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When The Seed Is Right...
Oct. 29th, 2009 02:42 pmAs the moonlight cut through the slit between the ugly burlap curtains, Harvey knew his time as Harvey Brundle, the man, was short. He was beyond panic at this stage. Years had come and gone since his first inexplicable change. Who can say what precipitated that initial transformation, save for the full moon. The honest-to-God full moon as written in the calendar. No European pagan "three days of the full moon" shit. That would've been too much to bear.
Could the moon truly be the sole culprit? It seemed unlikely. Harvey was well aware of the effect of the full moon's behavior on man and beast--the spike in crime and violent behavior, and so on. In itself that didn't seem to account for his curious condition. No more than the dirty burlap curtains, if indeed they actually were made from burlap. He paused mid-pace to run his fingers through the curtains. It was heavy and scratchy enough to be genuine burlap.
Harvey chuckled without mirth. He was trying to distract himself without being aware of it. At first. Heh, like burlap was infinitely fascinating.
It first happened when he was twelve, just a gangly kid, full of comic book dreams and a passion for pets. Harvey's favorite had been a brilliant yellow parakeet. He knew better than to admit his fascination with Yellowbelly, as he named the bird, because the neighborhood boys viewed anything less than big, borderline vicious animals as pets only pussies or fags would have. In fact, he knew better than to mention his bird to anyone. Only his parents knew, and they were animal lovers too. He was happy at home, and could easily enough shrug off the unease of school and unavoidable interaction with his peers within his house's walls.
That sense of comfort, of safety, at home proved Harvey's downfall. Just a week before school's start, he was playing hide and go seek with Yellowbelly in the backyard with its thankfully high privacy fence. Though his wings weren't clipped, Yellowbelly never flew off. He seemed, somehow, to know better than to be seen, to draw attention to himself--or, far worse, attention to the fact that Harvey played with, let alone owned, a little bird.
The full moon grew luminous as the late afternoon shadows stretched. Harvey's mother called for him from the back door, announcing dinner time. He whistled for Yellowbelly who flew in a loop-de-loop, the show-off. Unfortunately for all, the bird arced too high and was quickly spotted by Harvey's notoriously nasty neighbor, Craig "Splatz" Markowitz. Splatz seemed to go out of his way to make Harvey's life hell. In school Splatz tripped Harvey at every opportunity, swept everything--books, pencils, homework--off Harvey's desk when they shared classes, and threatened others with physical duress should they dare to sit with Harvey or play with him at recess.
Spotting Yellowbelly was good as finding gold to Splatz. The bully had been practicing for weeks with his BB gun. He had a poster of John Wayne tacked to a tree in his mostly dirt yard, and the face, chest, and crotch were rife with holes. This, surprisingly, would be his first living target.
Splatz shot twice, the second hitting the parakeet in the neck and shoulder.
Harvey screamed as Yellowbelly's eyes widened like a Japanese cartoon character and blood spurt from the wound. Harvey dove to catch the bird before it hit the ground. Splatz's laughter from beyond the fence made the nightmare situation real. At that moment he couldn't focus on Splatz; Yellowbelly might still stand a chance.
Harvey ran into the house, showing the parakeet to his parents and demanding them to use their grown up powers to fix the bird's wounds. Harvey's parents eyed each other mournfully, then mother took Yellowbelly and gently cleaned the blood from his feathers. She instructed Harvey to lay him on the bottom of his cage near the window, where the light of the full moon would reach him. The full moon, she stated in her parental wisdom, had the power to transmogrify. Even if Yellowbelly's body seemed dead by morning, he had simply become something else. Maybe even a worm, or a spider, or a cow.
Harvey was twelve then. He loved his parents. Their wisdom was infallible. He did as his mother told him, ignoring Yellowbelly's stiffness and cold. Harvey poured extra seed into the cage and watched as the moonlight crept over the bird's body like a celestial blanket. He drifted off to sleep there at the desk, carried by rage and hope.
He woke soon after when something writhed beneath his skin. Harvey's veins took on a life of their own, a life that rebelled from the body that housed them. He would have cried out, more from terror than pain, but his throat was constricted. New attachments were formed, new conduits made, pores widened, blood rushed, skin flushed. His head suddenly pounded in an agony he had never before known. He must have passed out, for when he came to large yellow feathers littered his room, he lay naked in the floor, and the window was open.
Harvey had learned that, indeed, Yellowbelly was dead. Or maybe, as mother had said, transmogrified. And that Craig "Splatz" Markowitz had died that night. According to the incredulous policemen on the scene, something had pulled him out of his bedroom window and carried him to a great height before dropping him onto the pavement of the Markowitz's driveway.
Since then it's happened like clockwork, once a month. Maybe it's a blessing not be aware of what happens when Harvey's not in control.
He retrieved the box of bird seed from the table and poured a mound into his palm. Before the window, in the moonlight, he sifted the pale seeds through his now trembling fingers. "Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers at night, transmogrifies when the full moon is bright and the seed is right."
Could the moon truly be the sole culprit? It seemed unlikely. Harvey was well aware of the effect of the full moon's behavior on man and beast--the spike in crime and violent behavior, and so on. In itself that didn't seem to account for his curious condition. No more than the dirty burlap curtains, if indeed they actually were made from burlap. He paused mid-pace to run his fingers through the curtains. It was heavy and scratchy enough to be genuine burlap.
Harvey chuckled without mirth. He was trying to distract himself without being aware of it. At first. Heh, like burlap was infinitely fascinating.
It first happened when he was twelve, just a gangly kid, full of comic book dreams and a passion for pets. Harvey's favorite had been a brilliant yellow parakeet. He knew better than to admit his fascination with Yellowbelly, as he named the bird, because the neighborhood boys viewed anything less than big, borderline vicious animals as pets only pussies or fags would have. In fact, he knew better than to mention his bird to anyone. Only his parents knew, and they were animal lovers too. He was happy at home, and could easily enough shrug off the unease of school and unavoidable interaction with his peers within his house's walls.
That sense of comfort, of safety, at home proved Harvey's downfall. Just a week before school's start, he was playing hide and go seek with Yellowbelly in the backyard with its thankfully high privacy fence. Though his wings weren't clipped, Yellowbelly never flew off. He seemed, somehow, to know better than to be seen, to draw attention to himself--or, far worse, attention to the fact that Harvey played with, let alone owned, a little bird.
The full moon grew luminous as the late afternoon shadows stretched. Harvey's mother called for him from the back door, announcing dinner time. He whistled for Yellowbelly who flew in a loop-de-loop, the show-off. Unfortunately for all, the bird arced too high and was quickly spotted by Harvey's notoriously nasty neighbor, Craig "Splatz" Markowitz. Splatz seemed to go out of his way to make Harvey's life hell. In school Splatz tripped Harvey at every opportunity, swept everything--books, pencils, homework--off Harvey's desk when they shared classes, and threatened others with physical duress should they dare to sit with Harvey or play with him at recess.
Spotting Yellowbelly was good as finding gold to Splatz. The bully had been practicing for weeks with his BB gun. He had a poster of John Wayne tacked to a tree in his mostly dirt yard, and the face, chest, and crotch were rife with holes. This, surprisingly, would be his first living target.
Splatz shot twice, the second hitting the parakeet in the neck and shoulder.
Harvey screamed as Yellowbelly's eyes widened like a Japanese cartoon character and blood spurt from the wound. Harvey dove to catch the bird before it hit the ground. Splatz's laughter from beyond the fence made the nightmare situation real. At that moment he couldn't focus on Splatz; Yellowbelly might still stand a chance.
Harvey ran into the house, showing the parakeet to his parents and demanding them to use their grown up powers to fix the bird's wounds. Harvey's parents eyed each other mournfully, then mother took Yellowbelly and gently cleaned the blood from his feathers. She instructed Harvey to lay him on the bottom of his cage near the window, where the light of the full moon would reach him. The full moon, she stated in her parental wisdom, had the power to transmogrify. Even if Yellowbelly's body seemed dead by morning, he had simply become something else. Maybe even a worm, or a spider, or a cow.
Harvey was twelve then. He loved his parents. Their wisdom was infallible. He did as his mother told him, ignoring Yellowbelly's stiffness and cold. Harvey poured extra seed into the cage and watched as the moonlight crept over the bird's body like a celestial blanket. He drifted off to sleep there at the desk, carried by rage and hope.
He woke soon after when something writhed beneath his skin. Harvey's veins took on a life of their own, a life that rebelled from the body that housed them. He would have cried out, more from terror than pain, but his throat was constricted. New attachments were formed, new conduits made, pores widened, blood rushed, skin flushed. His head suddenly pounded in an agony he had never before known. He must have passed out, for when he came to large yellow feathers littered his room, he lay naked in the floor, and the window was open.
Harvey had learned that, indeed, Yellowbelly was dead. Or maybe, as mother had said, transmogrified. And that Craig "Splatz" Markowitz had died that night. According to the incredulous policemen on the scene, something had pulled him out of his bedroom window and carried him to a great height before dropping him onto the pavement of the Markowitz's driveway.
Since then it's happened like clockwork, once a month. Maybe it's a blessing not be aware of what happens when Harvey's not in control.
He retrieved the box of bird seed from the table and poured a mound into his palm. Before the window, in the moonlight, he sifted the pale seeds through his now trembling fingers. "Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers at night, transmogrifies when the full moon is bright and the seed is right."
