Monday, May 22, 2017

Expedition One:



Atrophied arms behind locked gates. He hates boats, more specifically he hates drowning. Or the idea of it anyway. “How are you feeling?” I hate ocean voyages. I’ve done all the research. Your qualifications outclass every other anthropologist in this choking weed of an institution. The billowy, albino pockets of throbbing jelly seemed directionless, content to flow and bobble in the calm gangrenous water. The afterglow morning of Thorazine and Seroquel. Nodding into his breakfast. “We detected no head or fins or appendages of any note.” It was not preposterous anymore. Then the Captain went blitzkrieg and beat his wife to death. She never saw it organized or heard the Captain’s gasp. The speakeasies, the Charleston, Herbert Hoover. Rafts and submarines. They found the Captain scratching at his face with bloody, studied fingernails while his wife was a crumpled hump in the clean, unfair corner - sweet and thick with the perfumed invitation of assigned putrefaction. Amid crackling thunder and screaming seas the First Mate, Luke, heard a torrent of voices at his lonely door. “I’ve checked and re-checked the data. I’d have saved myself a modicum of trouble if only I’d realized that the shawls were made of flames.”
  

My goulash runneth over. 


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