I want to attempt to write prose. I am a terrible prose writer, but I enjoy it. This is based LOOSELY on Orwells 1984. LOOSELY. I don't know if I like this or not. I thought I'd post it anyway, for the hell of it. Its painfully cliche, I am aware of this :P

The writhing mass of bodily forms swelled and expanded upon every gasping breath. Moving as one, they pulsated to the beat of a muted drum. The human machine- fed on the tubes of silicone rubber- breathing in the infused air- they existed simply to exist. The human farm.

Tumbling over arms, and legs, and limbs unidentified, he pulled himself toward the tube, and the molten nectar spilling from the open end. Many flocking, clucking mouths surrounded the tube, gulping down the steaming broth as it fell from the tube in great globs. He pushed a squealing girl from beneath the opening, and started to shovel it into his mouth as quickly as he dared, for risk of choking.

The farmed boy stands, and drinks until his stomach bloats and his lungs are screaming for air- before ripping his tender mouth from the tube and scurrying toward the corner of the pen.

The farmed have been fed. 


Mr. Jones stands, and walks to the open door, listening all the while to the constant bellowing noise coming from behind the Plexiglas shield covering the entrance to the pit. The farmed have formed the same, indistinguishable mass- no evidence of humanity to be found on face after vacant face. The farm had been open for less than a week, and already it had reached full capacity, with holding bay after holding bay hiding thousands of flesh waiting to be deposited.

 It was a bright day- a clear and inspiring day and the bells had rung. It was feeding time for the flesh, but Mr. Jones had become distracted with a rather large and rather unpleasant note pinned to the screen of his computer. The note was a simple 6 word threat, that if he didn’t ‘get off your ass now, Mr. Jones’ he would be forced into incineration. Which was the most menial of tasks, and was not one he particularly wanted to perform, if he could avoid it. 

Mr. Jones screwed the ball of turquoise paper, with the typical Flocker and Son logo embossed on the side in large, garish yellow letters. The room was quiet and soft, the atmosphere lulling him into a trance like state, from which he did not want to return. Sitting on the chair beside the desk, he stared in through the transparent shield, and watched the Flesh dance around each other, biting and snapping at tube; at limb; and at self.

It started with a mutter. A gentle, cautious whisper on the surface of the earth. The wheat billowed, oh so slightly, flowers dipping their heads, bees hovering slightly higher- higher, to escape the tiniest tremor. The world was imbalanced, it just didn’t know it. Mr. Jones knew, even if the world did not. He knew that with the tiniest tremor, the most insignificant shift of atoms – that something would begin to brew. 

The End

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