Melanin

The door closed with a soft hiss and they were in semi darkness, the only light in the gargantuan space coming from a series of dull white fluorescents set in the steel grated walkway. The pods, or cocoons as they called them here, went on and on into the darkness in neat rows and columns above and below the pair as they walked slowly in. In the pods were the ‘donors’. The specimens were naked and suspended in a thick translucent gel that smelled a lot like petrol.

Their faces covered by the masks that supplied oxygen and liquid nutrients. Each donor had on what looked like a large plastic diaper for waste removal. All the tubes, from the masks and the diaper apparatus, ran out the top of the pods into large conduits set in the scaffolding above each row and from there to the oxygen tanks and septic tanks hidden underground somewhere.

“So it is true,” the girl said, her voice filled with something between awe and horror. “I always thought it was a myth.”

“No myth,” said the old man. “This is it. You know when they tell you ‘don’t believe everything you read’? This is what they mean.”

“But… but is it legal?” she asked. The cavernous space made her voice echo. “Where do they get these people?”

“They don’t need to get them anymore,” said the old man. “They used to kidnap kids from the villages we passed on the way here, but now… ”

His voice dropped off. In the dim light, his features looked rougher than usual.

“Now what? What do they do?”

He hesitated and looked off into the dank distance. A muted gurgling and sloshing came from the pipes above their heads.

“They breed them,” he said quietly.

Observations Pt 1

There is a sentiment in the air. It's a little thing with a moue, fleeting and flitting in between the frequencies that buzz around the souls involved in this particular evening's eventualities. They may or may not be aware of it.

There is one. She is not from his class. She is close though, as her dad made good on his maxim of ‘hard work pays’. It didn’t pay enough for her to roll with his crowd so he makes sure they are always alone. She knows of his friends and they of her but they have never, will never meet. It hasn't occurred to her that she is second or third best. She is a token. But the restaurant and the club they will visit later make up for all that is not thought about.

 In that grassy patch near the bus stop, the man with the big red, white and blue jacket waits on his big blue motorcycle. It is a Yamaha, the best bike ever made, according to jacket man. He does look impressive, if you are the target market. A member of his demographic is right now hurriedly serving tea to her employer so that she can dash out of the apartment block to meet him. He unzips his jacket as he waits, seated on the bike with its huge carrier box that says G4S. He calls his wife, tells her he will be half an hour late as he still has deliveries to make. The traffic is apparently thick. 

There is so much disinformation. So many lies. But they aren't lies until they are found out. They are the impressions made. How long they last.

They walk hand in hand in the crowded city street. It's harder than it sounds as the jostling crowds necessitate disengagement of the hold many times. Getting her hand back is becoming annoying; there are too many people in the way and all the time. But they are a couple, thus she spake, and couples hold fucking hands.  

Walk away now before the raging infection catches. Take your prophylactics and lie in bed. Hide. Hide from the bullshit that lives within you, holds you to itself and eventually carries you with it down a torrent of regretful waters.