The Drill

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
The Drill was my own literal interpretation of, Jacob Epstein's Rock Drill sculpture.

Submitted: March 22, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 22, 2012



We waited trembling, frozen in fear sensing them drawing near. The position of the danger remained unknown as we had no eyes with which to see so we waited, helpless. The soil began to shudder violently and miniscule rocks danced away to hide in a safer place.
The wind dropped to a gentle flutter and the birds slunk off in sombre retreat. Even the flowers turned their heads to the soil in shame, they were about to witness the entire hideous thing yet do nothing but observe the violation of their friend.

All of a sudden, the scout, a single tree that sat on top of the ridge stood rooted in fear as it saw them approach. A thunderous growl rolled over the hill preceding legions of faceless workers riding on grey tanks, which compressed everything that fell beneath them into dust. We couldn't run or avoid the mass that invaded, only watch as the tree fell beneath the tracks and was pulverized to dirt. Reaching the centre of the field they set about placing their tools on the earth, marking out the area and pinning us down. They took their time, coldly and slowly they stripped off our grass clothes; they licked us and after caressing us we were left exposed. At first the workers stared faceless in self fulfilled awe at the victim they were about to desecrate, if they had mouths they would have been grinning and licking their lips. It didn't take long for the compulsion to set in, they gathered the drills and drew them from their covers and casings. Powerful and erect the silver heads glistened in the ever warming sun; the drill was placed into position and by the will of the stone-faced workers, began to thrust.

Jarring. Grinding earth. Shards flying. We were decimated again and again by the burning, bubbling, boiling fury of the iron spearhead carving into our flesh. It was an autopsy, brutally dissecting us to reach the liquid below. The workers never ceased to drill as we lay staring up at their expressionless faces; they were all wearing identical veils making themselves unrecognisable. We received no mercy and no remorse as the contracted task had to be completed no matter what the cost. Their organs pulsed and squirm openly, visibly for all to see, glistening in the sun we were split in two. Torn and ruptured. They slid in over and over again scaring our boundaries and tearing away both our material and our soul. Before long the workers glanced at each another and smiled vacantly as the drill reached an ecstasy and flailed as it breached. Seconds later the warm liquid arose from beneath, out through the cracks above and spread over the surrounding area, covering and ruining it. A single worker took out a pad and noted down their findings with satisfaction, after which, they quickly packed away all the gear, they would clean the drill later. The void army scurried away before some authority could catch them and had soon driven beyond sight in search of their next target, this left us alone once more, naked and covered in our own liquid. We wept in silence. The heads of the flowers remained bent down in shame; the tree on the hill lay in pieces, crushed.

Many years passed and the trees grew back, the birds returned and the grass sat tentatively above the soil but the scar remained and would always remain as a memory of the trauma. We would always remember the crime and remain in fear that someday the drill would return and the ordeal would begin all over again.

© Copyright 2017 Alec Maynard. All rights reserved.

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