Humanity underrates spins

Topics: displacement, shambal, birth

2016-10-03

The black blocks of residential flats seemed to glare down at me as I passed on the train. If they did glare instead of it being only my imagination, it was in apathy. The consumers of such places are shielded from one another by black walls. The black absorbs all sound and even feeling. It mutes the percussion of emotions. The foetus beats in its sister's makeshift womb. He's tried to grow nails before, but just now has succeeded simply by force of will. He doesn't wish to die.

The *sister*, once a foetus herself, wails as her innards are shredded. She even gasps for more than half a half-click of the device before expiring. The foetus, let's call him Shambal, is gruesome, but we root for him. His erect penis impedes his progress as it bumps nagging on the floor. He's headed for the food store. He knows its location, but by intuition alone. The sister was often there.

There are only figs. They crack and splatter on the floor after the effort to pull open the aperture nearly puts Shambal to eternal rest. He, too, finally tumbles to the floor from the counter onto which he had climbed, exhausting his frail form. The fig-muck cushions his drop. He scoops the pulp mass into his underdeveloped maw.

tzifur (Martenblog home)

jenju (Thurk.Org home)

@flavigula@sonomu.club

CC BY-NC-SA 4.0