“BLOOM” – Monacan City
8/3/2023
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.
Sample Manuscripts EX. 1
“We will be escorting the protesters from the front steps to the island at Wreath Rotary. Getting them off the facility grounds is paramount.” Standing up and kicking the stool to the side “We’ll let the local PD deal with them from there.”
A mosaic of angry eyes crosses the frame as we descend the front steps. Chants and profanities ripple over my ear drum while I look into the cage of card board and plastic handles. The front row has dawned bandannas, masks and face shields to protect themselves from gas. Many already hurling empty water bottles at our feet. The ground is vibrating from a hundred well worn shoes shuffling in the waves of anger.
We line up behind the MPs, batons drawn. A show of force. The front row holding riot shields like the plow on a train barreling toward the street. The objects being hurled are getting larger and heavier. Morphing from water bottles to stones, and stones to sign posts. Suddenly I see a flash out of the corner of my eye, civvies recoil with their hands in front of their face. Another flash, and another. The road begins lighting up like a concert stage. We take one step forward. With each step the flashes continue growing brighter and brighter. The first row of shields meets the first row of protesters, we keep moving forward. The crowd starts to dwindle as the militants retreat back to the gate. Slowly we advance.
A young kid tackles one of the body shields, pushing back with a shoulder pinned into the Plexiglas window. They are quickly thrown backwards, tripping over their feet, landing flat legged on the ground. We continue moving one metered step at a time. We engulf the young protester, four hands pulling them behind the wall of shields, as if consumed by a black and green monster emerging from a cement lagoon.
A line starts to form behind us, as more and more protesters are consumed to be defecated by the monster with zip tie handcuffs tightly cinched around their wrists. The protesters are trapped between us and the high wall of the exit ramp. We continue to advance, now moving with a sweeping arc to attempt to herd the group towards the rotary.
“Do not let them split!” barks Commander Patten.
As if on cue the group of protesters parts around the arcing arm of riot shields. Some being pushed to one side or another by the force of our relentless onslaught. Bracing our batons at top and bottom in a defensive stance, we create a line walking backwards in time with the MPs. The line of combatants flows like wind around the wing of a plane. Eyes staring back at us with hot coals in cinder. I shiver, commander poked the hornet’s nest and we are the stick. The two lines of protesters begin to converge onto us, asking us to retaliate, begging us to retaliate. I feel a push from behind, the MP opposite me was thrown back with the force of a body hurling itself into the human blockade. Suddenly a rain of bodies begins to precipitate. The masked bandits seem to have started a game of suicidal red rover.
Ughf.- in the blink of an eye I feel my legs get swept out from under me. My pelvis bounces as I stabilize myself, knuckles into the cement. A pair of brilliant green eyes stair down at me. The protester scrambles to their feet. Tommy pushes them down again, following the force with an equally heavy baton to the back. Tommy pulls me up from under the shoulder and shoves my baton back into my hand before turning to the storm of arms heading straight for us. Tommy seems to be the first to have drawn blood, but is definitely not the last. Glints of black metal turning white sparkles above the guards’ as batons crash into face shields and sign posts.
I feel a warm hand on my wrist with gentle force slowly turning painful. I drop my baton. Suddenly the danger feels real, my arm twists back in a way it was never meant to bend. I scream, using my free hand to beat the protester off. They had cool red hair, a green t-shirt and long running shorts covering artfully scuffed knee pads. Their face was clean shaven and grimacing with each punch. They fell to the ground after the fourth punch and I finished with a kick to the stomach.
Our strong organized line had become more of a rain drop, bowing at the center as fists continue flying. We seem to be pushing half the group up the exit ramp and the other half to the island at Wreath Rotary. The tension is building, the protesters have stopped charging into us. The sun is hot in the middle of the street. Both sides almost standing perfectly still. Commander’s voice is heard through a blow horn.
Crackling in digital distortion “go home, or come with us. I don’t care.”
The crowd begins to dwindle, with just a few standing their ground.
Suddenly a loud Scraping, banging, and screeching thunder is heard. Three arrhythmic honks come from the exit ramp, in a flash I feel the pressure of immense weight knocking me back.
Boukie Games 