Where our Children go

ben-waardenburgThe monster watched, silently, perched on a thick oak branch in the middle of a cloud filled night. A night as dark, as dank and heavy as the beings own soul, weighed down by acts as grievous as committed by any evil and wayward man. Watched as the light extinguished itself, thinking a singular thought, soon.


Mom, Dad, please find me, help me, I don’t know where I’m at. I’m tired, I’m cold, it’s like I’m in a really small cold bathtub with the lights out. I can scream but no one hears, no one comes and now I can’t scream anymore. I’m scared. Whatever happened is bad, I know it’s bad but I don’t know what it is.


Oh, it’s cold but the water seems to be thicker and it’s harder to move around, it’s like the bathtub just keeps getting smaller and smaller, and there’s a smell, a bad, god awful smell. My head hurts, not my head, my mind, it hurts to think. Every time I think of you mom, dad, it hurts me in my head. Why is that?


I’m not afraid anymore.

The cold clammy crap that I woke up in is a lot warmer now and I just feel a lot better. The thing is, I don’t remember a lot of what was before I came here. I know I had a mom, a dad and a kid sister. I remember their faces but I can’t remember their names. Maybe cuz their names was Mom, was Dad and Sis.

Why can’t I remember that?

I remember Moms’ stew though, don’t know why. Fact is, the crap I’m in keeps reminding me of it, thick and chunky, warm, soothing, stinky just like Moms stew. Stunk of a smell that I could never figure out, but it was a damn awful smell. Me and sis used to joke about it, sly looks, funny faces when Mom served it up, all behind her back of course.

At least I think we did.

See, the thing is, I know nobody’s coming to help me, that I’m stuck in this little place filled with stinky, chunky crap and I’m okay with that. Okay because I’m not scared anymore because I don’t know what I’m supposed to be scared of. I think I did a little bit ago, I think that’s why my throat is sore, because I was yelling, screamin’ for help but like I said, that was a long time ago and no one is coming and I don’t know why they would, ain’t nothing to be scared of, can’t ‘member why I woulda been screaming.

I’m missing Mom’s stew though, not because I’m hungry. I’m not hungry, not hungry because I have all this crap I’m in that just kinda comes into my skin and finds a a way to keep my stomach full. I’m just missing the stew.

I liked stew.

Something else about the stew but can’t remember right now. I think it’s because I’m sleepy. Maybe if I close my eyes for just a little bit, I’ll wake up and think of stuff that I shouldn’t be forgetting.


Like a flipboard, images came and went, appearing, lingering than dissolving into the another. A small thin boy standing over home plate with a Christmas bat. Pizza, Birthday cakes, back yards, faces, bicycles. Pictures without a foundation but all with a lingering sense of unknown importance.


I’m changing!

I’m larger or the space is smaller, but I think I’ve grown, and grown a lot. I can’t really feel my legs anymore and something is protruding out of my back, right where my shoulder blades are. The thick chunky stuff is thicker than before I fell asleep, it’s harder to mover around in so between the thickness of whatever I’m in and my growing spurt, there’s not a lot of room for movement. That doesn’t bother me, I’m not in pain, my muscles aren’t sore and there’s a sweet smell, a nice, comforting smell that I think makes all the discomfort of being in a small space, disappear.

I really quite like it here.

The only disturbing thoughts are when sleep comes and strange faces and places come and go. I find them bothersome because I feel like I should know something about them, but they are nothing more than dreams. Those dreams do leave a strange, lingering feeling of unease, but I have managed to toss those aside.

I much rather think about what I am, what I am becoming. I’m not sure, but I bet it’s going to be something wonderful.


I can barely move, most of whatever water or whatever it was that I have spent my life in, is gone, solidified into a hard shell, like a cocoon. For the first time, I’m able to hear other sounds, outside the shell, sharp, cracking sounds like something priceless being shattered into a thousand pieces. And the light, there’s just a glimmer of light and even though I don’t know where it’s coming from, it’s calling me, as faint as it is, that glimmer is welcoming me.

And I have a strange feeling, a yearning.

No, it’s a hunger.


I have to get out of here. My hunger is going to kill me if I don’t. Maybe if I press my body hard enough against the shell, use my head to push on the cocoon, maybe, just maybe.

It hurts to push against the shell but the pain is nothing compared to the agony calling, begging for fulfillment.

Oh, a crack, there in front of me. I’ll work my head against it. It’s getting bigger, a dim, shallow light is pouring in through the hole, I can see out. It’s almost big enough to get my head out, I can get my head out. It’s a struggle, but I can work my whole being out of this place, I can get free, I can feed.

But what is this dim, dark place where I am one of many. Where have my brothers gone, to what distant places have they traveled and left me here alone with those who still sleep in their shells.

Now I see, far above, a small bright light and I spread my wings and realize I am free to feed my hunger as I leave the remnants of those broken shells behind and care for nothing of  those who remain.


The monster watched, silently, perched on a thick oak branch in the middle of a cloud filled night. A night as dark, as dank and heavy as the beings own soul, weighed down by acts as grievous as committed by any evil and wayward man. Watched as the light extinguished itself, thinking a singular thought, soon to spread his wings and feed.

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