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polyarnye-nochi-blog · 6 years

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Even standing inside the souvenir shop, humid and stagnant Florida air made Bear’s movements sluggish and his judgment drowsy. The sun stayed high in the sky’s dome, relentlessly shedding copious and unnecessary amounts of heat onto boardwalk shops that attracted tourists like flies to fresh manure. As a result of the thick, choking air, visitors dressed ceremoniously in alligator shaped visors and over-priced sunglasses continued to mill around, some watching the waves hit the pillars while others blew money away on useless trinkets.

In such a manner people continued in their ways, thinning out their wallets far faster than they could ever hope to thin their own girth. It amused Bear to some extent how tourists preferred to indulge in frivolous nicknacks instead of changing their lifestyle, but who was he to say that? People like them were the easy targets so he could not blame them for being the way they were; their physique was what lured him in, a lone, starving dog to a slow-moving groundhog wobbling on nubby legs after a day of fruitful foraging. Their physical insecurity was Bear’s bizarre fetish that clawed and gnawed until he procured one: a prize to last him a week or more if he was willing to ration the portions.

Overhead fans worked feverishly to provide a cooling airflow in the less-than-appealing shop that housed everything from bobble head beer-bellied fishermen to orange flavored chocolates. The owner of the emporium sat behind a worn, wooden counter, beads of sweat dripping down from underneath his Seaworld cap. The man was hardly worth a second glance so Bear looked away, flicking a bobble head with his finger, watching the stupidly grinning buck-toothed face bounce back and forth. Floorboards creaked under the weight of Bear traversing back to the open front door, weaving around a showcase of shark teeth. Being a native to the area, nothing in the shop was of particular interest to him, and the same was true for every stop along the boardwalk: useless items to remember a not-so extraordinary vacation.

Stepping out into the soupy air, he turned his head this way and that, dark muddy eyes speculating the commotion around him. No one had noticed his presence, that he knew of anyway, so he slipped quietly between two racks of shoddily-made shirts with animated alligators posed in gardening hats, tapping against a few of the hangers with his fingers, trying, and failing, to occupy himself and not appear suspicious to any onlookers.

Bear felt impatient. Inability to wait and think actions through forever dogged him and nearly cost him his hide too many times, but the succulent taste of marbled flesh came with a price similar to an addiction. He yearned for it, drooled for it, and while others reached for a bottle of gin, he dug around in his pockets for what he called “jerky.” The strips were hardly ever any bigger than a potato chip, considering that a human body was not specifically bred for consumption like livestock, but each piece of dried meat was so enticing to him that it was a constant battle to not gorge on the entire harvest in one sitting.

He first tasted human flesh when he was young, hardly thirteen years old, when his friend had accidentally severed off his finger while they were screwing around with a handsaw on a fallen tree. When the friend bolted off bleeding and hysterical, Bear stayed behind, oddly transfixed on the small, bent appendage partly buried under upturned leaves. The only thought that entered his mind was how much it resembled a baby carrot; he stooped down and picked it up, immediately putting the raw and pulpy end to his mouth.

The peculiar sensation of someone else’s skin and flesh in his mouth sent unusually pleasurable tremors rolling down his back. At first he used his tongue to lick the end, tasting the bitter metallic leftover blood, and as he closed his mouth around it completely, gritty dirt from the ground blending with fading traces of peach scented soap. Curiosity made the young Bear bite down and grind his molars along the small finger bone to break the skin and rip away what little flesh was underneath. Its taste was a mixture of what he believed to be beef and pork, not all that gratifying in itself; the taboo act of eating it, however, possessed such a thrill that Bear’s taste buds found far more in the indescribable taste than he could have imagined.

He had tucked the prize into his pocket and was sent home by his friend’s mother before they drove to the emergency room without the finger. In the confines of his room, he took a lighter and tried his best to cook what little was left on the tiny finger. There was not much but he obsessively worked at picking it all off with his teeth, treating it like a chicken wing, eating it strip by strip. Whether his parents were blissfully ignorant or simply didn’t care about the burning stench that originated from his room, he wasn’t sure. Their absence allowed him to spiral into mania.

The major task had then become finding a way to satisfy his outlandish craving without drawing attention to himself. For years he could not find a way because he was much too small and young so he busied himself with researching jobs that dealt with bodies, such as an embalmer or coroner, though none really struck his fancy. For him, they interacted with the public more than he would have liked; meeting with strangers would be unavoidable if he wanted to harvest bodies, yes, but his young mind believed that he could find a way around that indisputable fact at whatever the cost.

After he grew taller and stronger was when he decided to give cannibalism another try. During his senior year of high school Bear turned to his nine-fingered friend, Rodney, one day in the parking lot before classes started and grabbed his arm, biting just below the elbow as hard as he could and grinding his teeth together. The only motive was an overwhelming desire for the distinguished, undeniably alluring taste that had been absent for so long. His friend’s panicked flailing pulled Bear along and gave him a new stimulating adrenaline rush; he persisted and retaliated by forcibly ripping out the part his teeth had hold of and swallowed it whole while slick maroon droplets oozed down his chin. Rodney screamed and struck out with a fist that clocked Bear directly across the face and shoved his nose to the side (and even though it was reset, the bulbous nature of the bridge was obvious evidence that it had once been broken), spat out quite a few obscenities, then bolted. Bear was left tending to a throbbing and bloody nose but he deemed the small taste of victory worth the pain, and he rewarded himself by using his tongue to lick up the crimson droplets that travelled across his lips.

The punishment for biting cost Bear both his only friendship and valuable time to search for other methods of obtaining jerky. Once freed, after five agonizingly restless years behind bars, he succeeded in cutting the hand off a drunken man in an alley, and after that he ended up trailing people at the boardwalk, though he hadn’t yet tried to take one.

A sudden and obviously fake cough brought Bear’s attention back and he noticed the owner of the shirt racks eyeing him expectantly from behind a bamboo counter. The man was balding and bug-eyed, quite unattractive, so Bear scoffed at him and turned his back, facing the blistering boardwalk. A disgruntled sigh sounded from behind but he ignored it.

The heat still bore down with great intensity and the time was drawing near for some sort of decision to be made. The crowds were just as thick and lively as ever so it would be hard to sneak away with anyone in tow. Sticky sweat slid down his face and he wiped it away with his sleeve, leaning slightly against the shirts while he observed the tourists and tried once more to formulate a blitz attack.

Children, or “finger foods,” as he liked to call them, scampered around the boardwalk in their cheaply made flip-flops that squeaked with each step. They would be easy for Bear to lure away with a few pieces of candy – or so he thought, however grudgingly accepting the fact that kids were becoming full-fledged shitty, greedy brats earlier and earlier so the candy probably wouldn’t work unless he had a bucket load. Besides, if he were to snatch one, it’d cry and scream and the entire situation would require far more patience than Bear possessed in the midafternoon heat.

Parents coddled their chubby-cheeked children with ice cream cones and overpriced junky trinkets. Gooey drops of vanilla and chocolate, melting in the sun, started to run down the contours of waffle cones until a tongue frantically licked them up. If a kid was his next victim, the parents wouldn’t be able to give chase, Bear determined, not when he knew all the ways to escape the boardwalk he frequented, and not with all the extra baggage that went along with adults. If they were lucky they would catch sight of him bolting down Atlantic Avenue before disappearing into the swampy woods with their beloved child. Fleeing to the swamp would mean that Bear could quickly go ahead and kill the kid and cook chunks of meat over a little fire wherever one could be made, then get rid of all the evidence by tossing it for the alligators. It would be a safe escape route if only he were confident in his swimming abilities.

However, Bear was impatient, and hunger, like a cat’s clawed paw, kneaded his belly. A kid would suffice if he planned on making a quick escape to the swamp.

His eager eyes scanned the pier for potential targets: twin girls and their mother fishing on one end, a scrawny toddler oohing and aahing over seagulls pecking at crumbs, the brother and sister licking away at ice cream. None of them truly struck Bear’s fancy until he spied a rather plump little girl standing on her toes by the railing, holding out her plush dolphin toy to the deep waves rolling below. The young girl was alone for momentarily, so he took action without dwelling for too long on the consequences of acting on a whim.

Short meaty arms stuck out of a tight little blue tank top, and he noticed her khaki shorts were covered in sand grains when he approached, taking a relaxed stance beside her, watching the whitecaps near the horizon rise and crash from an invisible force. Close proximity to the ocean unsettled him, though, and thoughts of falling over the edge into the water began to blossom, so Bear quickly refocused himself on convincing the girl to follow him.

“That’s a lovely dolphin you have there,” he said, successfully capturing her attention. She looked up at him curiously with large hazel eyes. “Do you like them?”

The girl nodded vigorously, straw-colored corkscrew curls bouncing around her round face. “His friends are all out there—“ a short, tantalizing finger pointed toward the ocean.

Bear grinned. He wouldn’t have to use any candy or make-believe scenarios to get her directly into his trap and it pleased him. “Do you want to go see his friends?”

She looked down at her toy and then at the sea in awe. “Can we really?”

“Of course we can,” he answered. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

He stepped away from the railing and she followed. So far Bear’s plan was working splendidly and he certainly wanted to keep it that way without a screaming brat involved. His hand hovered just near her squishy shoulder, fingers uncurled and ready to grab the strap of her tank top if she tried to escape. His heart drummed, steadily getting faster, thudding in his ears while the sweet, addicting adrenaline pulsated throughout his body. The horde of people around them suddenly appeared denser to him and it sparked an anxious feeling that prompted a finger to loop down around the strap of the girl’s shirt. She didn’t seem to mind the contact as she followed beside him, clutching the dolphin to her chest and sandals squeaking with each step. Bear tried to keep his composure steady and held fast to her through the throng.

The plan was working. He could see the end of the boardwalk shops and the parking lot stretched out behind a narrow shoreline. Beyond that was freedom in the swamp.

“Hey!”

A woman’s voice exploded above the dull, droning roar of the crowds.

“Let go of my daughter!”

Anxiety and curiosity tempted Bear to turn and see who was yelling but instinct overruled it instantly. Rapid footsteps on creaking boards told him that someone was running – it was time to go. Shouldn’t have gone for the kid after all; fuck my impatience. His hand clasped around the strap and yanked up, pulling the suddenly shrieking little girl into a tight embrace. People nearby jolted to the side as he took the first step to start running, to reach the parking lot where he thought for sure that he would be safe. The young girl continued to scream and started thrashing, much to Bear’s dismay.

Few strangers started to advance on Bear but the yelling woman covered ground at an unbelievably fast rate and reached the culprit. She grabbed the collar of his shirt and hauled back, claw-like nails slicing and pinching the underside of the arm that held her girl. Sudden pain was what caused Bear to let go of; he whirled around, hands clenching into fists ready to strike, but when he finally spotted his enemy it was already too late. She struck quickly with a direct hit to his throat that cut off his oxygen supply and left him stunned, unable to properly react. During those vital few seconds, the mother grabbed his shirt and hauled him to the railing, screaming threats and vulgar words. Bear’s hands grabbed onto her arms – it was all he could do when his throat and lungs were burning, unable to provide the oxygen needed to power better defense.

He ground his heels into the boardwalk in a lousy attempt to rescue himself, but her incredible strength was something he could not understand her small size possessing. Bear tried to pry her hands off of him and succeeded with one, only to have her yank it free of his grasp and claw at his eyes. Temporarily blinded, he scowled and damned her, then yelped when he received a sudden and fierce kick to the groin, quickly followed by a harsh shove.

The mother had stepped back and placed an arm protectively around the chubby little girl, keeping distance between them and the perpetrator. A plank’s uplifted edge at the end of the pier snagged the bottom of Bear’s worn shoe as he stumbled and threw off his balance drastically. The alarming sensation of falling tore through his consciousness when he tipped back. He gasped, arms reaching out in what he immediately realized was a futile attempt to save himself as he fell backwards through the only opening between the railings.

So Bear fell. Through the railing bars, in a slow-moving second, he saw the little girl and the dolphin huddled up against a larger woman, who was comforting her, and his focus quickly fell onto the plush toy. Hunger completely forgotten, fear began to take root in his gut. The dolphin’s beady and blank eyes stared at him almost mockingly until they disappeared behind the boardwalk that then rose above him like a great wooden headstone. A cry died in Bear’s throat moments before he hit the ocean’s surface, and the ravenous waves swallowed him whole.

#HERE YOU ARE KRISTEN #laklakjlakfjld #out of memories ( ooc )#this is the one and only piece i've ever had workshopped #prose

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theliterateape · 4 years

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Finding Purchase In the Post-Pandemic Economy: Dystopia or a Brave New World?

by Don Hall

Prior to the infection and the social distancing and the Goverment-issued lockdowns of non-essential business Americans were almost hopelessly divided. Primarily on partisan and ideological lines and fueled by the democratization of opinions provided by online discourse, the collective “we” were at each other’s throats every hour of every day.

Then, like the alien invasion in Independence Day or the monstrous squid conceived by Adrian Veidt in Watchmen, the Coronavirus attacked us all and humans united against the common foe...Oh. No?

No.

We have not come together as a species or society. We are still childishly barking at each other about all the things we were outraged by two months ago. We still either love or despise Donald Trump. We still scream about racism and sexism. Life has gone on without a hitch despite the disruption of our daily grind and the slow tsunami of economic failure.

The image comes to mind of two children fighting over who gets to sit in the front seat of the Toyota while in the midst of a tornado.

What is troubling (and hopeful) is that both children are right. We need to be cautious about this virus and do everything we can to mitigate the exposure and continue to make sure our hospitals are not overrun. We also need to get back to work and ensure people don’t starve to death or kill themselves in despair. Finding the balance is hard. If we can put aside the conspiracies and acrimony, we make it out of this relatively whole.

The worst part of a world-changing natural disaster beyond the obvious death that inevitably comes with it is the need to find someone to pin the pain upon. Depending on which dank corner of the kitchen you spy on, this set of circumstances is the fault of white people, or immigrants, or the Chinese, or the GOP, or the wealthy, or the poor, or Donald Fucking Trump.

The smartest among us are not focused on blame right now. The smartest among us are looking to science the shit out of the problem. The dumbest protest the solutions while offering nothing but noise in return. While we can look at the Michigan idiots screaming about their Democrat governor telling them to stay at home and be disgusted, the picture of you on Twitter typing furiously about your own specific set of grievances looks no better.

The best part of pandemic is finding purchase in what things can be and will be like in two months, in six months, in a year. Preparing. Taking stock.

The fight coming will be those yearning for January 2020 and those clawing for January 2021. Unless you’re a complete dumbass, we can agree that the practices of social distancing are with us for at least another generation (after all 9/11 happened almost two decades ago and we still have to take our fucking shoes off to get on a plane). The American economy is going to take a massive turn because of it.

What will January 2021 look like?

Beats the shit out of me. You don’t really know, either. Neither do all the leaders and economists. We’re all just making this shit up as we go. Uncharted territory begets unreliable predictions by self appointed marketers of ideology and hope.

Unlike the thousands online who, while having that degree in Communications gives them no expertise in the science of virus control, somehow just feel in their guts that their version of what will be will be, I’m not that confident. The best I can do is project my optimism into a future that is where I want to live.

What do I hope January 2021 will look like?

I hope:

We have a new president.

Your love or hatred of Trump is completely painted with your bias. You know it and you can’t escape it. I neither love nor hate the man because these two emotions require personal contact. I am, however, tired and troubled by my belief that Trump is, and has always been, completely ill-equipped to lead. I’d like the president of January 2021 to be a competent leader. Not a visionary but a coalition-builder, a bridge for disparate versions of forward progress.

We have embraced the lesson that shutting down some has improved the quality of our surroundings.

Dana and I visited Los Angeles in February. We had a ball but driving in was daunting. The smog was so thick it looked as if the whole city was baking in an oven that hadn’t been cleaned in years. Our friends talked about “air quality” as a marker for deciding to go for a walk.

Looking at photos taken today and it looks like the place has been scrubbed clean. If we can’t see this as completely under our control, we’re fucking morons.

We have recognized that those who labor for crap wages are “essential” and those who truck in wealth are not.

I’m not all-in for free college or universal basic income but I am overwhelmingly in favor of a standard $15.00 to $18.00 an hour minimum guaranteed wage. When the shit hits the fan it is the bus drivers, the shelf stockers, the short order cooks, the postal carriers who keep the goddamn train on the rails.

We do away with victim hood as a source of status and embrace the extraordinary technology we have to communicate ideas rather than blame.

So much of the internet has become the stomping ground for behavior policing, complaining, calling each other out, and poor persuasion. Policies are more often motivated by fulfilling an emotional need and calling each other names only evokes anger and resentment. Social media is a tool. We can use it to build or destroy. I hope we can get past the throwing tantrums stage.

Will January 2021 look like a dystopia or a brave new world? It’s up to us to decide.

#post-apocalyptic future

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