|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
An Octopus's LamentYou'd think it'd be easier to hug people with eight arms.
As much as they poke around in the conversation, that old disconnect between feeling and brain kicks in
leaving me to watch and analyze every movement of yours and of mine
hoping desperately for some familiar pattern to suction myself to.
And it's tough trying to make friends with a face like this.
They always say I look alien, perhaps fearsome, but behind the unblinking eyes
I'm just a spineless old softie with two hearts too many,
none of which do that great of a job anyways.
I still don't understand how parrots talk so fluently through a beak; I can't.
It's too sharp and embarrassing and I keep it hidden away if I don't know you well enough
because the urge to swim off in a cloud of my own ink is just too strong
(unless you're a crab I guess, but that's dinner.)
But worst of it is trying to get to know folks on the shoreline.
I can come up, but not for very long
and what good is surfacing when the entire time
half of me just
1502 hours, Sunday, February 4, 1973.
I made contact. Mein Gott, I am still so shaky; one of them will certainly suspect something is amiss.
Certainly I cannot tell the humans; few enough of them trust me to any extent at this juncture anyways. And what if they wanted me to spy on Herr Gray for them? Yet still as my processor struggles with the information I have obtained, I feel almost compelled to say something to someone, which is troubling. I simply must think things through on my own. It is a miraculous chance which has been presented to me; I must not ruin it even if in the end I decide it is something that I should not pursue.
But I should start at the beginning if I am to organize my thoughts properly. The Scout and I left the building without incident. We had proceeded to the parking lot containing Sniper's van before he decided we had gone far enough and stopped. I glanced at the chain link fence with the
1341 hours, Sunday, February 4, 1973.
Everyone met in the surgery this morning while Miss Pauling was taking a shower so that we might discuss our current situation. It made me anxious; the mercenaries were all so loud, especially the Soldier who cheerfully declared that we were "backed into a corner" and "should face death like those good men in that trench I dug for that war I fought in", and the Medic's office is a relatively small enclosed space with walls that bounce noises around so they seem amplified twofold. The experience made me cringe. Perhaps the sensation was similar to what Herr Engineer felt when we were in transit on the tanks, something he referred to as "claustrophobia." Maybe the sounds reminded me too much of the shouts on the battlefield when we were still enemies. Either way they were sufficient to drive me from the conversation and leave me leaning against the wall, watching a small animal crawling along the
2117 hours, Saturday, February 3, 1973.
When I said last time that Herr Gray chasing us was the worst thing that could happen, I was wrong.
We are besieged in the base.
I thought we had escaped Herr Gray. Everyone thought we had outrun him. Dummkopf that I am, why didn't I just think for once? I know him better than the others, even better than Herr Engineer, so how was I content to think he wouldn't plan ahead in case giving chase wasn't enough? It should have occurred to me that he might have split his forces! And why did they think they could keep the new base's location secret from him anyways? He is a genius; of course he was going to figure it out!
At the moment the forces outside of our boundaries are mostly Spy and Sniper units. They are well-hidden in the trees, as our new base is located further north of the old one and in a forest instead of a desert. We did not even find out they were there until the veh
HomesickI am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
Keep in Touch!
Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More