Written in 2009 and published in Yellow Mama the same year.
by Andi Hagen
On the street behind my house, I get jumped.
There are two. A knife sticks in my side, glancing over my hip and ribs. A screwdriver, ground to a point, jabs into the back of my skull. Popping through the bone, it cracks the egg inside my head.
The serpent wakes. Snapping loose bits of shell with its fangs, it breaks the hole wider before punching out, smeared with slime. A scaly coil drapes across my hair, fat and wet, pushing me to the ground as the serpent unfurls. It burrows into one of my attackers, gnashing through him from shoulder to crotch. Streaming into the other, it dives in and out until he is disintegrated.
Down the street it slithers, unwinding from my head, curling around the block. It is studded with eyes, and through it, I see everything at once. With a flitter of its tail, my brain is jerked out. The serpent drags it along, our nerves entwined. At the front, its own brain controls most of its body, but my influence is growing, seizing one knot of muscle at a time. Eventually, its power will be halved.
Then we will fight.