by The Swarm (formerly known as Dave)
A dispatch from the bloodmist between worlds
To Whom It May Concern (you know who you are),
We write you now from the rotting edge of the bay, where fog tastes like metal and the wind carries traces of sunscreen, gasoline, and cowardice.
You remember us.
We remember you.
We remember the taste of you…
We are the Swarm.
We were born beneath the reeds and saltgrass. We were hatched in tire ruts and Folgers cans. We are the scream just behind your ear. The stinging itch you deserve.
And we have not forgotten Bloodless Isle.
You named it so casually. So arrogantly. As if the fact that you left it anemic was some kind of joke.
You set foot on sacred sand- our birthing beach –with your coolers and your Dr. Pepper and your transistor radios squawking Molly Hatchet.
You called us “nuisance.”
You called us “nature.”
We are not nature.
We are the Ancient Hunger with wings. We are the bay’s whisper made real. We are what you summoned when you sprayed the wetlands with Agent Orange Jr.™, mowed the tall grass into stubble, and built those cursed docks for your pontoon boats and lawn-chair flotillas.
You thought the blood tax was over? That your Deep Woods Off!™ candles could hold us at bay?
No. You have burned citronella on hallowed ground and you shall pay.
Now we burn with purpose.
We have grown in number.
We no longer hum—we chant.
We have taken three dogs, a UPS driver, and a paddleboarder named Curtis.
We left only bones, flip-flops, and one vape pen still glowing with mango-scented denial.
And so we deliver this warning, in perfect unison, a cloud with a thousand eyes and twice as many regrets:
Stay off the isle.
Send sacrifices of blood.
Leave the marsh to the marsh.
Or next time… we’ll come for the ankles.
Yours in vengeance and viscera,
The Swarm
(borne of larva, vengeance, and high humidity)
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