Thursday, 20 August 2009
Archibald the slug, nee Archibald the snail, had dragged its tired body miserably to the edge of the lake. Archibald had recently been in a long disagreement with a crow about why it should not be the crow’s dinner. When young and with shell, Archibald had been a brave snail outspoken and full of energy. Yet it had always been searching for something better. Though it had been one of the first to toss aside his shell, never quite satisfied with the life being led, Archibald had been among the few who had tried to return and had found that way barred. Now he was among the growing number of bitter slugs, finding themselves chained to this shelless existence. The greediness of those who wanted the best of both worlds did not factor as an issue in this slugs brain. They knew who was to blame and it was the snails. They believed that they had tricked by the slugs in some way at the meeting when the moon was opal and the sun was pink and both were visible in the sky. The slugs had thought they were clever but it seems that the snails had been cleverer. They must have known the predicament that the slugs were in before the slugs had realized themselves.
Archibald could hear the sounds of a snail orgy moving closer and sure enough into the clearing came a tumbling mass of slimy bodies and hard shells. Rolling down the embankment in a pure heaving joyous ball. Twisting bodies reaching to achieve maximum pleasure. It watched them for a while, seeing how they paid no heed to the poor slug nearby. He pondered the plight of the slugs.
Something needed to be done.
A whisper from a dark place breezed by his mind taking with it everything resting there bar one wicked seed.
Archibald knew what needed to be done.
He saw it clearly now.
It was all he could see.
Maybe things would have been different if the snails had sensed the impending doom flying their way but the undulating throng did not notice the change in the air, the shifting of the day’s mood. It was far too late when they finally heeded the atmosphere’s warnings. Archibald was already charging towards them, picking up momentum. Archibald’s body flung into the air at a perfect acute angle and made a perfectly arched path that catapulted itself into the middle of the surging mass.
Blood and terror followed and the grass soon stained with the life force of the previously copulating snails.
After the ordeal he moved betwixt the mutilated bodies removed from their shells and made his way to the popular meeting place for slugs to deliver a speech that would change the course of history for both snails and slugs.
But a feeling took hold of some of the slugs as they wandered through the grass living their lives. A feeling of uncertainty, a yen for the old, a need to feel safe. They had no shell to protect them, as before, if danger came they had no smooth home to retreat within. They began to think that maybe they could have the best of both worlds. Play about in the sun without the shell and then return to their homes when they tired of playing. But who can have the best of both worlds in this life. We must have balance and parts that are dark so we understand the light when we witness it.
So with their metaphorical tails betwixt their imaginary legs they returned to the place that their shell lay, abandoned and bereft of their slug bodies. This place where they had cast of their shells leaving them as if they had been burdens of life. But these poor slugs received a shock, shells were found broken, smashed. Other creatures had inhabited the homes they had thrown away so quickly and easily for excitement. Tiny spiders had spun their delicate webs, beetles had scurried into the cracks to keep warm and stayed. Those that found their former limbs in tack, discovered that once they had separated from the shell it was not so easy to recouple with it’s smooth shiny insides. The shell did not recognize the small slimy body of the slug, it did not want to caress it as it once had, cling to it, follow it wherever the former snail had chosen to roam. Now it just stood still, in one place leaving the slug to wander on its own.
These slugs became sad and bitter. When they saw snails cajoling in their lust filled orgies they saw a red haze descend. Jealously filled their slug hearts and took away all the joy and happiness these creatures were supposed to feel. Why should they be happy in their shells when the slugs must do without.
On the surface, however, the slugs danced and smiled and sang and allowed the snails to believe that they were content in their shelless lives. Yet underneath was a different story. A black quagmire of discontent, jealousy and bitterness reigned over the slug’s minds. It undulated and surged allowing trickles to find homes in the deep caverns and passages of their brains. Till one day a slug snapped and the war began.
Here endeth the text
Monday, 6 July 2009
Friday, 19 June 2009
This fragment reveals the last time the snail god came down from the heavens and encased itself in a human body and the ensuing adventure that occurred with the snail Pope of that time. They faced armies of dull slugs desperately trying to drag down the duo and turn them into stagnant slugs, ensuring the destruction of the religion we know is the righteous one. Read on to hear about a part of their lives.
...they were lost surrounded by those wishing to turn them to beige and cardboard. In front of them an army of slugs, behind them the vast blue sea.
"hold fast" said God "they shall not have us. We will set sail and find our own parcel of land, where they cannot find us'
"I have an old bed sheet we can use for a sail" said the Pope
"and I have two old wooden legs I purchased in a junk shop in the middle of nowhere that we can use for oars." Said god
"We can open a hospital for all the poor snails who suffer from ailments of the soul, mind, temptation and body," heroically claimed god in a big booming almighty voice
"and I will keep bees," said the pope quietly. "My bee's honey will fuel the snails nectar drink of Mead. And together we will live in harmony."
'We need not the coinage!' they cried in unison 'only alcohol, good friends and snails."
they screamed to the heavens, defying the world to rip apart their small section of the world
But with bee's honey we will stick together the seams of our dreams and they will have no chance.
And with snails antenna's we will communicate so they cannot listen as we blaspheme and rage against them.
'We will be defiant but we will be happy' said the Pope.
'and we will live on honey, bread and Mead' said God.
"We shall not be made of cardboard and beige,' they cried as the wind filled the green sail of their small boat and the sailed into the burning sun to begin their holy snail quest...
here endeth a chapter in the travels of the god and his pope
Here is writ the story of one snail Cornelius.
Bloodied and battled to the maximum, Cornelius awoke to the distant sounds of the war. Wedged between slug and snail carcasses, the snail expertly maneuvered himself and shell from betwixt these former friends and foes.
Upon freedom it found that the battle that had been raging at the moment of its untimely downfall had moved to the farther reaches of a small field in the wilderness of the countryside.
The snail roared in frustration. It would take the poor molluscan days to reach the battle now. He was high on a warrior’s passion and anger, needing to be sliding in the thick of confrontation, looking into the whites of his enemy’s eyes.
Cornelius would be the snail that would bring about the beginning of the end.
Cornelius was not afraid of death.
That was not this Gastropoda’s fear.
So the snail set forth, sliding over blade of grass and rock and stone, reasoning that it could work on its rage, enlarge it so it became so engorged inside the slimy body, it was all the organs could concentrate upon.
The mantra ‘death to snails’ formed and this lovely sentiment repeated inside the mind producing a rhythmic march which Cornelius moved its body to, sliding in harmonious undulations along the dirt.
However as is fate’ wont, it had a different goal in mind for our snail.
Twas one hour and 2 minutes into this noble journey that Cornelius met Fran. A delicious looking snail. Artist not warrior.
Fran looked at Cornelius.
Cornelius looked at Fran.
When man meets woman ‘tis already written in biological law what occurs.
When hermaphrodite meets hermaphrodite the rules can be changed and altered; everything is possible.
That Tuesday, at dusk, the snail Cornelius had a passion bubbling under the surface. Hate is very close to love and lust, but how easy does hate change to lust. Well according to the records about Cornelius, precisely two and two quarter seconds, give or take a couple of quarter seconds.
Metaphorical volcanoes exploded and metaphorical Tsunamis erupted. The inhabitants of the small town of Riovalle quaked in fear. And the seaside town of Le Canella ran for cover.
Then everyone realized that the natural disasters were in actually fictional metaphors created deep within the lustings of two happy snails. The inhabitants of the small town of Riovalle straightened and stopped quivering and the inhabitants of Le Canella came out from underneath their beds and watched the dramatics of snail love in its most amorous form.
The battle raged.
And Cornelius loved.
The two snails intent on their pleasure brought more beings to them, as was the way before the war, as has always been the way of snails. The pull of love.
Other snails saw them and remembered what was, and for the first time in many years, thoughts other than death began to take place within the brains of the Gastropodas.
This was the beginning of the end.
Change is an interesting concept. Some embrace it while others fight against the evolution. Sometimes you are so deeply ingrained in a way of life that to think that something will alter becomes incomprehensible to you. It becomes wrong in fact. This transformation within your existence, this evolution, is viewed by you as an enemy. Which means that it must be stopped at all costs, so you may preserve your way of life for the future generations to come.
The snails were no different. How they lived their life had been that way for aeons. The inkling that something may destroy the very foundation of what they cherished threw them into a chaotic state of mind. This is an unnatural condition for a snail to be in. They are peaceful beings and their minds are like calm seas with only a few ripples breaking the surface. These ripples are normally concerned with “should I join that delightful looking orgy over there by the large oak tree, or should I go and slake my lustful needs upon that delicious looking snail standing by the dandelion all on its lonesome?” And so the consequences to this bedlam raging through the minds of our amity loving nymphomaniacs can be calamitous as we see in the historic documenting of that fateful day.
The surging lustful mass decreased as one by one the bodies populating it slid reluctantly from its hot grasp. Till there were only two copulating bodies left: the original couple who created the sexual furore. Their still aroused bodies hid the source of the unrest that was beating within the snail population breasts. So after first a gentle persuasion and then later a non-gentle persuasion, their bodies ripped apart to reveal beneath their love-making a shell-less snail writhing and enjoying his freedom in the sunlight.
A collective gasp went throughout the crowd. Transfixed by the sight of the naked snail they could not tear their eyes from the shrivelled slimy half body in front of them.
So seams spilt as realisation of what was occurring spread through the mass by the babbling brook
Two bodies, once worshipping the other one, once as close as one can be with another being, stood facing each other as before yet now their bodies stood at opposite ends of the chasm that had opened up in the newly created space once filled with their heat. They would never cross this chasm and so the greatest love story that would have been never manifests a beginning, end or middle. It just hangs in time, a moment passing
The naked snail waited a breath in its foetal position, suspending time as they knew it for a little while longer. It could not go back now, only forward into a time not as they knew. So after a few beats of a sinking heart and with a sigh the snail let go and this new time, this time that was unfamiliar to them all went forward.
The snail righted itself and looked defiantly into the shocked faces of his once brethren. Word must have spread as Ivy through the community as a larger crowd than the participating orgy had gathered and more were to be seen coming in from all directions as fast as they could slide along the grassy terrain leading to the bubbling brook.
A large snail detracted itself from the mass and slid forward to face the lone being in front of it. This snail had some standing in the community and in a voice infused with 1000 or so other bodies asked what the being thought it was doing.
The shell-less snail said nothing just stared out to the crowd.
Revolution can be lonely
Looking to its left the snail could see its shell shining in the morning hue. It seemed to be causing as much furore as the nakedness of the snail body. Never having entered another’s shell before the crowd were exploring the recesses and textures presented to them.
The shell-less snail, ironically found it was feeling soiled and abused by this exploration of the cast off crustacean. It felt anger and shame that others were viewing what only it should see: It’s private place. Then the anger turned inward at itself for feeling this way about what it viewed as an inanimate object. This anger welled up inside and began to boil beneath the surface.
What happened next can never be forgotten. It must not be forgotten.
This blog continues the snail chronicles. Describing the beginning of the day when the slugs came out from beneath the cloak of darkness into the light. It sets the scene for one of the most horrific days in snail religion history.
The feeling of freedom can make us giddy. It can spin us in circles and it makes our minds and bodies dizzy with its hedonistic feeling. We appear drunk on its lure and promise. Yet freedom can be mirage and you can find yourself hindered and imprisoned within its heady glow.
The shell-less snails became drunker upon freedom’s sensations and imbued with its feelings of power they became reckless. The night time was no longer enough. They needed more, they wanted to feel the sun’s scorching sun upon their backs, they wanted to crawl upon their bellies up the long stems of flowers without the weight of the shell. They needed to twist their bodies around the sweet fragrant petals of the flower and rub its saccharine scent upon the length of their bodies.
And so the inevitable occurs
The leader of the unshelled snails took matters into his own antennas
It was spring on that day, the day that started it all. It was said that the birds sang of the fore-coming doom that was about to descend upon the snail community. They sang low and mellow, casting anticipation throughout nature’s community. Insects were nervous, the wind whispered to them of change.
The snails were scattered around the land, some were eating the lettuce, some were making love to themselves, others were making love to others.
According to the records, there was a particularly large orgy going on in a meadow near a burbling brook. It had started around the early hours of the morning, when two snails who met by chance upon the banks of the water, had found they had a common interest and love of a particular type of lettuce leaf that was not often found in these parts. This led to their entwining and snails upon seeing this couples complete devotion to each other and each other’s bodies, could not help but get swept up in eruption of the passionate lovemaking they were witnessing and threw their shelled bodies into the banquet of sex. Their communion created a surge of rampant lustful feelings spreading through the land, capturing all who stood in its path and causing a worldwide feast of the pleasures of the body.
But it so often happens that when everything seems to be going right, something occurs to destroy all that was good.
Beneath this ideal snail behaviour, this day that began by being the epitome of the snail’s way of life, the nervous feeling of anticipation still ran riot through all the Insect community.
Then it happened
At the large orgy by the bubbling brook an interloper was waiting for the perfect moment in which to strike. The undulating bodies were surging in erotic pleasure beneath his body and he chose the perfect moment to begin the plan. There, encased in lovesoaked snails, he left his shell in the daylight for the first time. He slide from his shell and began to twist and coil his body through the snails around him. Unnoticed at first as the others were out of their minds in ecstasy, he began to loop himself through the throng.
Bit by bit the mass began to realise something was different, something was wrong and so they began to break apart to see what could possibly be at the epicentre of this unrest that had descended upon the community.