Eight arms trail. Through a misty inky veil.
The world cannot taste which comes through that blackness that forever is the universe of the not quite squid. A twisted knotted rotten log, or a broken ship to tear and be unto itself in that deep. Twisted with a need that grows and spreads and will not be contained inside a full and complete desire that must escape before it bursts.
And up it comes with a glurshukling crash. Crawling with a clawing cracking nabby nook. Octopus, it seeks the truth. A beak that cracks wide the lies, letting free of foamy sickness intrepidly onwards and indomitably out.
Then, after the weird surreal quasi moronic poetic waxing is done sometimes, if it's the right species, the octopus crawls up out of the water and hunts on the land itself.
How freaken weird is that? I'd scream if i saw an octopus crawling around the rocks looking to latch onto my head and kill me. I'd scream so loud. Flail, and probably fall off into the ocean, where it would have the advantage.
You would as well, you know it.
Meatbridge1
Great piece of literature you've written. If I saw an octopus, I'd probably say to myself, "Oh, friggin' sweet, it's an octopus!", though.
Emptygoddess
Then it would latch onto your head and eat your brain.
That's what they do.
They're octopi.