Bag Serials: Adam #5

“So how many we got today.”

“Slim pickens this time, mate. Just the one; and a little bugger at that. But it’s more paws for pickin, I guess.”

“Hmmm…that surprising considering how lush this area is. I will have to make a note of that. He seems pretty quiet back there.”

“Had to tranq ‘em. Three darts. Had the crazy eye, that one; all smeared with berry juice and shit like some kind of flower child. Just stared me down at first, too, up on his hunches, all calm… it was creepy mate. And he just went off after the first dart. Ran head long for me.”

“Wow. Quiet a find.”

“Maybe we can get more then usual for the brains, Eh? Most expensive part, you know. Used in some kind of chang chong healing potion or something.”

“Hey hey, no insulting of our costumers now.”

Clang

“Ah ha, here we go.”

Clang
Clang
“Want me to end it.”

“No, let him enjoy the ride. He’ll get the point soon enough. Hey! How’s junior?”

“Typical two year old. Eyes full of stars. Always exploring. ’slike he just touched down from space.”

Clang

Bag Serials: Adam #4

Though the thigh sized branches and wide thick leaves he climbed upward. Hand over hand. When no easy twig was within reach, he clamped to the bark and pulled on whatever finger holds he could find. Sometimes he had to let himself fall backwards while reaching for a mound just beyond his grasp, not knowing if the handhold ahead was simply a clump of dirt or a rotten piece of fruit ready to crumble between his fingers. It never was and even in the equal panic of grabbing slick moss instead of reliable rough dry bark, somehow his fingers always seemed to scramble to just the right places before he fell to the ground. After such a slipup, he would cling stiffly to the face of the tree, every muscle tense, breathing hard and wondering how it was he was spared from falling so often.

It was the largest tree he had ever seen. The trunk was light grey with wide, smooth lightly grooved bark. Its roots rose from the ground in tall thin waves like skin being pinched and pulled upward. Sometimes he would lie inside the small alcoves between them and admired its fruit. It too was like nothing he had seen before. It rose on thin white furry stalls and was capped with a brilliant flash of red and specks of gold. They grew all around it on the ground and ran up the trunk like gazelles scaling a mountain.

He played with them. Rubbed his fingers along the furry undersides and picked at the specks of sunshine along the top. The red rubbed off and he added it to his collection sometimes, smearing it on his chest and face alongside lines deep purple fig skin and thick black earth and green leaf from a particularly beautiful orchard he often visited during the day. At first these colors collected accidentally. But once, knelling above the river covered with all the forest and a fat black hand print across his chest, he was inspired to collect and explore and experiment. The fruit’s color, a red so deep he thought at first blood flowed from the ground, he saved for the forehead, in a round dot, just above the eyes and in-between a slash of limestone and black soil.

But he never ate one. He had a policy of only eating what he saw the other animals eat. Besides, there was an abundance of fruit here. He was never in want. They were tricks, hiding places and nooks everywhere to be found, all filled with food as brilliant in taste as they where in color. But this fruit seemed different. Despite it’s flower-like appearance, never once did a bee flutter above it. It stood like a tree the wind, yet it seemed so soft and tender. Its flesh was the dull white color of fish with gills tipped with dark grey. It was just too strange to be trusted.

And yet the thought of the fruit lingering in his mind as his palette expanded. Feeling the tender morsel of slug flesh slide down his throat effortlessly, he thought of it. He wondered about it while munching on a handful of clay, puffing out his cheeks as the wolves did and feeling it slowly decompose inside his mouth. He saw it clearly, or thought he did, floating in the middle of what turned out to be a deceptively deep pond. He was not sure what he swallowed along with the water that day, but whatever it was it’s taste was ignored as he pulled himself gagging back onto the shore.

The sky was grey above him. He had not reached the top, as intended. Instead, he stopped at a thick branch about half way up and a little above the surrounding trees. All the colors he meticulously applied from head to toe had rubbed off on the long climb up. He was sore.

Catching his breath, he looked at the crumbled fruit in his hand hoping for some comfort. It was mostly intact; the stem laid disconnected and the cap had broken in two but it was still recognizable. Even a golden shard or two remained on top of some of the caps. Good.

It was not the most bitter thing he ever tasted. That was reserved for a thick brown seed he spotted a medium sized rodent nibbling on several days ago. On trying that, it seemed his tongue shriveled inside his mouth and he drunk the river nearly dry. The fruit had none of the visceral kick of that. There was no need to run for water, which was a relief considering that he was so far above ground. There was just a vague discomfort. A disappointment really. Just like this night.

Washing out the remnants of the taste with whatever spit he could produce, he leaned back and tried to sleep. A broken line of indigo lingered on the horizon but above the sky was black. A faint breeze blew. He held up his hand to air as if giving up an offering and let it take the remaining red dust and bit of stem into the wind. He may have fell asleep a bit after. It was a long climb.

And indeterminate amount of time passed before he found himself staring out into the blackness wide-awake. No. It was not black. He focused his eyes and saw the clouds glide in grey translucent bundles; the flat windows of black sky passing by in-between. And even this was not black, no, the casting of brilliant points of light like glints of sun on water spread over the darkness, perhaps in front of the darkness, perhaps along the front of his eye or perhaps simply reflected off the hair flopping over his face. He turned his head and look, the moon, just revealed from behind a cloud the shape of a clinched fist, glowing full and round and white. Not fully white. It was dimpled with grey at times and then raised again brilliant and new like the speckled stones by his river. He held his hand in the ring above him, holding the moon inside it. He stood up on the branch. His bare feet felt each ridges. His toes melted into the smooth bark like water rolling over fish scales. He could nearly taste it. And the air: a slight warmth and wetness that went unnoticed before. Hand again to the sky, this dark night many hued sky, black of every variety, soil and pupil, panther fur and closed eyelid, deep water and blocked sun blackness, all in a rainbow above and below. He stepped forward foot beside foot with hands spread and arms outstretched and head erect and tall. He closed his eyes, opened his chest and roared into the night.

Bag Serials: Adam #3

How does anyone go anywhere? It was all so complicated. First there’s the feet, taught and then relaxed alternating right to left and back again. And they move in ellipses, oblong cycling into the air with legs following, arms balancing with elbows pistoning like the whistling wind; rise and fall and rise in periodic time. He always trailed the pack. There was just too much to consider. He couldn’t understand the effortless flow of the others, their bodies seeming to fall forward through trees. Most of the time he ended up tripping over his elbows or smacking headlong into a tree or having his ear snagged and twisted by a passing elder hurrying him along.

Such a comfort to run alone now. He walked at dawn every morning, washing in river and grabbing a fig from a nearby tree before venturing out into the forest.  Each day he went bit a farther. Sometimes he strolled, taking in the sounds, eyeing the scattering animals and noting landmarks for later investigation. In other times, remembering the shame of his lack of coordination, he ran, flat out and with his eyes closed as far as he dared to go.

Once such time, while hurrying back home in the face of impending night, he found himself just finding his stride when his right foot planted itself at the heel unmovable. Cradled under his instep, a delicate and smooth thing not quiet a stone. It felt damp against his foot. Leaning back off balanced half falling, he lined his eye with the round white thing and confirmed his suspensions. It was an egg; the color of sand; shell almost translucent and full of subtle raised waves when he rubbed it against his finger. He fell silent considering it.

After a little while, a faint night chill blew against him and he stirred. The night he was fleeing was upon him. And yet here he was sitting, his hand caressing the egg, staring into the specks of dusk sky shining through the near-black canopy. The last time he saw a sight like this he was back with his family,  nesseled between his mother’s chest and forearm after a large meal. Most times the pack moved to a clearing to camp, but the night was clear and lit bright by the moon and they where all too satisfied to move. Exhaling back into reality, he carefully scooped the egg into his right hand and starting walking back towards the river. It was not as far away as it seemed.

He thought of eating it for a time. Eggs where often stolen from nests and gobbled as snacks when the hunt was particularly long. He even tried one once. He didn’t remember where and when exactly, but wherever it was, he definitely did not like it at the time. There was something about the thick consistence of the yoke that made him shake his head wildly and let his tongue flap in the air to the laughter of everyone around him. Still, he was much older now. Perhaps times had changed. And so one mid-afternoon in a clearing filled with blue, he sat posed to tap the egg on a stone when he saw a burst of yellow just ahead and above. The yellow broke into 3 parts, each moving loosely together as if attached to the other by a slack vine. They recollected on a tree, preening each other’s backs and scanning the sky. He had seen birds of this type several times before, but never as a pack. Perhaps they where a family. They flew off again just as quickly as they came, but not before he noticed one among them wandering a bit off course, a bit behind, and smaller, it seemed, in frame. And then they where gone. The egg lay unbroken in his lap.

From then on everything was up. Short vines where gripped and swung on to the sides of stubby trees grasped with ragged fingernails and up. His head was locked backward while he jogged through the brush and each evening he knelled fetally under a nearby cascade letting the pouring water workout the kinks in his neck. He ignored the pain. He had a mission. Somewhere there was a home for his egg. On walks, he saw small scurrying insects made of pine needles and dried husks of seed herd tiny copies into hollowed out logs. And young antelope, so long nothing but a meal, here reared up on hind legs swatting each other much like he and his brothers use to do. Once he saw even saw a ragged skinned hyena pack tumbling through a field and thought, for once, maybe their laugh was not the worst of sounds. And just like for them, somewhere there was home for this egg, he thought while chasing birds through the jungle in search of a perfect nest.

Finally, on a day filled with a dense fog, he saw a small red bird tend to a scribble of brown and then bolt to the sky. He had been tracking it for an hour. He climbed up the tree quickly and scurried over to the nest with careful, but eager steps. There it was. A sharp tangle of branch and grass and stem and slimy green vines and strange furry leaves dusted with white and bright colored pebbles and more. It was made of everything. All this set against 3 small sand-colored eggs lying scattered across the bottom perfectly placed. He could not bring himself to touch them.

Weary of bring too much attention to himself, he brushed a days’ worth of dirt off his egg and careful placed it in an unoccupied corner. As he let go, a lingering fingerprint clung to the side, fully in sight. He wondered if it would taint the egg’s chances of being accepted. Who knew, for that matter, if the mother bird would accept a new orphan any way? Hearing a rumble, he left these thoughts behind him, hurrying down the tree and back towards home. He was uncomfortably aware of empty space in his hand.

Walking towards the waterfall that night, staring into the dusk night backlit canopy, he thought again of the warmth of his mother chest. He had not thought of home in a long time. Hopefully his egg had found home. Hopefully mothers are the same everywhere.

Bag Serials: Adam #2

It was not a perfect spear. It bowed slightly in the middle. There was a large awkward knot near the top. Perhaps they just made each throw that much more impressive. Perhaps what differentiates a leader from the pack was these imperfections and the mastery of them. Many thoughts like these went through the young hunter’s mind as he ran down the endless half paths of almost black green, swinging the stolen staff blindly in front of him. The tip had hardened black by now, a mix of soil and solidified animal blood. It took time for him to differentiate it from the dark path ahead, even more to hold it trained in front to stab through the overhang or properly balance it against his palm in timed strikes into the ground on hikes uphill. In time, the sky brightened behind the canopy and he saw, at last, a clearing. The panic of the past had dulled. It had been days since he had slept.

Legs burning and arms heavy, he stopped by the bank of a river. Around him, petrified rock jutted out bone dry and cold. He shivered as he touched it. Huddled with his temples at his knees and his hands clenched against his genitals, he fell into a deep, uncomfortable sleep.

He awoke in the ocean on a perfect cloudless day.

The water spread glassy around him, still and vast, perfectly reflecting the sky. A high noon sun was directly above, beaming oppressively straight down on his head. Dispite it’s perfect temperature and clean blue hue, there was no sign of life anywhere.

He gained consciousness in mid-stride. There where no sounds but his own splashing. Awareness left him confused, treading water and spinning around to place himself. There was nothing to see but the sky, arced above in a bowl and spread in a sheet underneath. How far is land? How long had he been swimming? Looking down, his hair waved just below the surface just beneath the dark tint of his own shadow. His eyes came into view and he strained to focus on them. Finally tracing out his pupils, the sun seemed to spark and his reflection’s black middles started to  ink into the surrounding water. He was reminded of the antelope’s eyes; dark and wet and rolling slowly backwards And then he saw himself, struggling across the wet surface of that dark eye. The white of his gaze staring at his own head bobbing across a black ocean haphazardly became the oppressive sun, glaring harshly, always on his back. The entire eye turned black. The ocean was black, black like night and clean with a single spot of white, the sun, upon his head as he struggled to keep in above the surface. Exhausted, he let himself go, his nose wet with mucus, his teeth biting the air, hearing nothing but desperate splashes and the burping water flooding his ears and then his heartbeat, in loud thuds, as at last he sinks into the sea.

Bag Serials: Adam #1

In the beginning, there were thighs. Taut bundles of raw flesh standing almost horizontal. There was a division between outstretched fingers and toes gripping the earth underneath. And even this was not new. In the ongoing wonder of life, this change passed as unnoticed as wings sprung from hinged lizard arms and lungs formed from wounds that gills made back before. Little ever really changes. In this world we have inherited where moment to moment we strive to gain some perfect thought, a necessary intent that guides us towards the future, we forget the grace of patience. A flower days into it’s blooming. The months of stumbling before a child’s first steps.

In the beginning, there was a single stride. From the side, the pack’s limbs seemed as reeds in an osculating wind. They moved like liquid, pouring forward through the brush as one; sharpened sticks in hand and antelope ahead.

It was the same as any day. An unnamed leader lifted a hairy hand and all stood silent. They waited hunched in damp leaf and dangling between the trees. The prey’s head jerked in their direction. The air went still. Each side was aware of the other; it was just a matter of who moved first. The antelope gallops over a fallen log in a single movement. The pack springs to its feet.

And it was a common thing.
Ripping at the carcass of conquest.
Sizing up a line of sight and moving without thought.
The leader’s spear stabbed their prey through the stomach. Five sets of sharp teeth tore ribbons across the beast’s fallen body. As was an unsaid custom, the youngest of the pack immerged, grabbed the spear at the hilt and pulled. A fountain of blood pooled at his feet. The pack roared at the sky.

The young warrior remained silent as they celebrated. Staring down at the dieing animal, he noticed the locks of intestines curling at his feet. It reminded him of dusk. As a child, he spent much time gazing into the hazy layers of red and orange and purple, his mind blank in-between swats and snarls at others playing by him. He noticed the glazed black eyes turning upwards and thought of the ocean. He saw the elders swim confidantly out towards the horizon as he slapped the cold wet surface and ran back toward his mother in fear. The voices died as he gazed at the deep purple tip of the spear, curled his toes in wet mess of flesh underneath him and bend his head to hear the antelope exhale its last breath.

Everything released. A thick stream of yellow vomit came tumbling onto the ground. The pack looked on in confused silence. There were scattered moans. One scratched his navel and a few brave soils gathered closer. No one touched him. He rose slowly, bend at the knees and hands on his thighs, stared deep into the ground. And then he ran.