can touch them.
Not a smile to be seen, not a laugh to be heard,
Just dancers dancing to a tune that they cannot hear.
A tune that no one can hear.
Ears spill out of its mountainous insides,
but not one of them can hear the music.
Not one of them can hear the cries of those
that slip on its fleshy constitution,
doomed to be devoured
by the one that makes them dance.
Not one of its eyes
can see the terror on their faces
as they pray for something to save them
from their first and last mistake.
The mouths gnaw and gnash
with the hunger of a man
starved a thousand days,
but they do not taste the tears spilled on their tongues.
The stomachs take,
and they hold, but they do not dissolve,
for they are but a mimicry
of what a stomach is supposed to be.
For we are but a mimicry of what a human is supposed to be.
Today, you’ll find that many of the dancers are washed up.
You could find them sitting at the bar of any sort of local restaurant.
They will share all sorts of stories, happily reminiscing on the time they spent performing.
But if you were to ask them about how they danced,
they would simply laugh in your face.
No, no, they’ve never danced.
Perhaps you heard them sing instead?
-Carson Mayeske
