Skroom Tattlewink
Oh, salutations and tribulations, dear reader.
The city speaks to me through inhuman words. The factories pump with the vigour of lost youth; the Spinster flows through the city like an aged artery, carrying debris and forgotten memories in its sloshes. Chattering of people, Ardnardians or tourists, merge in encrypted cacophony. A bird song, one might call it, for their troubles are the same as birds. They want sex; they want territory and play, and of course, like all – they want food.
Which is why I visited the Food Festival! Unlike most of the events I cover, this one is quarterly – and for good reasons. Oh, what smells waft from the stalls! Spices from near and far, meats grilled to crisp perfection, the ripest and most plump of vegetables – all blended to salivation and fresh nostalgia. You find both the ragged and most glossy of wanderers here. From the dogs down in Hamble Street, to high-nosed art-staring folks leaving the Translucent Art Gallery in search of novelties.
I started my journey through the stalls, picking up samples of free trials. A little fried shrimp here, another brontomili on a stick there. The ocean air adds an authenticity to the seafood, with rotten seaweed and brine. Happsnappingly.
Now, I am not well versed in the art of cookery, but everyone knows a free meal tastes the best. Since the Festival of Flesh, I have been completely broke. Someone stole my entire salary, ripped from my pockets while I fumbled in feverish delirium. Blue and yellow marks stain my skin from head to toe; whoever it was, they had to fight hard. Needless to say, most of the stall owners didn’t want me close.
I snapped up free trials before they looked, and ate from afar. My feet dangled above the static ocean as I rested in the shade underneath a fishing shanty. I was at peace.
Oh, for what are we except flickers of moments? Concepts that arise in jolts from synapses. An unstable electrical being, I was looking at the ocean, not imagining what laid underneath its blanket of watery tension.
Someone sat down next to me. One of those wandering tramps spreading the words of Fleptimus. I shared a few shrimps and some krahash, for it was all I had.
“Great Fleptimus,” he spoke, “Today I witness the greatest kindness. For it is the act of giving that separates us from the wilderness.”
“Unword,” I replied. “Clothes separate us the most.”
We argued for a while. It got heated – I will not deny. Fleptimus might bring kindness in most, but he also brings a lot of determination. The tramp pushed me over the ledge and I crashed into the ocean like an unwanted bag of kittens.
There I floated, cursing the man who laughed and ate the last shrimp, for even Fleptimus said “there is no virtue gained from eating the last morsel, only spite,” and this tramp clearly spent no time reading scriptures.
I wondered whether I had turned face-smacked by old krahash, when something stirred underneath me. Buoyant I was despite days of emaciation, but not buoyant enough to withstand the grasping fingers of some monstrous sea creature. The pious man screamed, and so did I for the briefest of moments, before it pulled me into the abyss.
I was blind, for my eyes only evolved to gaze through a shallow film of liquid. The salt stung, and the beat of my heart most definitely caused a tsunami on a different continent. Down and down we drifted, me and the ominous, unnamed creature. I saw its silhouette against the sun braving through the waters; wild weeds of hair, the sleek skin and fins of a fish, and a grotesque, crinkly face waiting to consume me.
Just as I was about to call it a day and asphyxiate, we breached. I found myself in a cave system, dimly lit by bioluminescent flora coating the walls. A group of the fish-things watched me, and I watched them. Little happened until one of them approached; their leader, mayhap. It slithered on a snake-like body with short, useless legs extended from its base, kicking into the air. It’s face was similar to that of people, but foreign enough to make me feel like prey.
I didn’t expect it to speak, but it did. Its voice boomed with earth-shattering authority, and I sank to my knees and tried lighting some wet krahash, because it was all I had.
“Small human,” it spoke. “You land-dwellers are taking our livelihood. No food, no nutriments. There is nothing left in the rivers. Our lives suffer.”
I stuttered and coughed, for suddenly I had to speak for all of Ardnard. I apologised for our misdemeanours. We had not taken care of our rivers, spewing filth and trash with no concern for the ecological systems that governed. I told them I’d let the city know of their struggles, to throw waste in the landfills instead. Creatures from the forest and land have no vocal cords to complain, only scream, and those screams are easier to tune out.
“No,” spoke the fish-person. “No land. Only ocean. Stop saving the rivers. We need your so-called “trash” and “filth” to survive.”
I was, admittedly, in utter shock, my dear reader. A lot of emotions welled in me. Images of my mother cursing my birth when I threw an empty can of Crumb & Flicker into the Spinster a good thirty years ago; the protests to stop harming the wildlife and potentially clogging the narrow points with fats and debris. The novel word, “eco-terrorist”, flashed before my eyes.
Oh, we try to amend our vices, lest we lie awake and gaze upon the stars without meaning. For although we suffer in imperfection, who are we if not figures taking form through our ability to better?
But better is subjective, and if you like revelling in other’s vices, then who am I to judge? If you like eating faeces out of the Spinster, that is not my problem, but it is my dedication to let you know: You can throw it with no concern. Someone will enjoy it. Try not to think too hard about it.
The unnamed fish-people brought me to land. I ended in fisticuffs with the tramp, and then I went downtown to bribe myself into someone’s home.
I hope you enjoyed the food festival as much as I did. There is still time left to bask in the sun and linger around. Just remember to throw your trash into the Spinster or the Nard afterward.
As for now, I lay in hiding. My pockets are moist and salty, and my temporary home is unsavoury. Until next time, dear reader.