A creature lives across the seas, nurtured by an icy wasteland which supports only the most freakish of God’s convulsions. God entered his death throes the day it came, and its mawkish sinister stumbling is the end result.
A bird which is not a bird, it throws itself across the cold expanses. Its purpose unknown, its shiny little eyes betray nothing and it is joined in its spastic march by thousands more.
Scores then find their way toward something, all blind purpose and unknown thoughts. Legions bark at the air and tread raging across the permafrost until it all becomes clear.
These are the predators of her dreams, an army of tiny deviants that won’t go away. Their power is not of the material world, but in what they represent.
God is dead, and no-one cares.
In Antarctica and in slumber, the penguin is king.
Originally written 21/09/05.
One of my friends has a phobia about penguins…I think they’re quite cute personally, but I wanted to see if I could try and write about them from her point of view.