By Adara King
Hop, two, three. Hop, two, three. Hop, two, three seconds of air time. He soared, he flew, he sailed over the sun-baked field. Wind whipped past, roaring and cheering him on as sweet-smelling grasses bowed to clear his path. Bound up, land, tense, leap. Where he was heading, none could say, but he cut a fine figure in the journey. From the outside looking in, he appeared to be the happiest and most carefree individual who ever tamed the earth with his tread. But inside? Inside?
You have never met anyone before nor shall you meet anyone again who felt as stuck as that young hopper did on that stunning summer’s day.
He was weary of the same old routine; his hop, two, three no longer sent his heart sailing with euphoria. Angel soft fur, tall perceptive ears, four powerful limbs, and speed like an avalanche: all these things that brought him such pride in his youth now cowed his little head in the deepest humiliation. The cry of the wind was poison to his ears, and the motion of grasses sent shivers of fury undulating through his soul. He hated it all. It had to end.
But how?
These were the thoughts that crowded his mind to such a degree of over-saturation that the usual sureness of his stride decided, at that moment, to fail. “Gah!!” A sharp and sudden cry was torn from his throat as his momentum stripped his body of its balance. He was falling. Him. Well, this was different. The hopper had just enough time to ponder the feeling of time-packed dirt colliding with one’s head before he experienced the sensation for himself. It wasn’t pleasant.
Unmatchable agony rocketed through his skull with a ferocity so viscous that a sweltering inferno would find itself jealous of the intensity. Dying. He was dying. Perhaps death would ease the fire of existence and quench his senseless yearning for a lot other than his own? With this notion churning in the fringes of his dwindling awareness, he noticed the gathering darkness and embraced the ensuing lapse into night.
Instantly, the pressures of life faded, trickling like grains of sand through half-clenched fingers. Grain by grain, the warm kiss of sunlight slipped away, taking with it all worldly sensation. Sweet grasses lost their scents, the soft breeze ruffling the hopper’s fur stilled, and the orchestra of nature woven throughout the subconsciousness of life played its final refrain and faded into silent obscurity. Nothing remained. It was quiet. Did he like this? Was it pleasant? Was this peace, or was it just empty?
“I do not think this is what I desired.”
Were the words spoken, were they thought, or were they just… “were”? None existed there beside him to say, but the words succeeded in stirring something out of the infinite void. Ripples of thought and possibility pulsated a gentle rhythm of push and pull. The tugging churned and shook the inky darkness until it began to swirl a swishing beat and whisper words of its own.
“Then what do you desire?” The nothings burbled, lilting with undiscernible emotions. “Speak. Tell.”
The hopper knew not what drove his tongue or whether his tongue was driven at all when he replied. “Something else. Anything else. Oh, to trade my silken coat for a cloak of petals or a crown of antlers! I’d give up my feet for fins or wings on which to soar with sparrows. I’d willingly carve my flesh into scales or sculpt my nose into a bill. Just no more of this. No more of me.”
The darkness lapped at his form, returning glimmers of sensations where it spilled, cold and damp. The hopper shivered as the voice giggled. “You are dissatisfied. Do not worry. We will fill your heart again.”
Before the hopper could reply, blinding light tore through the vacuum, dousing every inch of awareness with overstimulation. His lips parted as he cried out, an unholy screech that pierced the heavens with its trill. Startling himself, he froze mid-cry. That sound… was not his. Was it? His eyes traveled down his figure, and he gasped.
Thick, glossy feathers gleamed under the late summer sun, twitching with delicate power in the breeze. A wild elation tore a wail of joy from his lips–his beak–as he spun. A quick glance at the world revealed a puddle nearby. He required a few moments of experimentation to find the proper technique, but before long, the hopper skipped on two legs toward the watery mirror. As his face appeared in the water, he couldn’t help but laugh.
“I’m beautiful!” He crowed, bouncing about in jubilation. His black garment of feathers looked dashing in the sunlight, and his beak protruded proudly and vivid as an orange. Finally, he was a sight to behold. Without a thought, he flung his new wings wide and took off like a missile for the clouds. Such freedom. Such excitement. Such life!
He cackled as he twirled about performing a one-man dance with the heavens. Clouds trailed in his wake as he moved, forcing the very air to still with reverence. He was the artist and the muse made one by magic, and he was never going back.
CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAW!!!
A wretched wail shook the sky with a vengeance, rattling the hopper’s skull like a bag of marbles. Before he could react, the shadow of a hawk blocked out the sun. The skies were home to freedom, yes; but they were also home to death. The hopper never stood a chance.
As his body was crushed into the dirt for the second time, stripped from the sky by a fearsome opponent, he wept for the air he barely got to taste and the mud he had now tasted too much of.
“Welcome back.” The nothings crooned, swishing about the hopper with more energy than before. “Have your desires been satiated? Has satisfaction kissed your heart?”
“Far from it.” The hopper growled. “I asked for new, and you gave me death. I have experienced enough loss for a lifetime. Send me back to the air.”
The darkness tutted, clicking what sounded like a tongue in scathing disappointment. “To die once more? The hawks shall give way to falcons, and falcons to eagles. You were not made to paint the sky with birdsong.”
“Fine,” the hopper said. “Then send me elsewhere. Perhaps near the ground? Such terrain I have spent my days subduing.”
Without a word, the night parted and daylight shone once more. The hopper squinted through the fading glow of twilight and brightened. He sat atop a grand knoll of fresh green grasses laughing in the wind. A view of all he held dear spread before him like a map: a small clearing, a twisted brook, and a nodding forest canopy full of a thousand wonders. He sighed with contentment. How beautiful this land was! How had he forgotten? The longer he stared, the stronger his desire to frolic became. When he could bear the strain no longer, he flung himself forth and… nodded.
What?
He tried again.
Nod.
Oh dear.
He had no limbs with which to play, no ears with which to hear, and no nose with which to smell. He was rooted, as it were, to the very spot on which he stood. He struggled in vain to free himself but only managed to wrench a petal or two from his head. He was stuck. Lacking tears with which to sob, he allowed thick trails of nectar to pour down his petals and drip in sugary piles in the dust below.
Hopelessness had just taken root in his being when darkness struck again, this time found in the belly of a deer. Down, down, down he fell back into the nothings with a great groan of relief.
“Why?” He wailed, flailing about as if to punish the substance around him for its games. “Why must you torture me so? You have the power to make me happy. Just do it! Put me where I belong. Put me where I can be satisfied.”
“And where might that be?” The nothings replied. “Where can you go? Who can you be that is any more you than you?”
The hopper’s head wished to ponder this, but his heart ruled his tongue. “Anything. Try anything. I do not want your lessons and lies. Just make me something else. I beg of you, anything else!”
The nothings sighed: a hollow, mournful sound. “Very well.” They replied. “We shall grant your wish.”
The darkness parted, but the hopper was ready for the light this time. He closed his eyes against the world, taking a moment to sense the extent of his final form. He felt the rocks and pebbles of the earth on every inch of his being, but the stones didn’t bite his flesh. Rather, he felt strong against them, protected.
His eyes slipped open and he could see. He could see it all. His fur had turned hard and slick, blinking as individual scales in the dwindling rays of sunlight. Though the day was departing, the hopper’s vision was unimpaired. The lingering warmth of sunlight emanated from the ground, glowing a fine color in his eyes. Small creatures darted to and fro, each one a clear spot of their own. He grinned, sharp fangs bumping against his forked tongue. He felt powerful. He felt beautiful.
Movement.
The hopper froze, a colorful blur in the corner of his eyes forcing him to pause. Something–no–someone was hiding in the grasses. “I may asss well sssay hello,” he said, writhing back and forth until motion was achieved. He glided forth, scales hissing against blades of grass. No thoughts populated his brain except the anticipation of celebrating his new form with another. There!
He saw her. Tender rolls of flesh poured over her poised hind legs, a cotton ball of a tail twitching behind her. Raising a paw, she swiped at grains of dirt that clung to her tall ears and tiny nose. She was gorgeous. She was preciouss. She was deliciousss.
Hisssssssssss.
Her shriek reverberated through the night, shattering the hopper’s soul with the horror of what he was, what he had become. He couldn’t help it, not for any manner of self-restraint or pleading. His new form was a flesh-eater. That was its nature.
He rammed his skull into the ground over and over and over to rid it of the memory.
That horrible memory!
The memory of the crunch.
“Void, please. I was wrong. I was wrong. Take it back. Take it all!” He screamed, wringing his vocal cords raw from the torment of accountability. He whacked his head and shook his tail, but no sound came, and no darkness closed his eyes. His sobs were hollow with mourning and exhaustion by the time he collapsed, fully spent. “I am satisfied,” he murmured as his consciousness slipped away. “I am satisfied with who I was. It was enough. I was enough.” The world faded to black and the hopper breathed his last.
Adara King is a college sophomore studying Creative Writing and Illustration at the University of Central Arkansas. She works primarily in fiction, but she has a deep fascination of mythology and folklore. Her writing reflects her deep love of family, introspection, spreading joy, and honoring God. One day, she hopes to work as an illustrator, commission artist, and children’s book author.