Meat for the Crows

While the barbarians are noisily setting up camp at the forest clearing I am looking at the jet-black sky and realise I am so far from home that I am unable to recognise a single one of the constellations. The men are worn out, starved and aggressive and I flinch every time one of them comes close to me since it has become a habit of theirs to punch or shove me out of frustration. We have been living off roots and bark and tubers ever since we set foot to this stretch of land as there seems to be no game, no breathing thing in fact, except this flock of strange white crow-like creatures that are relentlessly following our miserable caravan.

As every evening they send me and the tattooed woman to the woods to scrape together all edible things we can find while they pass their time getting drunk on their dwindling stock of foul-smelling brew, tormenting the enslaved and throwing stones at the strange hunched birds in the treetops. As every evening, one of the barbarians keeps an eye on us while I try to make sense of the foreign muttering of the tattooed woman and dig out the plants, she confidently points at with her painted hands. Something in the way she treads the ground and moves her long limbs, indicates that she is not yet on the verge of exhaustion, which gives me another reason to be wary around her, beside the fact that she occasionally warms the bed of the leader. A cawing sound that seems to come from somewhere close and at the same time from the deeply secluded heart of the forest makes me jolt up from my thoughts. We both look in the direction of the sound and our gaze falls on a bush with dull yellow berries. The woman approaches it and carefully snaps off a twig heavy with the unobtrusive fruit. I want to follow her example since our bag is still more empty than full and the cold of the hard forest floor is beginning to creep up my legs. But she pushes away my hand, places her painted fingers on her own throat and looks directly into my eyes. Another caw is echoing through the wood as if to answer the first one.

I wake up to the sound of suffering. The other enslaved are already up and watch the barbarians with hollow eyes as they desperately try to regurgitate the poisoned brew they drank hours before. Their necks and faces look swollen and bloated and somehow their heads make me think of overripe fruit. As the sounds of dread and pain grow louder I notice that the moonlit glade is encircled by myriads of motionless white hunched figures. A somehow harmonious cawing is now filling the glade and drowning the whimpers of the men. Then the creatures begin to stir, they flutter and scamper and scuttle around the sick men in a gradually tightening circle.

And now I sit and listen to the satisfying sound that emanates from the corpses as the birds dismember them and gobble them down. The other enslaved are gone and I wonder how they can hope to find enough strength in their bodies to return to civilisation. Everyone is gone beside the birds and myself and I just can’t bring my weak legs to obey me and hurry after the others, wherever they have disappeared to. A piece of bright red meat is dangling before my eyes and I feel an expectant gaze resting on me. I willingly accept the gift she brought me. As I am pecking at the meat I look up to the sky and wonder why these constellations looked so unfamiliar to me a few hours ago. I have always been here, with her and the others. We have always been here, roaming the forest, looking for meat.

Silverfish

I needed to spend the night somewhere, but as you know, I don’t trust those friable ruins, they have cellars and attics and rooms and shafts and so much space mistakenly believed to be empty. So I was quite lucky to find this dilapidated eggshell coloured trailer, though I soon found it was infested with vermin, silverfish to be exact. I switched on my flashlight to inspect the shabby interior – battered kitchen furniture, a raddled floor lamp, a reddish-brown stain on the carpeted floor. Myriads of silverfish slithered into the nearest crack as soon as the cone of light hit them. There was a fridge and I made the mistake of opening it. A glossy white animal skull was staring at me from the inside of the fridge, and beside it a cluster of silverfish eating a dead one. The horror I felt at this sight of cannibalism was soon swept away by that old sorrowful melancholia that hit me almost every evening those past days. I sat at the kitchen table and let my gaze wander outside the smudged window over the carious cityscape in the distance. And old corroded bible lay on the table before me, I had found it in one of the drawers. You know, I never had any affiliation with the Christian belief and I still don’t have, but you once told me that everything can serve as an oracle, as long as it’s suffused with something, or has been in the past. When I opened the book silverfish scattered away from it in every direction. I crushed one and it dissolved under my fingertip like moist powder. I looked at the silvery smudge on my finger with slight disgust. This species is believed to be three hundred million years old. My disgust mingled with something like respect, they were vital and numerous and thriving even after so much time, whereas we are at the brink of extinction. I focused on the bible again and formed the question in my head, the matter that has brought me here, to the periphery of the lands where the last of us live. Then I opened the book on a random page and put my finger on a line. Let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream. I couldn’t help but look upwards to where I believe this entity, all these texts have been written about, is residing. I formed a silent “thank you” with my lips. The truth is, I have been downhearted this whole day and the days before. But as foolish as it may sounds, those simple, archaic words instilled me with a shimmer of determination. I was going to find this vermin that took you from me. I was going to find them and reduce them to something resembling the smudge on my fingertip.

Electrical Sentiments

I found her on a dumping ground on the northwest end of the city, a place you need a real good reason for to visit. She’s quite tall for what’s supposed to be a female. Her hair looked somehow vintage, I can’t explain why. Her clothing too – a sleeveless turquoise dress and tights with some gaudy floral pattern on them. Her whole appearance reminded me of some Hollywood icon of the mid-twentieth century. She’s an ORO7. Those robot-loving weirdos usually give them a nickname but I’m sticking with ORO7. I’m gonna treat her as what she is, an aggregation of electronic parts. The scruffy keeper of the dumping ground observed me closely as I pulled her soiled body out of the waste. A six-pack ring was entangled in her untidy hair, you know this stuff that causes ocean turtles to suffocate. She was switched on, I noticed with mild surprise. Her eyes blinked twice.

Continue reading “Electrical Sentiments”

Return

My boat is slowly floating down a fog-covered river lit from underneath by somehow menacingly glowing outlandish fish as I’m carried off to demise, like a reverse Moses. A fragrant taste of lavender lingers in my mouth since I woke up this afternoon and made me think of you. I doubt the wooden carcass of my boat will ever be found, yet I leave you this, scrawled in the eerie half-light of this not yet dawned day, whilst I wait for those two stone giants to loom on the horizon. The wardens that mark the beginning of the malodorous descent and hence the finality of my decision to return to this subterranean anti-sanctum. I am truly scared.

Resource Moon 16F

22.9.
I can’t believe I finally found some sheets of paper. How long had I been looking for this, how often had I given up the search again. There are enough writing tools here. The dowel, for example, the beautiful wooden dowel that lay on the threshold of the dining container a few weeks ago. It’s just an ordinary dowel for the pushers, but for me it’s the best quill I could hope for in a place like this. I’ve sharpened it with a metal part and now, as I write, my sore, shaky fingers curl around it like a salutary amulet. There are colors too, although our eyes no longer perceive them as such. Spilled lubricating oil, damp dirt, rust, blood. Colors of misery and suffering, colors nonetheless.

Her oh-so-tender Heart

or Vision of living in a subdued homeland

„In the end “, she says

peeking outside between the boards on our window.

“they are just people like us.”

Her naked arms look skinny

in the dim light of our room.

“Afraid and misunderstood.

Confused.

Incited by a vocal minority.”

“No”, I say

slouching on our mouldy once green armchair.

My eyes are dry

as I was keeping watch

the whole night.

“They are against us

in every way possible.

They just hate us.

End of story.”

She turns around and looks at me

reproachfully.

Dust particles dance around her small frame.

I return her look

without expression.

She folds her arms, as if she was freezing.

Then she strolls over, glances down on me,

takes a seat on the arm rest.

“You’ve changed”, she says.

Her shoulder softly touches mine.

“I know”, she says,

“you want to join them out there.

And fight.”

I remain silent.

We listen to the slogans that are chanted outside.

Suddenly she is bending over me. The tips of her hair tickle my face.

I can’t quite place the expression

she pins me down with.

“Your lovely hair”, I brush an amber-coloured strand out of her face.

“It still looks so summerly.”

“Summerly?”

“I don’t know. It just came to my mind.”

I ponder.

“It reminds me of the day at the beach. You know,

when the wind took your light blue hat away

and I failed to retrieve it.”

She smiles.

Days at the beach, I think to myself,

while I drink in her smile,

sticky sun milk

the pain of sunburn

sand grains on our naked skin

those days are over.

Her face comes closer to mine.

How she manages to smell so good

in this filthy lair of ours

is beyond me.

“You think”, she says. “That I don’t miss it.”

“That I don’t know how much we lost.”

I want to silence her

naiveté

with a kiss.

“You think I don’t comprehend

their anguish and fear.

Your anguish and fear. But I do.”

You don’t.

It’s not anguish, it’s anger. It’s not fear, it’s repulsion.

“It’s a spiral downwards.

We need peace on the streets

to be able to talk

to negotiate.”

“Freedom”, I say, “is not up for negotiation.”

And I shove her off me

softly.

And I think with frustration that

they

even managed to ruin

this moment of tenderness

between us.

I walk over to the boarded-up window

that bars out the offensive sunshine.

But not the noise.

“I believed in it once.

I believed in debate and arguments.

That we’re all equally good and bad

and all that other

hypocritical shit.

But the time for debate

is long over.”

I sound like a black-clad villain

out of a movie

and I’m afraid to turn around

and see the expression

of aversion

on her face.

But I hear soft steps

and feel her warmth beside me.

“You know”, she says.

“I’m not afraid of their restrictions, their vitriolic belief.

I can endure.”

I hear the tears in her voice.

“What I fear is

that you’ll be turning into someone

I don’t recognise anymore.

So that I would have to walk away from you.

Because it would eat me up inside

to see you like that.”

An explosion-like noise

somewhere far away.

We don’t even flinch anymore.

“All I’m going to do

I’m doing out of

love

for you”, I say. It sounds so fake.

She thinks so too and looks at me

like one would look

at a problem child.

And I just lean forward

and stormily kiss

her teary face.

And I know she does not feel like kissing

right now.

But she endures.

Because her rejection

would be my final straw.

She endures.

Because of her

oh-so-tender heart.