This was the second story (and photos)for the first event(2003):
ROOM 2: t h e p i c n i c
It was the autumn of summer and out amoung the rolling hills mossed over with woods, I took her. Three days prior she had revealed to me that we had made a child in her. I packed the basket brim-full with goods of fruits and meats and phosphor drinks and told her to come with me up into the hills above the valleys cleft.
She thought I had proposed to propose to her, and wed her in her family way. I layed out the blanket and she rested herself upon it and I drank a fizzling drink in the heat. The fans of branches quilted the shadows in patchworked undulations over myself and her.
Her hair lifted at the edges as locks were driven by the air. Her eyes placid in this place, and her fingers tangled idly in her strands. Her neck made a gentle arc and her lips and lids of her eyes made nervous smiles.
Nothing but simple effort exerted. I took my old knife and punched it right through her eye, stabbing and killing her brain with what I would suppose was great rapidity. She slumped down dead.
Her head loll-ied less its life and aimless, as I lay her out.
I had lost all my wits with guilt in an instant. I had killed my love and I had killed my child. Cowardly I had committed an action of murder. I ran fast as I could just as I was pulled down the side of the hill into the safety of my valley home, and fretted the nights away.
In early October, I had convinced myself that nothing had really come to pass, and so I climbed the sunburned brown slopes into the forests above and returned to the place where she lay. And still she lay there. The syrup of her brains and bowels had all run out and stained the linens and seeped into the dirt.
I had approached her and noticed with strange fascination at strangeness, that her belly had not fallen, but had bloated further. I wondered in horror and awe if the child had survived, somehow living of the sustenance of its mothers remains. With a rigored horror I slowly put my head to the belly and indeed it was alive with motion. All in a sudden I understood.
I was not to be the father of one or even two children that had mercifully been spared in the womb of this dead girl, but I was to be the father of untold legions of thousands and maybe millions that thrived and thrummed under my ears. They churned and lived in her, and grew off her and the pregnancy, and they were my children, and they were coming…
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