RETRO VIRION
RETRO VIRION: A Tale of Lunacy & Loss
A man spirals into madness, believing he's in touch with prehistoric animals, the unborn, and the dead. The world around him teeters on a knife-edge, threatened by a nightmare virus that destroys everything in its path. The unreliable narrator, who's immune to the plague, takes you on a journey into the broken heart of existence, to a fractured consciousness as big as the universe itself, and as small as one man's mind. But is he really mad or is he right? Or is he the hallucinating survivor of a devastating pandemic?
A man spirals into madness, believing he's in touch with prehistoric animals, the unborn, and the dead. The world around him teeters on a knife-edge, threatened by a nightmare virus that destroys everything in its path. The unreliable narrator, who's immune to the plague, takes you on a journey into the broken heart of existence, to a fractured consciousness as big as the universe itself, and as small as one man's mind. But is he really mad or is he right? Or is he the hallucinating survivor of a devastating pandemic?
RETRO VIRION (the start)
My fingers fluttered, making feeding streams in the warm and shallow sea. Sunlight latticed across the silt on either side, and light glared and flashed from the water’s surface above my hunched and jointed back. A snowstorm of tiny beings swept along, a worm flexed and bled, and a boat-shaped fellow with a skirt of slender legs rode past. Everything seemed normal, but the water tasted wrong, so I pulsed my earlier self and sank into the mud.
A big one thundered past, shaking the ground. It stopped and sniffed and looked about, its jaw inches from the earth. But the forest held its breath and nothing moved. Then, with a snort and bellow, the raptor stomped off through the undergrowth, crushing ferns and sending rainbow runners darting off. Once the dust had cleared, and the woodland sounds were back, I limped towards my home, which lay beneath the greenery where the tall trees grew. As I dragged across the open track, a constant ocean roar filled my ears, as if my head was in a seashell, and bright needles tugged and stitched the corners of my eyes.
I was nearly there when a pink nose popped out from our burrow and then withdrew. Still listening out for telltale thuds, I hauled myself the rest of the way and climbed inside our place. Seconds later, something scampered past the entrance, and overhead, a flyer screeched.
“I’m feeling sick,” moaned my wife, her breath hot and foul in the narrow passage, “and the brood is poorly.” Her tail swished. “I’m scared, I really am.” She held me tight, weeping softly in my fur, and with her ears held back.
“I’m here, now,” I said, nibbling her neck and feeling her shake. “We’ll do our best.”
That night, we kept our babies nestled between us as they squirmed and cried and coughed, and their little faces twisted round, looking for comfort. But the poor things couldn’t feed—and feeding them was all we knew.
It was hot and damp inside our bedroom, and foetid as a crypt, and none of us could breathe or swallow right. All night, we shivered in our own wet heat, racked with aches and dreams. Every little while, we’d wake up together, my wife and I, disturbed by a whimper in our bed, or a scream outside our door. Just before dawn, or so it seemed to me—for time had lost its beat—we fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
When we woke the next morning, six of our kids were dead—their teeny bodies all stiff and cold. The seventh twitched and spluttered, his never-opened eyes were caked and weeping blood. His puckered, twice-used arse clenched and leaked, fine hairs rippled on his back, and then he died and joined his sibs without a fuss. We lay together in that dark and smelly house, with seven of our family dead, and two of us too sick to run.
But nature doesn’t pause or mourn, and things must feed. And big things eat the most. Outside, a raptor scratched around our door, breaking twigs and scattering earth and stones. Its jaws—scaly and full of dagger teeth—rammed in through falling soil and snapped at us, and poked around...
continue reading RETRO VIRION
My fingers fluttered, making feeding streams in the warm and shallow sea. Sunlight latticed across the silt on either side, and light glared and flashed from the water’s surface above my hunched and jointed back. A snowstorm of tiny beings swept along, a worm flexed and bled, and a boat-shaped fellow with a skirt of slender legs rode past. Everything seemed normal, but the water tasted wrong, so I pulsed my earlier self and sank into the mud.
A big one thundered past, shaking the ground. It stopped and sniffed and looked about, its jaw inches from the earth. But the forest held its breath and nothing moved. Then, with a snort and bellow, the raptor stomped off through the undergrowth, crushing ferns and sending rainbow runners darting off. Once the dust had cleared, and the woodland sounds were back, I limped towards my home, which lay beneath the greenery where the tall trees grew. As I dragged across the open track, a constant ocean roar filled my ears, as if my head was in a seashell, and bright needles tugged and stitched the corners of my eyes.
I was nearly there when a pink nose popped out from our burrow and then withdrew. Still listening out for telltale thuds, I hauled myself the rest of the way and climbed inside our place. Seconds later, something scampered past the entrance, and overhead, a flyer screeched.
“I’m feeling sick,” moaned my wife, her breath hot and foul in the narrow passage, “and the brood is poorly.” Her tail swished. “I’m scared, I really am.” She held me tight, weeping softly in my fur, and with her ears held back.
“I’m here, now,” I said, nibbling her neck and feeling her shake. “We’ll do our best.”
That night, we kept our babies nestled between us as they squirmed and cried and coughed, and their little faces twisted round, looking for comfort. But the poor things couldn’t feed—and feeding them was all we knew.
It was hot and damp inside our bedroom, and foetid as a crypt, and none of us could breathe or swallow right. All night, we shivered in our own wet heat, racked with aches and dreams. Every little while, we’d wake up together, my wife and I, disturbed by a whimper in our bed, or a scream outside our door. Just before dawn, or so it seemed to me—for time had lost its beat—we fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
When we woke the next morning, six of our kids were dead—their teeny bodies all stiff and cold. The seventh twitched and spluttered, his never-opened eyes were caked and weeping blood. His puckered, twice-used arse clenched and leaked, fine hairs rippled on his back, and then he died and joined his sibs without a fuss. We lay together in that dark and smelly house, with seven of our family dead, and two of us too sick to run.
But nature doesn’t pause or mourn, and things must feed. And big things eat the most. Outside, a raptor scratched around our door, breaking twigs and scattering earth and stones. Its jaws—scaly and full of dagger teeth—rammed in through falling soil and snapped at us, and poked around...
continue reading RETRO VIRION