The Dream of Locusts     The Dream of Locusts

 by EscapeToCity

 This will be my last story for some time. It is pretty dark but I would
appreciate any feedback. 

 

  

 THE DREAM OF LOCUSTS 

 By: EscapeToCity 

 Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. They are the property
of DC/Millar-Gough/Time-Warner, etc. 

 Notes: This will be my last 'Smallville' oriented story for a time.
There's a lot going on right now and I need to look after those things. I
will return to writing sometime this summer, hopefully. Best regards and
wishes to everyone who reads my stories and offers up wonderful feedback
and constructive criticism. 

 Until we cross paths again, 

 JB
 @ Austin 

 There was a space no one saw or cared to see. A place, a flash, a pause.
It was there to be caught, to be craved, to be clamored for. It screamed
out for attention. 

 "No one came by, sir." 

 There was a person, a face, a heart, a smile. A grin for the mirror or
for the tile wall. Maybe for the floor, for the toilet, for the ceiling.
This aspect always sought another. 

 "Nothing this week." 

 It had been three months. Or three years. Maybe thirty. He wasn't sure,
couldn't be sure, tried to forget, wanted to recall. It had been so long
since anyone had even said his name. He lived in that other place now, in
that tower, that spire, that lofty perched prison he so wanted to
dissolve, to burn, to rattle, to vanish into. 

 "Stock price is up five dollars. Should we sell?" 

 They bring lunch on gold, deceptions on silver, deals in cowhide and
Chanel. He laughs but no sound comes from his throat. She watches, her
fingers clocked on the metal, lips curled. 

 "No deal." 

 The bodies pile up in the furnace and luckily it has rained so much this
particular summer. Thunderstorms allow for tornadic winds and selective
memories. Somewhere other he thinks of black hair and blue eyes and the
razor doesn't hurt so much that way. 

 "They are attempting a takeover." 

 He hears but doesn't care. Maybe ten years ago he would have. Maybe last
year. This year he sits in his penthouse and thinks of his nonexistence
and his fading looks; the smoky pallor about his wrists and the creamy
milk filling his eyes. There were other kinds of cream once. He can't
conjure their tastes. 

 "Let them." 

 The day the shareholders revolt, the day the market crashes, the day the
bodies are found, the day Mercy leaps and Hope cries; that day he pulls
from his desk the picture, the little tiny fractured image in black,
white, and tan. There is who he was, could have been and would be. There
is the smile, the red lips, and the illusion. 

 There was possibility. 

 "I am nothing." 

 A field tended frequently and carefully. Weeded and mulched. Protected
from the flying marauders carrying discord and dissolution on their backs.


 "Sir?" 

 If only he could reseed. Use compost or Ortho. Cut out his eyes and
hypothalamus. If only. 

 (I wish you could stop me Clark) 

 They sweep around the room with cameras and glare and pomp and expensive
department store tags and false reverence and he hears himself laughing
and cackling and yes, he even hears his throat close up and maybe he sees
something wonderful in the corner of his eye. 

 Maybe. 

 "Give us the whole story." 

 Maybe one of them will win a Pulitzer or write the story. His story. 

 "Take." 

 Perhaps one will clamor for the truth. 

 "Give us the story." 

 They don't see his finger on the button. 

 "Take everything you can." 

 It's more likely they will loot his life, take his legacy, albeit
tainted, and rush about dancing in the wind redrawing his experiences. One
of them, the one there with the greasy glasses and hunched back-maybe he
will tell the true tale. The one with the eyes. Those eyes. 

 "Take it all." 

 (They don't see his finger on the button) 

 The sudden shift. Too sudden. No time for Mr. Kent to expose himself. 

 "No!" 

 The fall comes painfully, of course. 

 Very bloody. 

 Brain splattered everywhere. 

 Anyone who says differently wasn't there. 

 The cloud comes soon after. 

 Boiling sky. 

 The tape plays. Few hear. 

 "I should have died the day of the meteor shower. October 1989." 

 (Please remember) 

 Blue to flash black. 

 "Welcome to my mind, fellow citizens." 

 There won't be many left for forty miles who will be able to tell the
tale. 

 Nine million. 

 That one there-- with the glasses-perhaps he will be able. 

 Perhaps he will cry. 

 Bones. Eyes. Skin. Mangle. Crush. Drip. Settle. And settle. And flow. 

 Perhaps he will remember the well-tended garden. 

 (Sometimes love isn't enough) 

 Ten million. 

 Before the storm. 

 One. 

 After the end. 

 (Hate is always enough) 

 Who knows? 

 (Truth always saves) 

 Perhaps we can begin again? 

 END of
 'The Dream of Locusts'   
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