Cocoon.

 

Galactic Co-ordinates: 13-21-05-01

 

Suggested Soundtrack: (See Spotify soundtrack at end) Premiere Gymnopedie, Erik Satie. Gnossiennes: No.1, Lent, Erik Satie.

 

 

I.

 

It feels everything. Firstly its eyes, closed yet formed beneath the lid. They extend out in circles, ridges take shape. Hard, they stand proud from a face. It raises the muscles at the top of the head.

 

I am.

 

Suddenly, a hole. An intake of air. Not air. But liquid. It is thick and flows down the throat but it feels like air. As if this is what it should be doing. Flowing in and out of it. It rolls a tongue around the hole. The fleshy lumps from before are not there. There are sharp points, arranged in a row.

 

Before.

 

Its face winces. It tries to understand what it means.

 

Before.

 

It feels a stretch of bone at each side. They are attached just below the head. It moves them slowly at first, the creak and the hinge of an elbow are learnt and then mastered. It tries to raise them finds it can’t. There is more of the liquid and beyond – something else.

 

I.

 

Its eyes are still closed. It hasn’t had the sensation yet. Of opening one. It doesn’t know how. But it feels the compulsion to do so channeling through its body surging them upwards. But they are heavy. They want to continue in their sleep.

 

I am.

 

Its muscles expand and contract. Like the delicate plucking of a tuned string they ripple across its body. It feels further down two more stretches of bone. At the end, the tips splay out into claws. It knows it will put them on the ground, climb with them, mark others with them.

 

Others.

 

Something pricks its mind. Shapes moving in the distance. Inching along. Flapping high above. Running. Running. Running.

 

Others.

 

There was stillness too. The shapes twist and lilt into many solitary strands. They tower high above and low on the ground. The extend out like the new stretches of bone. They cut and scrape like the claws. But they are still. They watch.

 

I.

 

It stretches out again – this time along down the back of its head. A spine. He can feel every tiny flex of bone as they ridge and extend together. How they bristle into calcium undulations. Around half way down there is another mountainous protrusion. Two of them either side. They grow out into small, hard panels of bone and then, to its surprise, with a flood of nerve-travel into great stretches of skin. It wraps around the now body.

 

I am.

 

He wants to swing them outwards. Feel them unfurl and then contract. He wants to flap. The word forms strangely in his mind – flap. But then crests over into understanding.

 

I am.

 

Something rises from his middle. It grips and pulls in at his muscles. At his skin. It churns and spikes. It flows up through his chest and into his mouth. He rolls his tongue along the teeth and then out into the hard lips.

 

I want.

 

He craves something. Something hot. Something wet. Something to. Something to. Something to chew.

 

I am.

 

He flexes. The wings extend. There is a sound of ripping and a flooding of light. He stands and takes in gulps of air. He hovers. He opens his eyes. There is a smell of blood.

 

I am awake.

 

 

 

 

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