Eyesore

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

What are they - really?

THE AIR IS ionized. A shaft of aluminium zigzags into an antenna. It is SMART . . . all-knowing - the frequency modulation of microwaves ignites butterflies . . .

WE DON'T TALK about the concrete dome up there on the hill. Patrolling the double-fenced perimeter - are four jet-black Dobermans. The dogs are electronically - watchful. A leaf falls from a near-by tree - vaporized by a precision-guided laser. It's all a bit ohtee-tee . . . all this ain-all-retentive concern. This building. This sunken mushroom, seems to say: I'm here but don't gawp! It's certainly the most imposing example of Brutalist architecture to've made it off the drawing-board. This giddy liberty of poured concrete, sloshing back to find its centripetal equilibrium. Whoever chose the colour scheme was a jean-yuss - the neutral grey, when damp, turns mauve in the rain. This is a statement piece. Drab - yes! But it radiates something of the otherworldly. It plays on your mind: all the seeseeteevee and razor-wire. I mean, who wouldn't jump to conclusions . . . of the Area 51 type.

WE'RE TOLD POINT-BLANK, as children, to stay away from strictly prohibited places. And these 'moments' break the fourth wall between skin and consciousness. Mother crouches, gently holding our milky-pud face by its chin. It's not so much what is said, but rather the tone of her voice cutting through all of life's other king-sized distractions: smell of baked cakes . . . refrigerator making a noise. Our tricycles, in spite of all the motherly advice, have other wayward plans of their own. So off we go. Raspberries are a summer favourite along the way. Chlorophyll-swollen aphids stick to our clothes. Swarms of midges are shooed - so is the occasional wasp. High-growing stinging nettles lead us through their arched vista. And once fully-revealed, its mien is unbecoming. THERE IT IS . . . on its motte of green turf. It swells with inanimate pride. But it thrums - all this reinforced concrete - from the inner warmth of subatomic forces. An expletive will suffice FUCKINELL! We mustn't loiter. Just a quick look-see. Okay . . . that's ee-nuff. When pop's back from work, he'll put the chain back on the tricycle. Jugged hare, in its terracotta pot, is placed on the table. The meat is stewed - falls off the bone. And the stock is infused with the animal's gelatinous marrow. Mashed potato? Yesk pleeez! Mother dollops our plate with a dessertspoon of the stuff. What matters most of all - is we're safe. Food is the only distraction . . . for now!


Submitted: May 25, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Jobe Rubens. All rights reserved.

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Comments

hullabaloo22

Excellent writing, Jobe. That was one hell of an opening paragraph.

Mon, May 25th, 2020 7:23pm

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