Body as a second language

Hands waving, the speaker talks. They talk with their mouth, saying things of fire and passion and no importance. They talk with their hands, flourishes and gestures to the uninitiated, a second speech to the speaker's cohorts.

Look how the fingers curl when the speech calls for action! Our numbers have been counted, the hands say.

Look how the arms swing wide as the speech describes a shining utopia! We are scattered but still connected, the hands say.

Look how the hands are clasped in a fierce and rousing crescendo! They will never find us all, can never find us all, the hands say.

Polite applause follows the speaker away from the podium. Eyes hooded, ears closed, the speaker counts who slaps their hands together, who golf claps, the rhythms and cadences, left against right or vice versa...

The speaker counts their numbers.

Canonical Debate

It doesn't make any sense!

No, no, it does! Listen-

What? How? How does ANY of what he did make sense?

Look, it all works if you assume that he DOESN'T work for them!

... oh my god.

Think about it! The disregard for procedure? The incompetence for most parts of his job? The wanton violence?

But, then... who is he? Where'd he come from?

Some fans say he's working for another group, and was put in place to cause trouble for them as much as to find or do something specific. Personally, I like to think he's an independent agent, who came from nowhere and is doing everything for himself.

... really?

What?

That's just a bit involved, isn't it? I mean, it's very elaborate!

Maybe, but come on! Admit it it. It totally makes sense now, doesn't it?

Everything will be weighed and decided

Faceless, voiceless, the figure groped blindly. It wasn't quiet in its search, knocking things over as it ran its hands, its impossibly oversized hands, over everything in the room. It wasn't careful, no, but it was thorough, fingers caressing and probing every thing that its hands came across.

Some things it set aside, some it lingered over before crushing with a slow and careless ease. A few things made their way back into those awful hands, picked up again due to the random way it covered the room. Some were crushed in this second round of the search.

Reasonless, emotionless, the figure moved and judged at random, following patterns and criteria unknowable to anyone else.

One last go around

Come on, this is going to be FUN!

No! You know I hate these sorts of things.

Please? For me? Come on!

Look, really, can we... can we just not go? I really don't like it.

It's the last one of the year, it'll be be months before I can even ask again. Please, can we just go one last time?

Can't you go by yourself? I really, really hate this.

I- no.

What?

If you really don't want to go, I'm not going without you.

No, no, go on. It's fine.

It wouldn't be. It's not right without you.

But-

No. We've gone a lot already this year, and you've been really good about it. I'm sorry.

Behind closed doors, who's to know?

The monsters were quiet at first.

Subtle, even.

The first hints that they had gotten to your neighbor weren't shrieks in the night, or blood splashed on the windows. No, it was the smell. The pervasive, growing smell of things rotting. Rotting.

At first you didn't realize it, were grateful even, your neighbor had always been loud and inconsiderate at night and you needed your sleep. It was so, so quiet now. You were willing to overlook an odd smell for a couple of days.

After a couple of days, the scratching started.

You wondered if your neighbor had gotten a pet... no, pets, that couldn't be just one thing making that much noise. Or if the smell had attracted raccoons or something. Something! What was making that noise, what was clawing at the walls at all hours? When you started your day, when you came home, when you woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, always, in some corner or other of the apartment, you could the scratching. Sporadic, frantic, scratching.

You called the landlord, you left notes for your neighbor, you did all the... polite... things you could think of. Some of the notes you left were less than polite, but you never pushed for direct confrontation. Not that you could, anyway.

The smell got worse.

The scratching got louder.

Sometimes... sometimes you heard muttering during the pauses in the scratching.

You would only wrap your pillow tighter around your head and whine, then.

Symptoms present early in all cases

... jesus christ, is it really you?

No, it's someone else. Of course it's me!

Look, screw you! It's been fucking forever, man! You don't have to be an dick about it.

I- yeah, no, I'm sorry. It's just... you know.

Yeah, I... I guess so.

So...

Uh.

Yeah, been a while.

Yeah, yeah... uh... how're you holding up?

It's- *cough* It's, uh, been rough.

I- jesus, man, I'm sorry.

*cough cough*

Here, come on, tell me about it. I know you have places to be, but... hey, fuck 'em.

Heh! Yeah... yeah, fuck 'em.

Privacy, please

He clawed at the walls, digging his fingers in deep, clinging tight, pulling himself up near the ceiling.

He dared not waste the energy to turn his head over his shoulder, so hissed with all the venom and bile he had, directly at the wall.

A few quick motions, the movement placing strain on other muscles, a relief in itself, and his fingers were digging into a stud, easier to hold him than the plaster and drywall.

Now, now, he could look back and curse and spit at them, relax his grip and focus on invective.

His mouth opened, wide and vibrant, his words vile and blistering his tongue already, perched on his teeth as they were, and blackening, burning the skin around his lips.

Merciless

Please... help me!

I can't!

You have to!

I can't! I CAN'T!

Something... anything!

There's nothing I can DO!

Why won't you help me?

I want to! God, I wish I could do something!

So help me!

I! Can't! Leave me alone!

HELP ME!

Please, god, go away!

HELP!

Just... go! I can't help you!

HELP ME!

Take your time

Ithk was immortal.

So.

Ithk was immortal, but that was all. No wisdom of the ages (not enough ages under the belt). Ithk could not move mountains (other than with patience and a hammer). Ithk would simply go on forever.

So.

Ithk was immortal and needed a hobby. Ithk decided on making stained glass windows. Shaping the frame. Picking the glass. Picking the color. The clarity. It took time, so that was good.

Ithk had no aspirations. Nor inspirations. Ithk worked mostly from still lifes or photos.

So.

Ithk focused on improving skill. More finely shaped frames. More exactingly colored glass. More, more. Planes on the back so as to change the image with the shifting light. Ithk could take the time to hone and refine endlessly.

Ithk was immortal.

So.

So.