The Reality of Dreams

Footsteps echoed on the pavement; an army of anger. They marched on together: a crowd, banners raised, chants ringing out. They were the spines on the hedgehog's back.

'End the slaughter.'

He raised his fist in a clone's salute, a single spine in the crowd of knives. A morally superior being, his long hair waved, wild as the protest. His sleepless eyes were plastered back; absent-minded stubble sprouted from his cheeks.

The pack had gathered to bring about their version of the future--a mighty vision, one that only the brain cells of the hedgehog could fully comprehend.

'End the slaughter.'

The hedgehog was there to protest the factory farming methods of rearing animals.

These methods were in place across the country and had become ingrained in the meat industry. The techniques in use were morally abysmal, ethically undefendable, downright vile. Even if the lax laws allowed it, sacrificing welfare for profit is the ultimate example of greed.

The consumers were equally abhorrent, pleading ignorance to the suffering, choosing to stick to the norm, claiming laziness, devouring the rotting flesh of tortured souls and in the process supporting the callous slaughter of millions of animals. Animals that had lived their lives in cages, unable to move, pressed together, killed a few weeks into their bleak lives--murdered to provide sustenance to a family that could survive on harmless alternatives. Years of suffering for minutes of pleasure. How does that balance? What part of that equation makes sense?

That was the question they were there to ask, plant a bullet in the brain of ignorance, let the veil be lifted forever. Force people to stand up, look themselves in the eye and admit to being evil. If they couldn't do that, they could join the body, add their names to the list, add their words to the question. The change was coming. It was no longer a question, animals can suffer, and we can stop it. Which pill will you take?

'End the slaughter.'

They weren't alone; a rival future met the hedgehog with bricks, an equally entitled opposition had turned up, trying to protect the malignant corporations. They wore false masks of freedom, while their arguments stood on quicksand, fading away before they could be questioned. They were self-righteous argument seekers.

'Slaughter is fun.'

She was in the orange future, black boots, designer clothes, a fur headband, leather jacket, a Venus flytrap waiting. She breathed with the crowd, lighting fires in the path of progress, ruining the world because she could. She was a high up government figure; she was closer to being 'the man' than most.

'Slaughter is fun.'

The future will always come, and one of those armies fought for the past. An ancient viewpoint that had been impregnated in their souls from birth.

'Slaughter is fun.'

The futures met with the inevitability of death - Clashing in an eruption of colours, cells bursting and spilling blood. Yesterday is dying, tomorrow is crying, and we stand in the middle drowning.

War waged on, soldiers falling, the north and south drew closer. The future no longer mattered, it was an amalgamation of ideas and violence.

They clashed; brick on spine, the hedgehog blunting, the bricks cracking.

A tear can break a heart. And this body cried.

Blood ran from a cut on his temple, indoctrinated eyes fuzzy with focus, one drop at a time, red tears.

He needed out of the rain. The brick slid from her hand. The devil showed empathy.

There are no definites; perspective can help you see around corners. Some days you need to stand on your head to see the world.

Puzzle pieces snapped together; the body vomited them into the silence.

Two purple humans, the invisible barrier of hate broken, last reserves of strength shared between giants. Limping onwards, the future flattened by the present, their differences temporarily muted.

'What is slaughter?'

In the honey, they stopped, she placed him on a mushroom of grass. She inspected him; did a concussion test, saw that he was healthy, just tired and bruised; in need of rest.

One of her houses was nearby, so she transported him in that direction; he was a willing passenger to her haven.

They made snail-like progress; she had become his shell. At the end of a war, there are only survivors.

'What is slaughter?'

Together they reached the house, squirming up the driveway and through the door, collapsing onto a sofa, adrenaline still high. Silence hung; two souls lost in their thoughts as they tried to recompute new facts.

A poised chessboard, he made a move, he thanked her for her thoughtfulness, for carrying him from the fire. It wasn't a reconciling of ideas, but it was a recognition of service.

She hid an elitist grin and graciously accepted his thanks, brushing it off with gloved hands. The riposte had begun.

'What is slaughter?'

Bee's flew; some stings landed, others flapped harmlessly off in search of flowers. There was some wit, mixed in with the mudslinging. The tension was building in the room.

The poet's puppets were dancing.

"You know what, I can't even bear to look at you, the fur hat, leather jacket, fast fashion built from corpses."

"What... you think I shouldn't wear this stuff?!", she laughed in disdain.

"Of course you shouldn't- unless you also want to wear the skins of the poor people your government leaves on the street to die."

She nodded, bit her lip, thought for a second, winked at him and shimmied out of her clothes. She stood there, proud and naked, powerful.

She may have stripped, but he was the one left naked, her spontaneous actions had caught him off-guard. Internally, desire wrestled with honour; his brain was an ant's nest of ideas, fruit flies carried conflicted messages to his body and caused his mouth to open and close in a fish like a manner.

She was exquisite, carved entirely from stone, muscle and bounce in all the right places, a rugged, mighty creature. His breath caught, his mind tried to override his body and failed - leaving him in an awkward ogling state; his arguments became jaded.

She was confident; she knew her body. What had initially been a statement, had become an initiation, a trigger to the start of something else. The dynamic had shifted yet again on this see-saw relationship.

"If you don't like my words, come here and put some new ones in my mouth."

The elastic band of resistance snapped, he moved towards her. He stood up, always him to her, his mouth locked to hers, as he introduced it to new words and ideas.

The wet battle began as her tongue resisted, fighting back with its own thoughts and ideas.

They were locked together that way for a while, tongues sliding over each other, trying to gain the upper hand. His pincers explored her body.

The day had built up emotion in them and those emotions needed a dramatic release.

She fed on his need, the power charging her batteries. After the initial exchange of words, they split apart:

"I'm not sure you've changed my mind yet; I can still feel my words on my tongue. Take your top off!"

It was a command. He obeyed.

Careful not to trap his hair, he raised his shirt, one inch at a time, it rose upwards like a chair lift. His sinewy body revealed, sleek and slender, a tight hourglass figure, delicate and pale.

Scrawled across his chest was a tattoo, she reached out and traced it with her finger, red nails contrasting with the black: 'Meat is murder'.

She pressed her nail down harder in annoyance, a snakebite opening on his chest, his breast heaving up and down, cold hands-on warm flesh.

She kissed him again, a leopard with its prey. Her nipples pressed into him, rubbing against his fragile flesh, twin pillars rising. She reached her hands up, purring across his face and sliding into his knotted hair, vipers teasing and pulling.

She tugged slightly on his mane, pulling them apart, coyly looking down at his soft pink lips, shining from her kiss. She let the vipers uncurl, and his head moved forward, those soft pink lips kissed down her sternum.

She leant her head forward and took in the natural woody smell of his hair, the scent of a woodland nymph.

Animals were being freed, not the ones he'd started the day fighting for, but the wild animals of passion.

His soft lips kept searching her flesh, raising goosebumps on her sculpted body, he sensually kissed along her ribs, his wet lips transported her mind to the future.

Her back arched, head tilted upwards, she howled at the moon. His lips continued to search, onto the toned muscles of her tummy, finding the hard bone of her hips, his little hamster teeth sucked and nibbled.

He kept moving down, lips brushing against her hip, following her waistline, along her inner thigh, occasionally glancing up, waiting for approval to continue. She nodded each time, granting her consent.

He moved along her thigh, closer and closer, but before he got there, she pulled him up. Their mouths met again, a hummingbird finding its flower. The Venus flytrap had caught its meal.

Her hands slid to his belt, unlocking the cage, popping the buckle, trousers open for business. He wiggled his slender hips and slid his boxers to the floor, revelling in his nakedness. He branched out, his firmness pushing into her hard stomach, dribbling with eagerness.

She gripped it in her hand, taking the joystick to guide the action onward. He followed her lead, little fingers tiptoeing down her body, gliding like an ice skater across her wetness. Synchronising rhythms and pressure, anger, aggression, a wasp nest buzzing, slowing working itself into a storm.

The nest had been poked; things were building. She leaned in, bit his ear and whispered an idea. His eyes went wide, and he hesitated for a second before nodding his assent.

He went to his knees, onto all fours, naked yoga, a prayer, he waited.

She took a long hard object out of a draw, a straight, stiffened snake, strap sliding around her waist, tightening in place, she rained a line of liquid down on the object, ready for what she was about to do next.

It glittered in the light, lube slick and glistening, she pushed forward, the tip entered, the cave opened, he clenched around her, she continued, deeper, he let out a whimper, the wild animal becoming a pet. She shivered with pleasure at the noise...

*

It's true; it doesn't matter who you are or what you do, how you live your life, you'll always end up getting fucked by the establishment. Viva la revolution.