I like babies and little kids, more than some people
but goddamn, children's laughter out of nowhere
(in the night, when you're not expecting it) is creepy.
I don't like slugs smeared like nightmare goo on my
summer-bare feet, I could do without them in
my cat food and roses. Slugs will eat almost any
vegetation; if I knew their metaphor for plant perfection,
I could cultivate it, broker a treaty maybe,
bargain with rampion like Rapunzel in reverse
but I don't speak slug, so I squeal, and wear sandals
when it rains. Lately I have been thinking
about context, the background, the presumptions
and near-silence on which we build a world. Children laugh
at inappropriate times and don't understand why
they shouldn't tell jokes about Beethoven decomposing
during a funeral visitation, or how the sound
of their giggles echoing in enclosed spaces at ten minutes
til midnight is off-putting. For that matter,
the slugs probably don't enjoy dying on my carport
in puddles of rain, without ever reaching the earthly delights
of kibble, the rosebush that only gets enough sun
on the right side. I justify this because I don't enjoy it either;
I justify my spine-tingling tension at youthful voices because
my older sister used to make me watch movies she was scared of,
which in retrospect I don't regret, but hasn't helped
my paranoia of things out of context: topiary animals,
stray balloons, mismatched architectural details, frogs out of water
.
I'm sorry I stepped on you, I'm sorry I hated you for laughing.
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Previously published in Issue 27 of The Legendary. Some formatting not preserved by Fictionaut.
I don't fav this because TL published it, but because it is awesome. So glad you are here!