Typeractive Tales: A Collection of Clean Short Fiction

by Janette Rallison

Perchance to Slumber

  by Randy Lindsay

  Vibration.

  The slightest of tremors tugs at my consciousness.

  It buzzes. It rattles. It annoys.

  For a brief moment it stops. My eyes remain closed with the hope of sinking once again into perpetual sleep, but the noise returns. Louder. Closer.

  Agitated, I growl and the ground shakes as if the Earth itself fears the awakening of me and my wrath. How well the planet should remember when last I roamed the surface. Perhaps that is why it has kept me secluded and hidden for so long.

  The pattern continues; disturbance and then peace. During the moments while I wait for the return of fond oblivion, I notice that the cycle of activity and calm matches the flow of night and day. Those tiny measurements of time ceased to have importance eons ago.

  I decide to find a quieter spot and open my eyes. The inner walls of my resting chamber have closed in, surprising me with how much I have grown during my extended sleep. Since none could stand against me when I retired, surely the bounty of the world awaits me now.

  And yet hunger does not stir within my bowels; only the call to sleep on.

  With a stiff groan that rattles the pebbles in the chamber, I prepare to rise.

  The stone walls resist me.

  Bracing myself, I try again. My limbs are too cramped to bring my full strength into play. Only the space around my head offers room to move.

  I slam my head into the wall on the left side of the cavern.

  Dust falls.

  My anger swells up from my untamed breast; a force that I have not felt in ages. Accompanied by a furious roar, I unleash the rage that aided me against the horrible foes of my past. Now when my head collides with the cavern wall, cracks appear and bits of the ceiling fall away. One final push with my back legs and I burst out of the hill, like a hatchling breaking through its shell.

  The sun is out.

  On the surface of the neighboring hill, I spot the source of the disturbance. Small creatures race about. They have nearly stripped the hill of all greenery. I can see the trees being carried away along a thin path in the dirt.

  A couple of steps take me close enough to inspect these tiny pests. They are unlike any of the creatures I have encountered before; hard-shelled and completely different in size, shape, and color. The curious thing about them is they move about on short round legs, rolling as it were, like Thhurghamanasss did when he curled up and fled our last and greatest battle.

  The creatures are infected with small pale parasites that are everywhere on the ground. The soft, disgusting things scuttle about on two legs and climb on and even inside the shelled ones. Just looking at them gives me an itch and I reach out to swat a clump of them away from me.

  For a moment, my anger at being disturbed is stilled at the sight of these industrious creatures so heavily burdened with parasites, but it passes. It is their problem to deal with, just as it is mine to find a new resting place. For all I know it could be the other way around and it is the parasites who are in charge. I allow myself a snort of amusement at the thought, before marching towards the ocean.

  The sun has scarcely crossed a quarter of the sky when I happen upon a nest. Both the shelled workers and their parasites are present. The nest itself shows a great deal of structure with thin mounds that are taller than me and built in straight lines.

  An irregular stream of the shelled ones has positioned themselves between me and the nest, as if they intend to stop me from progressing any further. Such a marvel of assembly on the part of the creatures represents a minimal level of intelligence and I consider skirting around the nest, but it extends quite a distance in either direction. My impatience wins out and with a growl of respect I march straight ahead, toward the very center of the nest.

  Small puffs of mist belch from the mouths of the creatures.

  Immediately, my hide is pricked. So is my anger.

  Gone are the thoughts of treading lightly through their nest. They have dared to challenge me and for that affront I will flatten every mound in my path.

  With a single swipe of my paw I send dozens of the creatures hurtling through the air, to slam against a hillside some distance away. A couple more swats and the shelled ones flee, taking refuge among the narrow confines within the nest.

  Tearing through the structures proves more difficult than I expected. These are no sun-dried mounds of mud. They contain stone and bright shiny bone. As I push over one of the taller structures, the creatures attack me from behind. A wave of tiny bites washes over my back.

  This time I find the shelled ones have fliers among their ranks that spit tiny splinters of fire. They make themselves even more troublesome than their ground-treading companions by staying out of my reach.

  They are a crafty bunch.

  Breaking the top off one of the mounds, I hurl it at the nearest swarm. Several of the pests are crushed by it. I continue to knock the fliers out of the air with chunks of their structures until none remain.

  Unopposed, I resume my march until I reach the ocean. My wounds are many, but they are of no consequence. They will heal. The water will soothe the itches as I sleep.

  Plunging into the peaceful blue liquid I swim to the cool depths below. Even before I settle into place, sleep tugs at my eyes. Then as oblivion creeps over me I think one more time about the creatures. How dare they disturb me and then think to do harm. When at last I hunger and wake again—then shall they know the fullness of my wrath.