A short little story. October is the month for scary things, so I thought this little idea that I had been playing with might fit.
From crevasses and the dim crooks of tree roots we creep. From behind loose mounds of soil. From between the gaps of interlocked stones, careful not to disturb their delicate balance. For now. With dainty weaves and rolls we edge forward. And down. An unseen trickle beneath cover and shadow. Then a grain of sand is pressed free. Inertia broken. We add it to our unending crawl. New mass to unstick others from their place. Soon there is a rivulet of grit dragging against the base of pebbles and stones. The stones are lifted by our motion, buoyed upon countess crystalline teeth. We reverberate with the soft low hum of grinding silica. In time, more stones are joined to our effort. The hum becomes a growl. Our growl grows strong and vulgar. Grasses and flowers that we were once compelled to mince around, are now brought down and consumed by our accumulated bulk. We add cellulose fiber and oily paste to our own relentless flow. Now saplings and shrubs are bent and buried and torn from their purchase. Chunks of surface sedimentary and metamorphic begin to scrape and shift answering our call. They are grappled and devoured, augment to our unceasing motion. Our growl has become a roar. Deep and angry and hungry. We claw and tear at the trunks of mountain pines, stripping their bark and pummeling the bare wood until they finally acquiesces and tip to our will. The widespread roots we sheltered beneath are wrenched from the stoic rock bringing volumes of dirt and stone with them. With unstoppable power we scream downward, demanding that everything in our path surrender to us. To become us. Many tons matter are we. Blood and bone mingle with our tide of stone. Small darting things that flee our onslaught are destroyed. Far too slowly they move. Ground down to component materials. Lubricant to savage machinery. It is not with malice but resolution that we close on structures of wood and metal and glass. Small things flow from them silent compared to our rising timbre. Still compared to our deluge of movement. They become us. Hastened and absorbed. Embraced. We continue forward. No obstacles impede us. Nothing can slow our persistence. On we march to flatten mountains and displace lakes. Continents and oceans will relent to our force and only the morning will remain to witness what we have done.
From crevasses and the dim crooks of tree roots we creep. From behind loose mounds of soil. From between the gaps of interlocked stones, careful not to disturb their delicate balance. For now. With dainty weaves and rolls we edge forward. And down. An unseen trickle beneath cover and shadow. Then a grain of sand is pressed free. Inertia broken. We add it to our unending crawl. New mass to unstick others from their place. Soon there is a rivulet of grit dragging against the base of pebbles and stones. The stones are lifted by our motion, buoyed upon countess crystalline teeth. We reverberate with the soft low hum of grinding silica. In time, more stones are joined to our effort. The hum becomes a growl. Our growl grows strong and vulgar. Grasses and flowers that we were once compelled to mince around, are now brought down and consumed by our accumulated bulk. We add cellulose fiber and oily paste to our own relentless flow. Now saplings and shrubs are bent and buried and torn from their purchase. Chunks of surface sedimentary and metamorphic begin to scrape and shift answering our call. They are grappled and devoured, augment to our unceasing motion. Our growl has become a roar. Deep and angry and hungry. We claw and tear at the trunks of mountain pines, stripping their bark and pummeling the bare wood until they finally acquiesces and tip to our will. The widespread roots we sheltered beneath are wrenched from the stoic rock bringing volumes of dirt and stone with them. With unstoppable power we scream downward, demanding that everything in our path surrender to us. To become us. Many tons matter are we. Blood and bone mingle with our tide of stone. Small darting things that flee our onslaught are destroyed. Far too slowly they move. Ground down to component materials. Lubricant to savage machinery. It is not with malice but resolution that we close on structures of wood and metal and glass. Small things flow from them silent compared to our rising timbre. Still compared to our deluge of movement. They become us. Hastened and absorbed. Embraced. We continue forward. No obstacles impede us. Nothing can slow our persistence. On we march to flatten mountains and displace lakes. Continents and oceans will relent to our force and only the morning will remain to witness what we have done.