I Want Rakunks, Not Pigoons
"SnowPimps O SnowPimps", the children ask, their diminutive feet scattering the sun-scorched sand every which way as they nearly throttled him in their wide-eyed excitement, "what is this?" It is nearly midday but they have found something in the beach once again. They are holding up an object, a "thing", that is rotting, neither dead nor alive, knowing neither anger nor joy, but definitely moving. How it manages to do that is not normal. It is surreal watching it move. SnowPimps’ nose twitches. He knows what it is but he can’t remember its name; it was one of the experiments the genetic engineers failed in utterly. It is nauseating. He withdraws from the children, the sheets of quota reports making crinkling sounds as he gathers them around him like a protective cloak. He glares at them for bringing such a pitiful, detestable thing in his presence, disturbing his reverie of a blog transfer, digital art, and sandwiches made by his wife years ag—
What are sandwiches?
Apologies for the unexpected hiatus but it just hit me that I may be looking for a new site to transfer this blog to. Certainly blogsome offers good support — it’s free after all — but the time has come to search for broader horizons. I will still keep this blog, will still make articles for my friends but sometime in the near future I will have to make a Fragfests and Imbas V2.
And yes, I am currently hooked to Oryx and Crake; it’s one of those novels that suck you into its world, never mind the absence of frenetic gun fights or huge, asteroid-swallowing capital ships. Thanks to Martin and Lia for letting me borrow this book.
"It’s a strand of protein" SnowPimps replies disdainfully, vehemently waving the children away.
