Night Orphans
Night Orphans are Aborted babies with severe fetal alcohol syndrome who survived because they were so havily pickled while in the womb. Their unpigmented skin sweats mucous, and they live in holes in the sand, just above the low tide line. They crawl out at night to feed on the plentiful crabs and suffocating blowfish. Night orphans will foray inland under a full moon to feast on the putrid honey of carniverous bees. Their Knobbly white knees quiver as the orphans buck in ecstasy after every sting, their grey teeth chattering behind shrill grins in the moonlight. Only in the Fog do the night Orphans come out to play, tickling one another in blobs of washed up jellyfish. They cocoon themselves during the dry season in husks of hardened yellow sinus excretion. The husks ferment as the Orphan pickles itself into hibernation for another long nightmarte in the womb.
Night Orphans are Aborted babies with severe fetal alcohol syndrome who survived because they were so havily pickled while in the womb. Their unpigmented skin sweats mucous, and they live in holes in the sand, just above the low tide line. They crawl out at night to feed on the plentiful crabs and suffocating blowfish. Night orphans will foray inland under a full moon to feast on the putrid honey of carniverous bees. Their Knobbly white knees quiver as the orphans buck in ecstasy after every sting, their grey teeth chattering behind shrill grins in the moonlight. Only in the Fog do the night Orphans come out to play, tickling one another in blobs of washed up jellyfish. They cocoon themselves during the dry season in husks of hardened yellow sinus excretion. The husks ferment as the Orphan pickles itself into hibernation for another long nightmarte in the womb.
They’re gonna pupate soon, so I sit in my tent sucking on cigarettes and shuddering with fear. I’m expecting a tiny pair of clammy hands to reach in through my tent walls and silently fondle my toes. My lighter is secure in my hand- I heard the little fuckers are flammable, but it doesn’t always kill them quick: Their hides crust up into shingles of charcoal. Blinded, the scorched Orphan will crawl around wheezing until the crabs come to pick it apart.
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