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| Fresh Kills | |
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| Fresh Kills I’ll have the last crumb, the last bite, the last little bit of every thing you toss. I’ll devour your news, your ashes, yarn and paper, the remaining remnants of cultural detoxification. I’ll consume and relish any insignificant morsel left over. I’ll scour the heaps and leap the mounds, checking for stress and cracks and escaping gaseous steam, bi-products of creating new ruins. Future civilizations will unearth and discover our ecological genius, our architectural foresight of preservation, uncovering monumental tombs that contain endless secrets and memories, plateaus of hidden and feared amulets. They will excavate vast burial grounds strewn with trinkets and ornaments shoved and shucked into deep pockets, layers upon layers of bad gifts and meaningless trophies and makeshift markers of an advanced greed-driven glutinous society. Scholars will study our daily habits realizing that these antique artifacts found were all related to a ritualistic tradition that millions of people practiced. It will then be recorded in the annuals of history as the Great Cleaning out the Closet Period of man. You will never say thank you for preserving the future. Its okay, all I want is what you don’t want: Beautiful junk, your truckloads of wonderful waste, and your fabulous fresh kills. Chadwick James (poet/singer/songwriter) Tucson, Arizona Fresh Kills I offered Mario a cigarette. “Behind you,” I said. I lied. I shot him twice in the head. He was dead. My Mafia contract on Mario had now been completed for the Don. Money would flow my way. I took Mario's body to a recycling plant overlooking the bay and stuffed it into the hole I made in the mountain of discarded Biobotic equipment. The Don wanted him found as a warning to others. When I left he was buried head-first with the smart Gucci leather shoes, he loved so much, visible on his feet. “Thanks Joe,” the Don said. Two weeks passed and Mario's body wasn't found. Then the Don gave evidence to the Hawaii police. And they came to see me with questions about Mario. I feared the worst. “Show us the body,” the cops said.”What you did with it. Your Don has squealed on you.” Their questions continued until they made me admit to the murder. I took two detectives to the recycling plant. But Mario had disappeared. I stared at the mountain of computer parts. One detective shouted and fired off his gun at something coming towards us. I heard a tinny sound. A hinged tin can doubled as a head and the middle body parts were composed of a fan unit with tubes as arms. Already as it walked I felt the enormous suction. Then I saw the nearest detective pulled into the fan unit to be chewed up into small pieces. The other detective ran away and used his mobile. A police launch headed our way across the bay. I stood there petrified as the thing drew close. Closer still and I saw its feet. I couldn't stop screaming as I saw the feet were wearing Mario's favourite leather Gucci shoes. -Cleveland W. Gibson, (Author of Billabongo) Faringdon, United Kingdom |
