Carnism

Ash Eaters

Fri, 20 Apr 2012 16:31:19 -0400

Sitting in her usual metal chair outside the coffee shop, Letha feels sharp ridges indent into her legs. She watches birds splashing in puddles on the street. The tiny harmless creatures extend puffy brown feathers as they shake away water droplets. Instead of walking, they hop. With short, quick bursts one of the birds hops toward Letha. Taking a long drag from her cigarette, she ashes at her feet. The bird pecks his dark beak into the gray ash, shakes it out of his beak and returns to continue to ingest and spit, ingest and spit.

Eyeing the sparrow with distaste, she moves a foot towards it. “Stop that!” she mutters behind locked teeth. But the bird continues to peck. She exhales; smoke gets trapped in her inky black hair. Like clockwork, after the fifth drag she finishes her cigarette and stomps it into the ground. She glances up at students passing by; they move quickly with ear-buds perched inside their ears. Some stare at their phones as they march, transfixed by the motions on screen.

Letha sees these monotonous figures every day. Some speak droning sufferings and complaints, but she ignores them. She places a hand in front of her translucent eyes as if to protect them from sun although the sky is clouded. Hearing footsteps nearing her, she moves a ringed finger from her eye, and sees a stranger’s face. Immediately intrigued, she removes her hand and her eyebrow twitches. The stranger stops directly in front of her.

He doesn’t move, only allows his long gray hair to whip in front of him. With misty cataracts he stares into the distance. The stranger begins to stoop down, reaching a parched, leathery hand toward the bird. It quickly hops away, forgetting the ash and returning to a puddle in the street.

The stranger stands, again staring into the distance. “These are uncomfortable chairs,” he says with a raspy, nearly inaudible voice. She eyes him curiously, unaware of an appropriate response.

“Yes, this one especially,” she mumbles, trying to conceal her deep voice. He says nothing. Grasping his surroundings, he hobbles into the distance.

Letha hunches her back and cradles her arms around her body, shivering from the chill of his presence. The metal chair continues to protrude into her legs.

After waiting five minutes before the beginning of her 11 o’clock class, she stands, arches her back and extends her arms, stretching her limbs like a bird drying its feathers. She walks a few steps and then looks over her shoulder, her sharp nose pointed in the direction the stranger walked. Never once has Letha considered skipping class. The consequences will be incalculable—her grades will suffer and she will fall beneath the rest of the students. Logic screams at her to attend; yet the stranger whispers to her from a distance.

Letha walks away from the school building, heading down a street perpendicular to its high brick walls and three story windows. The street is riddled with houses she has seen repeatedly—close enough in proximity to one another to see from one window into another’s home. For this reason blinds are always drawn, but the houses contain no mystery. Their architecture is simple, apartment style. Students lease them, eat sleep and become drunk inside them. Letha strides past the homes, intent on finding the strange man.

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Tue, 17 Apr 2012 00:48:57 -0400

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Tue, 17 Apr 2012 00:47:57 -0400

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Tue, 17 Apr 2012 00:46:30 -0400

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Tue, 17 Apr 2012 00:41:45 -0400

Vital Fluids

Tue, 17 Apr 2012 00:34:00 -0400

A bulbous fluorescent light veers overhead. The room is covered in a hazy white powder. No real structures can be seen. A sound continuously plays; it is not repetitive but instead creates a pattern of separate noises. Within the sound lives no reliable beat, no structure other than the connection of syllables, reminiscent of a language perhaps understood in a different life. To the tongue, the white powdered air is chokingly bitter. It pierces the throat, infecting the lungs and causing a cancerous cough. The body’s extremities are numb, grasping and reaching—feeling only the pounding, heightened, murmuring beat of the heart.

As the eyes squint, searching for some discernable object, the corners of the room can be seen. White, shadow-less walls under the fluorescent sheen reveal the room’s shape: a mathematically perfect square. The powdery white air seems to have lost oxygen, and the body crumbles on the white, sterile floor. Unfeeling fingers dig into pockets, becoming stuck in the seams. As the arms and shoulders tug and pull at the hands they achieve nothing, but a searing pain, like boiling water on the skin travels from the arms down to the tips of the fingers. Lowering itself, the fluorescent light is now directly above the body, and through the white haze blood seems to leak from the pant pockets. Stopping their constant tugging, the arms relax in their fixed state. Blood continues to pool about the body, the white powder settling on it like snowflakes.

The eyes watch the stark red blood as it flows around the body. It has an opaque shine, and the rich warm color gives the sense of depth. The body rolls about, becoming drenched in a quilt of the deep red blood. The heart slows, its beat no longer pounding but rhythmic and clear. Easily slipping the fingers from their entrapment, eyes take note of their disfiguration. From the fingertip to the end of the knuckle they have lost most skin. Bone shows in the joints; the torn flesh is uneven. Upon this sight the tongue utters a cry of ecstasy. Gazing at the fluorescent light, the eyes peer at it with a ferocity that makes its horrid light dissipate. It ascends toward the ceiling, disappearing in the haze.

A lurching feeling comes from deep in the belly, traveling through the esophagus and eventually exploding from the mouth. Thick, orange vomit explodes from the mouth and splatters against the walls. The orange stomach acid slowing erodes the walls, revealing the subtle green leaves in a forest of Sequoyah. Humid air rushes in, quickly sweeping away the white powder into the air, to infect another. The body feels a rush of energy, planting the feet firmly on the ground and feeling the stretch of each muscle, raising to a full, standing posture. The gnarled fingertips reach for the tops of the trees. The lips curl into a smile, and kiss the blood as it makes its descent, trickling down the arms.

fungi: Deer losing its velvet

Tue, 17 Apr 2012 00:28:25 -0400

fungi:

Deer losing its velvet

To reach 100 by the turn of May…

Tue, 17 Apr 2012 00:25:30 -0400

To reach 100 by the turn of May…

These long days…

Tue, 17 Apr 2012 00:20:00 -0400

These long days…

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Thu, 22 Mar 2012 12:02:53 -0400

magnolius: “Illegal Logging” installation made out of recycled...

Thu, 22 Mar 2012 00:49:23 -0400

magnolius:

“Illegal Logging” installation made out of recycled paper by Julie Dodd

Our ancient trees are disappearing rapidly and are greatly under threat from Illegal Logging. Deforestation means more carbon dioxide released into the air, which adds to our problem of Climate Change. But this isn’t the only problem it’s causing, it funds other criminal activities, threatens the lives of indigenous people and could cause irreversible damage to planet and animal life surrounding those trees.

ALL THINGS GO

Wed, 21 Mar 2012 01:19:50 -0400

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Tue, 20 Mar 2012 02:10:34 -0400

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Tue, 20 Mar 2012 02:08:00 -0400

“I once read the people fuck the same way they eat,” he told me over dinner. “I...

Mon, 19 Mar 2012 16:42:00 -0400

“I once read the people fuck the same way they eat,” he told me over dinner. “I don’t think so.”

He devoured his food quickly and neatly. I asked him why, as I slowly licked up every morsel on my plate, and he said that food is no big deal. He just eats it. There is no poetry in it, no magic in the mouth watering bites. His senses aren’t engaged.

After having sex one day I asked him about his first time. “It wasn’t long ago, and I didn’t understand what the big deal was. I was disappointed”

I guess I need to teach him to slow down and enjoy his meals.

nevver: Tattoo You

Mon, 19 Mar 2012 00:20:05 -0400

nevver:

Tattoo You

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Mon, 19 Mar 2012 00:03:57 -0400

vaginacougar: anyone know the artist?

Sun, 18 Mar 2012 20:46:15 -0400

vaginacougar:

anyone know the artist?

"Analysis brings no curative powers in its train; it merely makes us conscious of the existence of an..."

Sun, 18 Mar 2012 02:42:13 -0400

“Analysis brings no curative powers in its train; it merely makes us conscious of the existence of an evil, which, oddly enough, is consciousness.”

- Henry Miller

"The nearest I’d come to feeling anything like God was the plain blue cloudless sky and a certain..."

Fri, 16 Mar 2012 02:55:00 -0400

“The nearest I’d come to feeling anything like God was the plain blue cloudless sky and a certain silence, but how do you pray to that?”

- Janet Fitch, White Oleander