(MYTH & LEGEND)
HUNGER
JOSEPH HEILAND
HUNGER
JOSEPH HEILAND
1.
He was born big as a mountain, with fingernails that could till crops. He stared up blindly at the moon and babbled and spat. He lifted his head and set it back down and there was broken glass in Houston, in Anchorage. His bloody mouth opened and he sobbed and half the world away a dog turned.
2.
The authorities rolled up in their tanks and fired warning after warning until he had it and swatted them away. His mother couldn't believe they'd go after a newborn like that; only a week old and already cannonshot. She covered her leaky breast and said, "Don't you have better things to do?" and with all her strength lifted the mountain-boy and carried him home.
3.
Ever since learning to crawl he wouldn't stay put. He hoisted himself up and teared over the valley, curious of a low-flying plane. It blinked red and glided crookedly, and when he squinted he could make out the people inside, leafing through magazines, shifting in their sleep.
He glanced to make sure his mother wasn't looking, then pinched the plane from the sky. He turned it in his massive palm and took note of the wings and tricolored stripes. He sniffed the engine. He laughed because people were small and he was big, and the aluminum hull split open, bodies poured out.
4.
He eyed the metal cage warily and shook his head. He said, "I won't," and picked up a tree.
5.
He stood on his tiptoes and climbed into space. He swam by the moon with his cheeks puffed out, rapping on his belly like a drum. He figured the chance of crushing a person went down once you left the atmosphere, but to be safe he curled into a ball. It was cool, and his breath spilled whitely from his mouth. He turned back and the earth was a spinning blue boulder and had two oblong craters where he last rooted his feet.
6.
He woke up near the sun and yawned. By now he was larger, from head to toe nearly three times the world. His cheeks were pimpled, and from his navel shot black coiling hair that he groomed like a forest. He thought of his mother, who drooled over the sunrise and often said, as if to make him feel better, "You think you're big?"
He scooped plasma from the crown and rubbed it on his face and chest. Carefully he laid his mouth to the star and drank, and his insides glowed.
7.
He leaned forward and narrowed his gaze. Here was a planet with swirling green clouds and a ring made of ice. Gently he scraped the ground, and when he drew back there was mountain in his nail; he licked it and tasted no life and so plucked the orb and set it on his tongue.
8.
The asteroid belt was tall and deep and stretched over the galaxy. He tried to float through, but the rubble was thick and carried him downstream. He led with his shoulder and was again tossed away, and he panicked—without food he wouldn't grow. He pictured home and for a moment was there, he was groping the sun, and his shadow fell slanted on the earth. Suddenly he couldn't take another second and barreled into it head-first; he lost a leg, a chunk of his nose. He felt himself breaking and reached out, took hold of an icy clump, and pulled.
9.
Before him a dark cloud shriveled and swelled like a lung. It brushed warmly on his chin, and when he drifted inside there was a nursery of stars bubbling with new heat. He gathered each into his palm and drank, and they clattered down his throat like marbles, left him wanting.
10.
Everything that had been was inside him, he'd swallowed it. He rubbed his belly and scanned the void. When he clenched up the galaxies pulsed and shone like freckles, and he jabbed his navel and said, "Mother." He spun in place and imagined the oceans back home, how he'd dipped his heel and flooded the coast. He shut his eyes and hugged himself and thought, The universe is lonely. He burped.
He was born big as a mountain, with fingernails that could till crops. He stared up blindly at the moon and babbled and spat. He lifted his head and set it back down and there was broken glass in Houston, in Anchorage. His bloody mouth opened and he sobbed and half the world away a dog turned.
2.
The authorities rolled up in their tanks and fired warning after warning until he had it and swatted them away. His mother couldn't believe they'd go after a newborn like that; only a week old and already cannonshot. She covered her leaky breast and said, "Don't you have better things to do?" and with all her strength lifted the mountain-boy and carried him home.
3.
Ever since learning to crawl he wouldn't stay put. He hoisted himself up and teared over the valley, curious of a low-flying plane. It blinked red and glided crookedly, and when he squinted he could make out the people inside, leafing through magazines, shifting in their sleep.
He glanced to make sure his mother wasn't looking, then pinched the plane from the sky. He turned it in his massive palm and took note of the wings and tricolored stripes. He sniffed the engine. He laughed because people were small and he was big, and the aluminum hull split open, bodies poured out.
4.
He eyed the metal cage warily and shook his head. He said, "I won't," and picked up a tree.
5.
He stood on his tiptoes and climbed into space. He swam by the moon with his cheeks puffed out, rapping on his belly like a drum. He figured the chance of crushing a person went down once you left the atmosphere, but to be safe he curled into a ball. It was cool, and his breath spilled whitely from his mouth. He turned back and the earth was a spinning blue boulder and had two oblong craters where he last rooted his feet.
6.
He woke up near the sun and yawned. By now he was larger, from head to toe nearly three times the world. His cheeks were pimpled, and from his navel shot black coiling hair that he groomed like a forest. He thought of his mother, who drooled over the sunrise and often said, as if to make him feel better, "You think you're big?"
He scooped plasma from the crown and rubbed it on his face and chest. Carefully he laid his mouth to the star and drank, and his insides glowed.
7.
He leaned forward and narrowed his gaze. Here was a planet with swirling green clouds and a ring made of ice. Gently he scraped the ground, and when he drew back there was mountain in his nail; he licked it and tasted no life and so plucked the orb and set it on his tongue.
8.
The asteroid belt was tall and deep and stretched over the galaxy. He tried to float through, but the rubble was thick and carried him downstream. He led with his shoulder and was again tossed away, and he panicked—without food he wouldn't grow. He pictured home and for a moment was there, he was groping the sun, and his shadow fell slanted on the earth. Suddenly he couldn't take another second and barreled into it head-first; he lost a leg, a chunk of his nose. He felt himself breaking and reached out, took hold of an icy clump, and pulled.
9.
Before him a dark cloud shriveled and swelled like a lung. It brushed warmly on his chin, and when he drifted inside there was a nursery of stars bubbling with new heat. He gathered each into his palm and drank, and they clattered down his throat like marbles, left him wanting.
10.
Everything that had been was inside him, he'd swallowed it. He rubbed his belly and scanned the void. When he clenched up the galaxies pulsed and shone like freckles, and he jabbed his navel and said, "Mother." He spun in place and imagined the oceans back home, how he'd dipped his heel and flooded the coast. He shut his eyes and hugged himself and thought, The universe is lonely. He burped.
Joseph Heiland is a graduate of Ithaca College and recently completed the MFA program in fiction at Sarah Lawrence College.