This girl stayed by an early child’s carcus. Only til the birds arrived would she leave. The birds seemed to fly far from the site. A power forced them away. Her only remark at the time was,"****". A power? A guess. More implausible a theory than most could theorize. At least when your mental frame has rejected god and supernatural ruling. Still it always popped up. Blind mercy was always, every once in a while, granted to a God. Blind people walked past the site. The child could see too much. And of course, it saw much too much. The blind and mute. Not death. What orders can you share with a blind, mute, AND deaf comrade? So no the majority of the populous remained as recording devices. She stood still, visible to no one, only the birds could see her. Her hands reeked of children. Everyone worked as play. Muscle thought relaxers hardened their bodies. Ugly as well. Stronger than ****. Not many could see, speak. It was all in planning. Now these animals walked by her crunching their faces at the akward smell. Hopping fits throughtout. Joy fluid rained from the child. He had been strangled; but she made a carving inspection out of him. Birds. Vultures flew throughout the sky freightened of us. They were against us. These animals would pounce at their scent. Claw at their scent. Dine at it impusively.Logic grew from barbarianism. So did the need for restriction. Blind and mute? An easy job. Why fear. They fear because they know. They know the mercy of the true senses is non-existent. Logic flooded through them only becuase of us. She could run with the child. Only wait for birds. Once the birds descended for their feast, the animals would as well.Clawing in large groups and find this small bag of organs opened. They’d eat it with the birds. It’d make further sense too put the naughty too good use by de-sensitizing the rest.Canniblize the rest. They still resisted this procedure due probably to exotic cuisine and self secureness. They bumped through one another mimicking ghosts.Our gift was sight. This child knew everything.How to fake it.How to break it. When to whisper. Lickily he was too ambitious when hiding was a priority.The tree was hacked by another worker and his screams echoed the desolation.She then heard. His crimes were listed in a mental note entitled, "Revolutionary Protection BoyHope None". Whispering of our control, our indignities, their vast numbers.Effort wasted on fellows who cant provide a response. Though he has claimed hugs every once in a while. Now his neverness meant nothing to anything.They still stand for nothing with nothing to target. No sure time to break and no sureness on a thing but routine. Sureness was our gift. We provided it everyday. Their mental states left most unawhere of any mates.Routine sprang as a bodily function.Not even a boy could corrupt them out of right. Twenty something children were the tempermental bunch. Less coordinated and prone to being deemed wastes
Copyright 2008 jonas R/F
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