6/30/16

Drone of the Source
By Wesley D. Gray


I.

Three floated from the landing capsule, drifting through purpureal mists
interwoven among the jagged spires of razor-glistening ice and rock.
Rippling vibrations swept the air, resonance deep in the hollows of our chests,

a sonic siren pulling at wants and dreams,
a droning pathway leading us eagerly toward the source.

Tubal formations with hollow cores provided passage into the deep,
and as we left the surface behind, our hungers only flourished,
enticement swelling with the tides of undulating atmosphere.

Darkness soon gave way to the warmth of blissful auras,
greens beaming in gleaming mists, revealing the walls around us,
crimson stone encasing the fluorescence of crystal essence.

As we descended, a madness overtook us;
greed and a need for the source thrust conflict upon us,
and as we clawed and screamed, I was overcome, my body flung—
for a time, I floated in darkness.

II.

Gentle pulsations of oscillating wind aroused me to my course,
the spiraling cavern ultimately spilling into a void where vibrations thundered,
rippling sonic waves pulsing, pulsing, pulsing, pressing upon my lungs as I strained for breath.

The source—
an immense humming sphere of lustrous jade—
lay before me, a sprawling haze of space between,

and as my eyes squinted to adjust,
I saw countless shapes of black and yellow
jittering along its tremendous surface.

Seemingly triggered by my presence,
the forms erupted from the sphere,
forming a blurring fog in orbit,
then all at once returning,
settling back to quivering stillness.

The resulting shockwave gripped me,
ripped me, pinned me to the inner wall,
and as I fought to stay conscious,
I faced my former comrades.

III.

Gray faces loomed behind glass slits,
eyes bleeding red,
their expressions stretched and gaping;

translucent wings fluttered from things—
terrible, wasp-like things—
clinging to their backs:

segmented shells black and yellow
clenched their bodies hip to torso,
ebony legs encircled neck and ribs,
and extending from pincered maws,
probing tips pierced men's skulls.

Eyes of innumerable facets mirrored my horror-stricken face,
and when my eyes met my own reflected,
something broke within me, and I fled through winding caverns.

But as I turned a corner to face a giant, wasp-like creature,
my pursuers easily forced me facedown to jagged crystal;
the thing incessant, hovered closer, vibrations terrible throughout my flesh.

The sonic call soon calmed me,
and as the creature attached itself,
wings giving rise into mist

while tendrils from its probing appendage
intertwined with my neural pathways,
I soon recognized my place.

Always,
we work for the hive throughout the endless tubal complex,
harvesting the essence of nectar from the undying crystals,

always returning to feed the source;
always, for a master purpose I do not know,
and one I shall never dare to question.


- - -
Wesley D. Gray is a writer, an author of fiction, and a poet. When he isn’t writing, Wesley enjoys a wide variety of geeky activities, but mostly, tabletop gaming with family and friends. He resides in Florida with his wife and two children.