Wild Card Wednesday is a challenge between us. Each will provide a prompt to the other. That prompt will allow us 1000 words or so to complete the challenge. Today Steve Beaulieu prompted me with: bird’s nest under siege!
Is it wrong to pray to God about violence? I only know what I learned in Sunday school. The easy stuff. The giant and the sling, the ark and the animals. He’s got the whole world in His hands, if you’re happy and you know it clap, stuff like that. Did David pray about killing Goliath?
I’ll leave it alone. I remember my mom telling me that God knew all of my thoughts, anyways. So if you’re in this head of mine, then you already know, don’t you God? You already know what I’m about to do. Are you with me?
I can barely contain my excitement as I crawl through the tunnel on my hands and knees. How many times have I made this trip? Thousands, at least. Tens of thousands, maybe? I run my hand across the scarred and ruined right side of my face and I remember the ants who once called these tunnels home. I’ve never fought so hard in my life, but ultimately I won and they died. They were overconfident. They underestimated my resolve for revenge, thought I’d give up and die from all the stings and cuts before I got to the queen. But if I was going to get revenge, I needed their home as my own first. I’ll never forget the ripping sound it made when I tore her wings off, or the way the ants cried out and screamed as they scattered once I’d taken their queen’s life. This is my anthill now. Has been since that fateful day when I was just around eleven or so years old.
I don’t know how old I am now. I was eight when the birds did this to me, when they tested out their sick science experiment on a poor boy playing in his backyard. Shrunk me down and left me to die. I almost did. Lost and alone, confused. But I didn’t. Being exposed to their technology did something to me that they probably still don’t know about. It gave me the ability to speak their language. I hear them in the trees above, engaged in their dark schemes. Every other human hears the sing song chirping, I hear the black souls doing the chirping.
Best of all, I hear them talk about their technology. Miracles of nature? Wrong. Birds fly because of the disgusting augmentations they make to their bodies at a young age. They hide their labs away and tinker and tinker, always searching for the next advancement that can give them an advantage over the humans that they hate so much.
And I hear it all. I’ve listened, and I’ve tinkered too. The things they throw out belong to me, and as miniature as I may be now, my brain is that of a human. I’ve thought of things that never could’ve occurred to these idiot birds. Things they’ll never see coming.
How old am I? I think I was around ten when my family moved away. I was never able to get back into the house, but I heard them outside a few times. Dad couldn’t handle losing a son, and he left. Mom turned to something. Drugs, I guess. No idea what became of little Meagan. Maybe she went to live with Aunt Denise. I hope she’s happy there. I’d guess she’s a teenager now, which would make me a man. Twenty something? Is that even possible?
I emerge from the tunnel and stand up. I don’t think I’ve known a moment of joy since the birds hit me with their shrink ray, but this is as close to joy as I’ve ever been. Sitting before me is my creation. My one love. I’m sure to a regular sized person it looks like a toy UFO, but to me it’s everything. Every ounce of my knowledge, everything I’ve learned, everything I’ve scavenged. It’s all in this craft. The birds might think it’s a UFO, too, but as soon as I’m upon them they’ll see it for what it is. The grim reaper, the boogeyman. Death. Inevitable, deserved, bloody, relentless death.
I climb into the UFO and power it up. It hums to life, and I slide the plastic cockpit closed. I pull back on the control stick slightly and the whole craft hovers up into the air effortlessly. Now I smile. Flight is their one advantage, and I’ve taken it away from them.
Once I emerge there’s no going back. I’ve dreamed of this moment for years. Maybe even twenty of them. Planned it all around this very day. A day of special meaning to the birds. Every few seasons they gather in nests all around the city to pay tribute to their dark gods of science. They pluck bloody feathers from their young and offer them as a sacrifice. They’re gathered and distracted. Vulnerable.
I pull all the way back on the control and smash through the soil roof of my hideout. The UFO breaks through the ground and emerges into the evening sky. I shake the controls a little to knock the soil away, then start powering up the weapons as I guide the craft toward the nest. I can see the faint glow of burning feathers, can hear the twisted chanting of the birds. They don’t see me. They won’t see me until it’s too late.
It’s going to be a massacre. I’m going to kill them all, and then I’m going to the next nest and I’m going to kill all of them too.
But then again, you already know that, don’t you God?
Are you with me?