proximoception | (no subject)

(no subject)

Comment, and I will write a short sketch of you as a Japanese movie monster in the style of your favorite writer.

(meme creator =

wolodymyr)

(Identify your favorite writer unless you'd prefer me to guess.)

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Guess!

Every night the monster rose from her volcano and stomped flat a coastal village. Though extraordinarily tiny, as monsters go, she had the most remarkably wide feet for stomping. The far edges tapered so thinly that they crinkled in the breeze. They enabled her to stomp, but also to slide down slopes, skate across bodies of water, and even fly when she became hopping vexed, as she often did. Yes, she had the run of the whole world, but - have you guessed? - she was very lonely.

One evening, after flattening an entire archipelago, she skated listlessly home, wishing there were someone she could get close enough to talk with without stomping to death. (She found the other monsters rude and smelly.) Having reached her own island, she was taking her single customary dripping step from ocean edge to volcano rim when she heard a bewilderingly miniscule squeak from her lead foot. She froze in mid-step, unaccustomed to this manner of speaking with herself. The salt water steamed away as she held her foot poised above the molten pool in which she bathed and was nourished. As the hiss of steam died low another soft scream parted it. She turned her foot over and regarded it rather like a questionable hors d'oeuvre plate. Embedded in the very center of her perfectly flat, slightly translucent purple pad was a green turtle, scrubbed shiny as a jewel. Its face, half cooked, strained crossly at her from a delicate, wrinkled neck.

It seemed to cry, "Unfoot me, O renegade slice of the heavens!"

She tried to shake him off, then bite him off, then pry him off with a dwarf pine, but he was stuck. His shell, hard as diamond, had saved his life, but at the price of fusing to her skin in the massive, friction-heated press of her stomping. She found she didn't mind - here at last was a companion!

She held him up just free of the magma and they whispered back and forth through an immense steel straw. On her strolls he nipped at tough grasses and sipped from streams where her feet contacted them. At night he described to her the details of the world's surface, denied her by her too-immense footage. She had destroyed only in the fruitless hope of getting closer to the inhabitants of the land, so this led to a truce between her and humanity, negotiated by the turtle, and eventually to her moving her volcano to San Francisco Bay, which she guarded from larger monsters. She and the turtle watched public television together happily for hundreds of years.

Oh you have pegged me! I would be the stomping sort, I'm afraid. Is it Lewis Carroll who's meant to have my favor? Do tell!

Intention was Oscar Wilde in fairytale mode, but things got long and late.

That makes complete sense. Thank you.

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