Chapter 1 – The Chicken Coop

Dense pink fog coats the grass outside, engulfing mailboxes and climbing up the power lines. Distant yells of anger, bickering and remorse tap against the window pane. I place a tablet on top of my tongue ready to turn in for the night. I saw on Station that we are seeing the evolution of Blooms again, they are getting longer and appearing with even less notice than before. The world is starting to wobble, the glass in front of me might just dissolve. I could scoop the pink fluff into an ice cream cone or fill a pillow with it. The wood grain of the frame dances. I feel warm. It is interesting to know that so many people at this very moment are experiencing this same exact sensation. Mother hates it, the loss of control, the change in perspective, but it’s always better than the depth of sorrow or anger that comes with a Bloom.
Dragging their feet and clenching their fists, I see someone wading through the fog in the middle of the street. I can’t tell if they are shivering or if its the ergot in my system. Even with ergot, exposure like that will overwhelm your rational mind. The last thing I would ever want is to be caught outside.
As they waddle closer their voice grows louder, “Those fucking pieces of shit can’t even wait to open it for me, they just run and hide. Fucking cowards. Leaving me out here in the city. I’m better off on my own.”
The figure comes into focus, their arms appear bare, they are wearing long pants and have shaggy medium length hair. The shirt has a brightly screen printed gold and orange eagle stretched wide by their rotund belly. A hammer hangs from their waste belt pulling on the top of their pants. One hand hanging onto their back pocket as they continue to walk away.
The effects of exposure last well beyond the life of the fog, the state runs psychiatric clinics to help the stragglers and unhoused who can’t escape the waves of sorrow. My work hosts one of the local clinics which usually has a surprising amount of attendees each Bloom. It’s never the same group, always a few new faces. I suspect the more erratically blooms appear the more people will get caught outside.
As my mind wanders through the rippling popcorn ceiling, I cant help but close my eyes, feeling the weight of my shoulders slouch into the mattress. My world becomes the undulating ocean of plaster, pulling me up and down toward the desk lamp moon. I swim to find the current.

“They distort what we say! Rise above, we’re gonna rise above” the alarm rings with Henry Rollins’ gravel throwing me awake. My muscles sting with acid as I try to move the sheets over my head. The sun is too bright. My eyelashes are tied together in their nightly tangle letting the light pierce sharply into my retna.

“We are tired, of your abuse, try to stop us, it’s no use” Henry and the gang’s screams trail off behind the doorway.
Walking slowly through the bathroom, a spider climbs up the curtain and disappears into the folds. I hate spiders, they scare me so irrationally.

“They’re afraid of you! your bigger than it, you goof” the voice of my mother strolls through my head. She was always rational, tempered and protective.
A straw wrapper sits coiled on a plastic plate, its filled with some sort of sand and you can see a fast food line cook in the border of Station’s white and blue translucent UI. A hand comes into view holding a straw filled with liquid hovering above the wrapper. It discharges the liquid and there is a sudden wriggle as the paper expands, then bursts, engulfing the table in blue bubbles. A gruff yell is heard coming from somewhere outside of the frame and then the video loops.
Sliding the egg across the surface of the black pan I think of the hydro-sifters on the fields undulating under a steady stream of wheat seed falling from their silo. A man last week was almost crushed by a collapsing silo and our team had to carefully excavate him before the structure over encumbered the sifter above. We brought in a large tank like vehicle to support the weight and pried him out just as the silo folded over the manifold. The man is currently in the process of suing the crop manager. Which I will never understand, the manager is the one who ordered us to save him. Some people don’t appreciate the care given to them. We risked our lives to fulfill the crop manager’s orders.
Pouring the coffee into my mug, The black swirl of liquid looks just like the processed ergot grain as it flushes into the droppers at the packing plant. I’ve spent hours watching it flow through the tubes stretched across the tin ceiling while stationed inside the warehouses. Those shifts are my least favorite, watching workers do their job is hardly a security priority. At least once a week we all do our time keeping an eye on the work force. These are the shifts where I can usually grab a few tabs for Polly and Nax. Polly’s parents have been out of work for months now and they have been having trouble getting their hands on ergot. I saw them at the clinic a few weeks ago and I just couldn’t let them keep getting exposed. Polly’s mom was my tutor in high school, she made sure I passed my sophomore biology course. The least I could do is cop a couple tabs each week.
Today is field duty, the most labor intensive shift. The heat is almost unbearable in my uniform. We get trucked out to the farthest field and begin to sweep looking for gorillas. The gorillas are a group of farmers that have organized to steal and cultivate crops of their own out in the forest. They have some sort of Robin Hood complex, steal from the state to supposedly help the poor.
They could never have the resources to help better than we do. Daily clinics. An abundance of ergot. A team of psychiatrists. Their dedication and effort is almost cute, or laughable. Each day we find a few, pockets full of fungi, and bring them back for a firm slap on the wrist. After a gorilla makes a few visits we call in the MPs and the miscreant is classified as a domestic terrorist. In the end it is too dangerous to have unqualified civilians infiltrating the fields.