A Playlist and a Story

My mix is a soundtrack to this scene: 

Pray, Love, Eat

 
He could smell her long before he saw her: waves of thick choking desire poured off of her. She was bigger than him, perhaps by half an inch, and her anatanae twitched impatiently over her severe beak. She caught sight of him and cocked her head.  He approached, unconsciously, transfixed by her gaze, until he stood beneath her, peering upward. With one quiet click she signaled her intentions, and he, suddenly realizing his mistake, slunk down further. But her will was far too strong. She continued to peer down at him, and, as if drawn out by some witchcraft, he stood on his hind legs and circled her, slave to her charms.

With several more clicks, she leaned over and beckoned him.  He breathlessly examined her form—her bulking thorax, her piercing mandibles, the inadvertent flutter of her wings—and mounted her, feeling her body accept his, letting the mad rush of pleasure crush his common sense.  He thrust inside of her, slipping further and further into her grasp.  Below him, he felt her shutter and buck, begging for his seed.  He continued to pierce her, and as he approached completion, she turned her head around, stared deep into his eyes, and opened her mouth.  Helpless to her powers and caught within her, all he could do was move faster. Finish and escape.

Not fast enough; her mouth came down on his head with fearsome passion.  He could feel his world slipping away—he could feel her tearing his head apart—as he came.  During his final moments of orgasm, and his final moments of consciousness, his head ripped clean off his body, already crushed within her pitiless jaw.  And, though his mind now crumbled within the throat of his partner, his body continued to thrust, innocently pleasuring her with no foreknowledge of its coming fate. Her appetite was far from clenched, and, limb by limb, she devoured his convulsing shell, leaving nothing behind of him but his unborn children.

When he awoke, it was in an unknown world.  He could see nothing but an encapsulating warm glow, and as he stood to stretch, a hand reached down to pick him up.  It gently brushed him off, tousled his wings, and threw him mightily into the surrounding light. Terrified, he spread his wings and found he could easily slow his speedy trajectory. In fact, he found the handle of his wings to be newly comfortable and smooth, unlike any flight he had known. He playfully explored this apparently new shell before noticing some others speeding towards him from a distance. He rushed out to meet them, grievances all but forgotten, and instinctively dove into formation.

Emmet Duff is a small town Ohioan reborn as an Austin, TX based artist and writer. He spent his youth either reading or watching movies, which is probably why he feels compelled to watch movies and then write words about them.

In 2009, he graduated from Kenyon College with a double degree in Psychology and Studio Art and has yet to capitalize on that deadly combination.  Once a kindly and humble Midwesterner, Emmet now eats a Tex Mex breakfast, sports a ten gallon hat, and refuses to be messed with.

As an artist, Emmet enjoys photographing things, building things, and photographing things that he builds.  Though his writing extends beyond cinema and criticism, he started his illustrious film writing career working for his older, very talented, brother in Sydney, Australia.  Emmet has a enthusiastic love for all kinds of films and would be hard pressed to name a favorite filmmaker.  But one time he spent a few days rewatching all of David Cronenberg’s films in a row.  And he didn’t hate it.

If you’d like to get to know Emmet, you can passively engage him through his blog, emmetblogs.tumblr.com.