Sinbad Cyclops: I Am So Tired Of Running Around On This Beach

Sinbad Cyclops here.  It’s what I must call myself, because nobody cares about my real name.  It’s unpronounceable for humans anyway, so what the hell – Sinbad Cyclops does just as well, I suppose.  Why would you care what I’m properly called, if you just come here seeking to terrorize me?  I am so sick of this insane crap.

I have lived on this island you call Colossa for centuries.  It has another name, an authentic one.  But do you care?  No, of course not.  You humans are nothing compared to my fantastic lifespan.  Humans come and go in the blink of an eye.  Human expendables live and die in the time I take to carry away the bloody carcasses I find on my beach.  And I find the corpses daily.  It’s so disgusting, it makes me want to wipe a tear from my one enormous eye.  

I don’t understand the human race.  You build these fantastic ships and sail around the world looking for creatures like me to torment.  It is you who come to my island to seek me or steal my treasure.  You want little trinkets and baubles I’ve collected over the centuries.  That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?  Gold.  Treasure.  Such greedy pests.  Humans are profiteering pirates.  But you already know the sad truth, don’t you?

Moron Magician

The worst of the bunch is the damn wizard or magician – that damn magic man.  He came here to seek a genie in a lamp and to harass me.  He brings a gigantic, stinking fire breathing dragon to my beautiful paradise.  This thing’s breath alone is the equivalent of a thousand lit torches.  It’s locked up in a cave and just stinks this whole place to high heaven.  

I take little solace in the bizarre things I’ve witnessed.  Each year, more humanity manages to make it to my island.  I must fight off these savage things to defend my home.  Perhaps the stress is getting to me.  Cyclops aren’t known for our mental fortitude.  Maybe I’m truly going insane, because lately I feel the fingers of an immortal – a godlike hand gripping me tightly.  It molds me.  It makes me move in ways I’d dare not imagine.  Is this what it feels like to be slowly going mad?  I just hope whatever force manipulates my limbs is a kind, gentle and eternally artistic one.