Audioslave
04-14-2009, 7:22 PM
It's sort of finish, which is sort of par for the course of my posting stories. Anyway, it's a fairly light piece, sort of dreamy but at the same time not really heavy with description. I like you'll like it.
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The Christmas Island Red Crabs are small, hateful beings that reside on Christmas Island. On this crawling, snapping little island, there are 889 crabs per square meter. The clicking of their claws deafens the slightest thought ever conceived to be imagined by the island’s population of 1,200. Beyond this, massive Coconut Crabs (the size of a small dog) wander and roam the island, Yellow Crazy Ants frantically skitter across the worn roads of the tiny island. Perhaps worst of all is the Australian Hunting Bear. The name is a misnomer, as the animal is actually a type of rodent, resembling a hamster. The interesting aspect, though, is that it seems to be immune to natural selection and nothing short of subsidized by God. It feels no need for self-preservation, but rather a natural and overpowering instinct to flee. It is in a perpetual state of leaving, and it never finds itself arriving. The animals will only sleep if they can find rest on the back of another animal in motion, its favorite being the Christmas Island Red Crab. The shifting, pinching, seizing mass of Christmas Island piqued my curiosity, appealed to my natural interest and led me to be trapped in a lurch; in a place from where everyone else with an overarching sense of common sense had moved on.
The crickets played an orchestra for us, for our quarreling reciprocation. They reached a crescendo; she would break a vase, they fell to a diminuendo; she cried and collapsed on the sofa. She would make for the door, we would hug. A non-linear serious of events played out in my tiny home on Christmas Island, with the soundtrack composed by the nocturnal wildlife. Our staged performance went on without a hitch until the red crabs appeared. We heard them first; their scratching and their pinching preceded them. First they climbed through the windows, and then through the open door, soon they perforated every orifice of my home, invading our environment like a poison gas. A torrent of red shells formed, gushing across my hardwood floor, around and below us. We simply sat on the sofa, holding each other and trying to ignore the omnipresent sound; the stifling noise.
“Where are they going?” She whispered, unfamiliar with the sight.
“Well that depends. If they’ve already laid and fertilized their eggs, they’re going back to the beach. If not; they’re off to make millions more of their awful kind.” I replied, hypnotized by the abominable things.
“Are they…dangerous?”
“Hardly.”
Then she saw the coconut crab. It was a full-grown one, too. Easily three feet long, it slowly, timidly crept in through the now wide-open door, apparently emboldened by the rush of red crabs. Her piercing scream caused the hideous thing to recoil, raising its massive claws.
“Honey, honey, it’s okay.” I tried to reassure her, to no avail. “They’re totally harmless. They only eat children.”
This was apparently the wrong thing to say, as she made a run for the side door. Her piercing scream followed her she went, so I ran to follow her.
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The Christmas Island Red Crabs are small, hateful beings that reside on Christmas Island. On this crawling, snapping little island, there are 889 crabs per square meter. The clicking of their claws deafens the slightest thought ever conceived to be imagined by the island’s population of 1,200. Beyond this, massive Coconut Crabs (the size of a small dog) wander and roam the island, Yellow Crazy Ants frantically skitter across the worn roads of the tiny island. Perhaps worst of all is the Australian Hunting Bear. The name is a misnomer, as the animal is actually a type of rodent, resembling a hamster. The interesting aspect, though, is that it seems to be immune to natural selection and nothing short of subsidized by God. It feels no need for self-preservation, but rather a natural and overpowering instinct to flee. It is in a perpetual state of leaving, and it never finds itself arriving. The animals will only sleep if they can find rest on the back of another animal in motion, its favorite being the Christmas Island Red Crab. The shifting, pinching, seizing mass of Christmas Island piqued my curiosity, appealed to my natural interest and led me to be trapped in a lurch; in a place from where everyone else with an overarching sense of common sense had moved on.
The crickets played an orchestra for us, for our quarreling reciprocation. They reached a crescendo; she would break a vase, they fell to a diminuendo; she cried and collapsed on the sofa. She would make for the door, we would hug. A non-linear serious of events played out in my tiny home on Christmas Island, with the soundtrack composed by the nocturnal wildlife. Our staged performance went on without a hitch until the red crabs appeared. We heard them first; their scratching and their pinching preceded them. First they climbed through the windows, and then through the open door, soon they perforated every orifice of my home, invading our environment like a poison gas. A torrent of red shells formed, gushing across my hardwood floor, around and below us. We simply sat on the sofa, holding each other and trying to ignore the omnipresent sound; the stifling noise.
“Where are they going?” She whispered, unfamiliar with the sight.
“Well that depends. If they’ve already laid and fertilized their eggs, they’re going back to the beach. If not; they’re off to make millions more of their awful kind.” I replied, hypnotized by the abominable things.
“Are they…dangerous?”
“Hardly.”
Then she saw the coconut crab. It was a full-grown one, too. Easily three feet long, it slowly, timidly crept in through the now wide-open door, apparently emboldened by the rush of red crabs. Her piercing scream caused the hideous thing to recoil, raising its massive claws.
“Honey, honey, it’s okay.” I tried to reassure her, to no avail. “They’re totally harmless. They only eat children.”
This was apparently the wrong thing to say, as she made a run for the side door. Her piercing scream followed her she went, so I ran to follow her.