Illustration by Andy Paciorek 

These are creatures of the Night that I cannot bear during Daytime. Day, uncouth, arrogant Day, deigns no comfort for their existence. Only Night, demure, soft-speaking Night, broods them to the fullness of term.

For the rude, intolerant brightness of Day shrieks at their unnatural visage, pushes them back into the womb’s abode. Only night’s Moon succors them with its milky radiance, the golden mead of the Sun being vilest viper venom to their young tender mouths.

No birth pangs accompany their creation; fully formed they spring forth with such hale vigour and confidence that I become but an adjunct, a pale copy of their existence, as if they are the begetter and I am but a helpless infant devoid of all knowledge, sapped of all force.

Born with no blood nor nature’s yolk, they feast on the nearest flesh, consuming voraciously that of which they came, devouring like hideous grubs their creator from inside.

So eager are they to leave their natal home, they themselves chew off the life cord that once bound them to me, my own offspring made my nemesis.

BORIS GLIKMAN is a writer, poet and philosopher from Melbourne, Australia. His stories, poems and non-fiction articles have been published in various online and print publications, as well as being featured on national radio and other radio programs. He says: “Writing for me is a spiritual activity of the highest degree. Writing gives me the conduit to a world that is unreachable by any other means, a world that is populated by Eternal Truths, Ineffable Questions and Infinite Beauty. It is my hope that these stories of mine will allow the reader to also catch a glimpse of this universe.”


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