I know…Hard to believe… I posted a story by new-comer Christopher Delicino in which I wrongly accused him of being a student at the University of Idaho. I need to resign my post and go work for The Washington Post or CNN. Christopher is not a student and I should have thoroughly investigated that rumour …
I know…Hard to believe…
I posted a story by new-comer Christopher Delicino in which I wrongly accused him of being a student at the University of Idaho. I need to resign my post and go work for The Washington Post or CNN. Christopher is not a student and I should have thoroughly investigated that rumour before maligning him so.
Christopher is, however, an idealistic young lad who works helping the developmentally disabled here in Moscow. Here is his second entry into our First Annual Peggy Dobbs Write-of-Passage Contest. I apologize for my fellatious comment.
After this posting, there is but one remaining! If I have erred, and you have a story that you submitted but I did not post, I will automatically include you in the finals. Just lemme know.
Gotta a favorite story? Leave comments here:
Here is Christopher’s story:
by Christopher Delicino
Life is cycled. Birth starts the process. People chattering away under fluorescent light above their various stations. Their work is hot, as the day is long to them, birth is just another product.
Without complications their attitude is indifferent to the short life they start with the help of the staff’s hands and their tools of course. A warm mass wrapped up and handed away to whatever end they already are aware of. The crowd around is immune to the shock of birth. They are just simply hungry with desire for their next escapade. The next leg of the journey home is filled with frivolous thoughts enacted out to no one’s contentment. All they think about is their insanity-driven processes that will replace the spectacle they just left. Out the door in the parked car they go carrying the warm mass from the place of forgotten whims and wants recycled into fresh corpses.
Still wrapped up the warm mass is silent, dormant, the process of birth left it unable to communicate to its captors, the future molesters: the meat eaters, the absurd, the insane, who needed no credentials to qualify, no assessment or drug test. One of them probably was high just to deal with the process anyhow. They were probably high when they made the decision that resulted in this exchange. The warm mass wrapped up helpless: waiting for the world, presented with an end from birth, Unable to comprehend hearing complex logically placed notes playing on the radio, never realizing what brakes meant to a car , JUST REACTIONARY TO THESE PEOPLE AND THEIR WHIMS!
The wrapped-up warm mass is being carried from the car, haphazardly banged against the stair case pole, then again against the door, unable to hear the talk, to understand what is coming next. The next part is being set on the ground, unable to realize that the purpose of birth was only to be part of the background to the TV being booted on. There is no celebration, only things to aid the celebration. But the warm mass didn’t realize that TV was the end for him, the sacrifice of an American ritual born of a lack of creativity.
They each unwrapped the mass , settled into the couch they take up the naked unsuspecting shape to eye level. They take a bite halving it, it was already dead or else it would have screamed. Then quickly they take the next bite, the customers however knew this was always the end, their insanities were just a habit. Crumpling the thin paper wrapping with the corporate emblem, now it was just another piece of trash to throw against the wall.
Blending their pleasures in such a way their ego demanded caused the transformation of energy for the purpose of fueling their fascination of the alter reality game on the television. Button pressed. Grab remote to press another button. Grab hand held controller to control the representation of a polygonal avatar. Two beings looking at a screen clicking away the night, for a temporary induced mania caused them to forget about their environment or the ecosystem or the community they belong to. The spell of the glowing screen gets fainter to these men as their pleasure cocktail wears off. Shadows of doubt flicker at the peripherals of the consumers so to remind them the failure of their attempt to live continuously in bliss.
Though no physical or virtual threat was present, panic crept in. “ We should have grabbed more Ugh its never enough.” “Ugh quit yer bellyaching in my ear, its not my fault you should have ordered more”. “ MAN I hate cold food if you order more its cold by the time you get to it” “ Well QUIT yelling in my ear just do something about it, lets smoke a bowl, take the car, hit the drive-through, I swear, it‘s not too late.”
Life is cycled. Birth starts the process. People chattering away under florescent light above their various stations. Their work is hot, as the day is long; to them, birth is just another product. It will end up being just another piece of trash thrown against the wall.