lowfashion presents: by the wing by chris yankowski

    It was dry and smelled of rotten milk and Jim Bob was talking to himself, again.

    "Blue rabid rabbits ran through the shed!"

    No shed and no blue rabid rabbits were to be seen.

    He was very alone.

    "Out the door and through the back!"

    Flatness surrounded him as far as he could see - no mountains, no grass, no trees, no flowers, no dogs, no cats, no birds, no people, no buildings, nothing. Nothing but the level grey marble ground.

    "God is dead and so are his friends. They got bored with life and bored with me! So off they went and whacked themselves. All because of stinky old me and the rest of my ilk!"

    A cold and distant sun sat forever low on the barren horizon.

    "Dirty son of a gutter. Hug the world and say, 'Hey, ain't I something!' Well, I ain't nothing but dirt. Dirt into dirt, get it? Ain't nothing but crumpled up snot."

    He had been there so long that he had forgotten his name that he had been given in the land of the living. So now he called himself Jim Bob.

    "This is the time to be angry and mad and then more angry! I want to be a goat. An angry goat that could kick! Oh yeah. Kick with my monster crushing feet. Ha, a big giant goat at that! So big that the sun would be blocked by my size. One big bad goat, just like my feet! Just like me! A big, bad, ass-beating, angry goat. Let's hear it for the goat and let's hear it for your number one dancing goat herder! I am the greatest goat that ever walked this land o' milk. Yeah, oh yeah!"

    He sat and waited.

    Silence.

    He sat and waited yet longer.

    More silence.

    "Wish for a star, wish for a star, wish for a star, wish for a star."

    He faintly remembered dying. Then he found himself here, in the same skinny, pathetic body he had when he died.

    He was naked.

    "Come on now, give me a star! Or a small comet, or a tiny rock. I want the rock. I want the roll of the rock! Then I want to take the rock that is rolling, and jump on it and smash it into the ground so deep that it never will be found!"

    When Jim Bob had first arrived in the curdled wasteland, he had found himself next to a sign that blinked: WELCOME TO HELL (next exit that way)

    So he started walking that way on the dry, rotten, milk-smelling land. The direction was towards the cold sun that hung low over the distant horizon. He walked and he walked, never finding anything. Not a cloud, not even a pebble. And he never got closer to the cold sun. It just sat there, never moving from its perch above that distant horizon.

    He had walked for what seemed an eternity.

    Now he no longer walked, but instead sat and talked.

    "Grey vermin, grey flowers, grey butter, yellow shit, grey men, grey huts, grey stains. Oh sing a song about color, sing a song about death, or sing a song about mother and mice! Oh sing a sappy song about the romance of mother with the mice. Yeah sing a song about my life!"

    Jim Bob laughed.

    And laughed.

    And then he stopped and sat for a while.

    After a while he frowned.

    "YOU DAMN DEVIL! WHY HAVE YOU LEFT ME HERE? I WANT ANSWERS! I WANT THEM NOW! I PRAY TO THE BURNING GODS ABOVE OR BELOW TO GIVE ME DELIVERANCE!"

    Jim Bob started to laugh, again.

    Then he stopped.

    He had heard a distant rumbling. Something he had never heard here before. In fact, since coming to Hell he had never heard anything but himself. He stood up and listened. Wide-eyed, he searched for something. In the distance he saw a dark cloud rapidly moving towards him.

    He had nothing to say.

    The giant storm moved in, blocking the distant, cold sun. It didn't get dark, though; the cloud gave off a faint yellowish light. There were three booms of thunder, followed by silence.

    Something was coming down from above. It was a bird and it was coming down to him.

    "Oh beautiful bird, light of my life! A happy creature from above, a sign of love, a sign of life, a sign of..."

    The bird fell dead next to his feet. It was a small black bird with red wings, cold black eyes, and a dull yellowish beak. Jim Bob stared at the dead creature in disbelief.

    "WHAT? YOU SEND ME A FREAKING DEAD ANIMAL AS MY DAMNED DELIVERANCE! THAT IS PISS POOR WRONG! THAT IS A MOCKERY! I HATE YOU, SATAN AND I HATE BIRDS! I'D BETTER NOT SEE ANY MORE BLOODY BIRDS OR YOUR ASS IS MINE! DO YOU HEAR ME, SHIT FOR BRAINS? CAUSE IF YOU DON'T, ME AND MY BIG BAD GOAT FEET WILL SHOW YOU WHAT IS NEW IN THE GOAT-STOMPING DEPARTMENT!"

    The storm cloud thundered three more loud times and then the sky was filled with millions upon millions of black little specks. They were all red-winged black birds and they were all very dead. The birds started hitting the ground and Jim Bob. They hurt, a lot, as they hit him, falling from such a great height.

    Jim Bob started to run frantically. The bird barrage was hurting him and without any clothes he was very vulnerable to the assault. As he ran, his feet were cut on the beaks and claws and bones of the fallen birds, and his body was bruised and beat from the torrential pouring of dead red-winged black birds.

    "Bloody great, a bunch of fowl to foul my mood. Oh how I hate these damned bloody birds!"

    He had had enough.

    He stopped running and turned his head towards the sky to curse his fate. As he did this, a dead bird fell straight into his left eye, puncturing it. Screaming, he fell to the ground. Holding his right hand over his left eye he rolled around on the fallen birds. Needing rest and unable to cope with the storm, he decided to hide. He dug a hole in the foot deep layer of birds and hunched over in it. His back was ripped and shredded for a while until a thick enough layer had fallen upon him. He struggled for breath as he listened to the birds pile up on top of him, burying him.

    Time passed and Jim Bob continued to hunker.

    After a long while, the sound of falling birds could no longer be heard. Jim Bob, still holding his gouged eye, decided that it was time to take a look. Laboriously digging his way to the top, through nine feet of dead red-winged black birds, he found that the cloud was gone and the sky was now back to its familiar, dreary appearance of the cold sun hanging low over the distant horizon.

    He sat on the pile and cried. Tears fell from his right eye and blood from his left.

    "Stupid birds. Why couldn't you have been my friends? No, you had to take my eye and you had to be dead, too. No fun to play with, even."

    Jim Bob picked up one of the dead red-winged black birds to show the other billions of dead birds just how useless they were to hang out with. Grabbing it by the wing he shook it a the endless sea of cold black eyes. All those eyes made him self-conscious about being naked. Then his own eyes shimmered and twinkled. A smile crept up on Jim Bob's face and he laughed.

    "I'll show you, you dirty bastard. I'll give you a taste of your own medicine. I'll take this negative and make it into a plump plum positive. I WILL SMITE YOU YET, SATAN! I'LL TAKE THESE BIRDS AND MAKE A CLOAK FOR MYSELF! YES! YES! YES! I WILL BE CLOTHED! YES, OH YES! I'LL TAKE THEM BY THE WING, YA SEE, AND THEN I'LL TIE THEM TOGETHER BY THEIR BLOODY WINGS! BY THE WING! BY THE DAMN WING! OH, BY THE WINGS OF DEATH YOU HAVE SENT ME, I'LL BUILD A REBELLION OF DIGNITY!"

    He heard a distant rumbling, again.

    He stood up and listened. One-eyed, he searched for something moving. In the distance, he saw a dark cloud rapidly moving towards him.

    He had nothing to say.

    The giant storm moved in, blocking the distant cold sun. It didn't get dark, though. The cloud gave off a faint, yellowish light. Thunder booomed out three times, followed by silence.

    Something was coming down from above.

    The sky was filled with millions of grey specks. However they weren't small at all.

    They were big and they were dead. Million upon millions of dead elephants streaked toward the land and towards little old Jim Bob.

    "JACK-ASS!"


this artwork is copyrighted © 2017 by chris yankowski - all rights reserved
chris yankowski profile | lowfashion galleries