u/TerraForgeHR

I make poison for a living. I’m not proud of what I do, but my family has to eat.

They say legality and morality are different things. Most days I have to believe that or I wouldn’t make it through a shift.

And no, before you ask, I can’t just quit.

The town I live in barely exists anymore. We’ve got two gas stations, a family-owned grocery store hanging on by a thread, and an esoteric shop downtown I’m convinced launders money for somebody. Outside of that? Nothing. The factory is all that’s left here.

The factory's byproducts get placed outside in large plastic crates exposed to weather and wildlife.  I've seen the effects on the birds, stumbling around but the bees are worse. We found a raccoon dead laying five feet from a crate that was leaking, poor bastard still had foam caked in his fur.

I can already hear you asking. Why doesn't the town do anything?  I'll answer that with a question of my own. Would you be able to kill your only cash cow?  So they tolerate the bitter sweet smells that roll out of the building, they tolerate our metal cylinders littering the beautiful landscape. Funny what people are willing to ignore for financial security.

Hell, I'm so numb to it all I can't smell the stench that clings to my clothes. People know what we do, it's no secret. We have a license from the state and everything is perfectly above board.  Knowing that doesn't ease my mind watching the poisoned people.

 The marketing machine churns on and on normalizing hell, even glorifying this foul poison.  Celebrities smile and hold the package as a soothing voice tells you how wonderful everything will be if you just try this wonderful product (poison).  It's not just our factory either, this is being churned out by thousands of factories all over the globe. 

 Every morning I clock in and see the cauldron of bullshit bubbling as the chemical process takes its toll. I see the lab workers making sure our poison isn't tainted.   Imagine someone paid to worry about tainted poison.  But what can I really say? I partake like a lot of people. Hell you may know a few yourself.  I see traces everywhere. Little crosses on the freeway, news articles, and those little cylinders everywhere.  I'm writing this as a way to warn you all.   Anyway, I’ve gotta go.

First shift at the brewery starts in thirty minutes.

I make poison for a living. I’m not proud of what I do, but my family has to eat.

They say legality and morality are different things. Most days I have to believe that or I wouldn’t make it through a shift.

And no, before you ask, I can’t just quit.

The town I live in barely exists anymore. We’ve got two gas stations, a family-owned grocery store hanging on by a thread, and an esoteric shop downtown I’m convinced launders money for somebody. Outside of that? Nothing. The factory is all that’s left here.

The factory's byproducts get placed outside in large plastic crates exposed to weather and wildlife.  I've seen the effects on the birds, stumbling around but the bees are worse. We found a raccoon dead laying five feet from a crate that was leaking, poor bastard still had foam caked in his fur.

I can already hear you asking. Why doesn't the town do anything?  I'll answer that with a question of my own. Would you be able to kill your only cash cow?  So they tolerate the bitter sweet smells that roll out of the building, they tolerate our metal cylinders littering the beautiful landscape. Funny what people are willing to ignore for financial security.

Hell, I'm so numb to it all I can't smell the stench that clings to my clothes. People know what we do, it's no secret. We have a license from the state and everything is perfectly above board.  Knowing that doesn't ease my mind watching the poisoned people.

 The marketing machine churns on and on normalizing hell, even glorifying this foul poison.  Celebrities smile and hold the package as a soothing voice tells you how wonderful everything will be if you just try this wonderful product (poison).  It's not just our factory either, this is being churned out by thousands of factories all over the globe. 

 Every morning I clock in and see the cauldron of bullshit bubbling as the chemical process takes its toll. I see the lab workers making sure our poison isn't tainted.   Imagine someone paid to worry about tainted poison.  But what can I really say? I partake like a lot of people. Hell you may know a few yourself.  I see traces everywhere. Little crosses on the freeway, news articles, and those little cylinders everywhere.  I'm writing this as a way to warn you all.   Anyway, I’ve gotta go.

First shift at the brewery starts in thirty minutes.

I make poison for a living. I’m not proud of what I do, but my family has to eat.

They say legality and morality are different things. Most days I have to believe that or I wouldn’t make it through a shift.

And no, before you ask, I can’t just quit.

The town I live in barely exists anymore. We’ve got two gas stations, a family-owned grocery store hanging on by a thread, and an esoteric shop downtown I’m convinced launders money for somebody. Outside of that? Nothing. The factory is all that’s left here.

The factory's byproducts get placed outside in large plastic crates exposed to weather and wildlife.  I've seen the effects on the birds, stumbling around but the bees are worse. We found a raccoon dead laying five feet from a crate that was leaking, poor bastard still had foam caked in his fur.

I can already hear you asking. Why doesn't the town do anything?  I'll answer that with a question of my own. Would you be able to kill your only cash cow?  So they tolerate the bitter sweet smells that roll out of the building, they tolerate our metal cylinders littering the beautiful landscape. Funny what people are willing to ignore for financial security.

Hell, I'm so numb to it all I can't smell the stench that clings to my clothes. People know what we do, it's no secret. We have a license from the state and everything is perfectly above board.  Knowing that doesn't ease my mind watching the poisoned people.

 The marketing machine churns on and on normalizing hell, even glorifying this foul poison.  Celebrities smile and hold the package as a soothing voice tells you how wonderful everything will be if you just try this wonderful product (poison).  It's not just our factory either, this is being churned out by thousands of factories all over the globe. 

 Every morning I clock in and see the cauldron of bullshit bubbling as the chemical process takes its toll. I see the lab workers making sure our poison isn't tainted.   Imagine someone paid to worry about tainted poison.  But what can I really say? I partake like a lot of people. Hell you may know a few yourself.  I see traces everywhere. Little crosses on the freeway, news articles, and those little cylinders everywhere.  I'm writing this as a way to warn you all.   Anyway, I’ve gotta go.

First shift at the brewery starts in thirty minutes.

I make poison for a living. I’m not proud of what I do, but my family has to eat.

They say legality and morality are different things. Most days I have to believe that or I wouldn’t make it through a shift.

And no, before you ask, I can’t just quit.

The town I live in barely exists anymore. We’ve got two gas stations, a family-owned grocery store hanging on by a thread, and an esoteric shop downtown I’m convinced launders money for somebody. Outside of that? Nothing. The factory is all that’s left here.

The factory's byproducts get placed outside in large plastic crates exposed to weather and wildlife.  I've seen the effects on the birds, stumbling around but the bees are worse. We found a raccoon dead laying five feet from a crate that was leaking, poor bastard still had foam caked in his fur.

I can already hear you asking. Why doesn't the town do anything?  I'll answer that with a question of my own. Would you be able to kill your only cash cow?  So they tolerate the bitter sweet smells that roll out of the building, they tolerate our metal cylinders littering the beautiful landscape. Funny what people are willing to ignore for financial security.

Hell, I'm so numb to it all I can't smell the stench that clings to my clothes. People know what we do, it's no secret. We have a license from the state and everything is perfectly above board.  Knowing that doesn't ease my mind watching the poisoned people.

 The marketing machine churns on and on normalizing hell, even glorifying this foul poison.  Celebrities smile and hold the package as a soothing voice tells you how wonderful everything will be if you just try this wonderful product (poison).  It's not just our factory either, this is being churned out by thousands of factories all over the globe. 

 Every morning I clock in and see the cauldron of bullshit bubbling as the chemical process takes its toll. I see the lab workers making sure our poison isn't tainted.   Imagine someone paid to worry about tainted poison.  But what can I really say? I partake like a lot of people. Hell you may know a few yourself.  I see traces everywhere. Little crosses on the freeway, news articles, and those little cylinders everywhere.  I'm writing this as a way to warn you all.   Anyway, I’ve gotta go.

First shift at the brewery starts in thirty minutes.

​

It started with a small shrub beside a weathered metal bench on an abandoned lot half a mile outside town.

Caleb dug scoop by scoop, preparing the earth for his offering to the dead. A life gone. A life replaced. He chose the spot because of Joshua. The two of them used to sit there for hours with a six-pack between their boots and cigarette smoke drifting into the trees, talking about life like either of them understood it.

Joshua had been gone a year now, and somehow the lot seemed even more abandoned than before. Caleb stood over his work, one scruffy shrub sitting in a near-perfect circle of freshly compacted soil. A soft breeze in the trees brought the sounds of birds from somewhere beyond the lot.

The compulsion that drove him to plant the shrub was silent for the moment. He smoked a cigarette on the bench, watching the last rays of sun cut through the canopy of trees. Then Caleb went home tired but satisfied. Three days later, Caleb found himself standing in line at Lowe’s, a small apple tree clutched to his chest. He had to balance out the layout. Josh wouldn’t have liked how asymmetrical the lot looked currently. He would make it right.

 Caleb arrived on the lot and froze. There was a rose bush on the opposite side of the bench. Freshly compacted black soil surrounded this newcomer. Caleb circled it, looking for traces of who had planted it. The soil seemed damp despite no rain. Stranger still, dark soil spread beneath the shrub he’d planted days before.

Caleb glanced toward the tree line, suddenly feeling like he’d interrupted someone else’s work. When those thoughts finally faded, he found his hands were covered in dirt, nails chipped and grimy. Had he planted this tree by hand? He couldn’t remember grabbing the shovel from his truck, but the soil begged to differ.

When Caleb returned to the lot the next evening, the bench had been scooted back as if to better admire the plants. The discarded cigarette butts were gathered into a tight spiral under the bench, placed end to end. Caleb circled the lot, eyes combing the tree line. He realized he wasn’t alone in keeping it.

As the season trudged by, Caleb would visit the lot. The plants always seemed freshly watered and healthy. He would sit on the bench and talk to his friend aloud sometimes as he worked to extend the spiral one butt after the other. He was about to add another when something pale blue caught his eye. A pacifier hung from the apple tree by a faded ribbon, swaying gently in the evening breeze.

Caleb stared at the pacifier for a long while before finally settling on the only explanation that made sense. Someone else was coming here, possibly understanding the new use for the lot and adding their own mementos. It couldn’t be Josh’s mother; she had died years before he did. Caleb’s eyes crawled over the lot before he saw the circle around the bench. The grass was trampled and worn bare in places.

As spring gave way to summer, Caleb decided to skip work and visit the lot. When he arrived, he saw a man curled at the base of the apple tree, the pacifier hanging limp in the still air. The man didn’t seem homeless. He was dressed in a suit dusted with fresh dew. As Caleb slowly approached, he saw a small spiral of bottle caps pressed into the dirt inches from the man’s hand.

Caleb crept by, careful not to wake him.

He sat on the bench. Thin blue smoke rose lazily in the still morning air. There were more trees and bushes crowding in like they wanted to tell a secret to those who would listen. The man snored softly. Caleb wept.

Fall came as it always does, and brought with it heavy rain and wind. Amber and red mixed with the downpour resembling gold fish at play. Caleb didn't mind. He visited the lot daily now. A small perk of unemployment.  With these daily visits he came to see the others.  

A mechanic in grease stained coveralls helping an old lady plant yet another bush in the  spiral radiating from the bench.  They never spoke just a touch of their eyes and nearly imperceivable nods. There were many new additions of mementos as well. A tea cup tucked in between two boxwoods was barely visible. Someone had strung rusty keys on a fishing line between three young trees, making  them almost float. Caleb even found the occasional box of cigarettes left on the bench he frequented. 

Caleb watched these people come and go. Silent.

Reverent. 

Leaving small and large changes to the lot, a woman came very early to water and stood watching the sun rise. A young waitress tucked a tiny shoe under the exposed roots of a tree on the outskirts. 

Everyone had their reason, their silent compulsion. 

 

 During a snowstorm at the edge of winter, Caleb made his evening pilgrimage. Walking toward the bench, he noticed pockets of people kneeling beside their effigies. He looked up and silhouetted in the driving snow and shadows sat a figure on the bench. A cigarette glowing and fading with each slow inhale.  Without a word the figure picked the six-pack between its feet up and scooted over to one side of the bench.  Caleb's knees hit dirt. 

It started with a small shrub beside a weathered metal bench on an abandoned lot half a mile outside town.

Caleb dug scoop by scoop, preparing the earth for his offering to the dead. A life gone. A life replaced. He chose the spot because of Joshua. The two of them used to sit there for hours with a six-pack between their boots and cigarette smoke drifting into the trees, talking about life like either of them understood it.

Joshua had been gone a year now, and somehow the lot seemed even more abandoned than before. Caleb stood over his work, one scruffy shrub sitting in a near-perfect circle of freshly compacted soil. A soft breeze in the trees brought the sounds of birds from somewhere beyond the lot.

The compulsion that drove him to plant the shrub was silent for the moment. He smoked a cigarette on the bench, watching the last rays of sun cut through the canopy of trees. Then Caleb went home tired but satisfied. Three days later, Caleb found himself standing in line at Lowe’s, a small apple tree clutched to his chest. He had to balance out the layout. Josh wouldn’t have liked how asymmetrical the lot looked currently. He would make it right.

Caleb arrived on the lot and froze. There was a rose bush on the opposite side of the bench. Freshly compacted black soil surrounded this newcomer. Caleb circled it, looking for traces of who had planted it. The soil seemed damp despite no rain. Stranger still, dark soil spread beneath the shrub he’d planted days before.

Caleb glanced toward the tree line, suddenly feeling like he’d interrupted someone else’s work. When those thoughts finally faded, he found his hands were covered in dirt, nails chipped and grimy. Had he planted this tree by hand? He couldn’t remember grabbing the shovel from his truck, but the soil begged to differ.

When Caleb returned to the lot the next evening, the bench had been scooted back as if to better admire the plants. The discarded cigarette butts were gathered into a tight spiral under the bench, placed end to end. Caleb circled the lot, eyes combing the tree line. He realized he wasn’t alone in keeping it.

As the season trudged by, Caleb would visit the lot. The plants always seemed freshly watered and healthy. He would sit on the bench and talk to his friend aloud sometimes as he worked to extend the spiral one butt after the other. He was about to add another when something pale blue caught his eye. A pacifier hung from the apple tree by a faded ribbon, swaying gently in the evening breeze.

Caleb stared at the pacifier for a long while before finally settling on the only explanation that made sense. Someone else was coming here, possibly understanding the new use for the lot and adding their own mementos. It couldn’t be Josh’s mother; she had died years before he did. Caleb’s eyes crawled over the lot before he saw the circle around the bench. The grass was trampled and worn bare in places.

As spring gave way to summer, Caleb decided to skip work and visit the lot. When he arrived, he saw a man curled at the base of the apple tree, the pacifier hanging limp in the still air. The man didn’t seem homeless. He was dressed in a suit dusted with fresh dew. As Caleb slowly approached, he saw a small spiral of bottle caps pressed into the dirt inches from the man’s hand.

Caleb crept by, careful not to wake him.

He sat on the bench. Thin blue smoke rose lazily in the still morning air. There were more trees and bushes crowding in like they wanted to tell a secret to those who would listen. The man snored softly. Caleb wept.

Fall came as it always does, and brought with it heavy rain and wind. Amber and red mixed with the downpour resembling gold fish at play. Caleb didn't mind. He visited the lot daily now. A small perk of unemployment. With these daily visits he came to see the others.

A mechanic in grease stained coveralls helping an old lady plant yet another bush in the spiral radiating from the bench. They never spoke just a touch of their eyes and nearly imperceivable nods. There were many new additions of mementos as well. A tea cup tucked in between two boxwoods was barely visible. Someone had strung rusty keys on a fishing line between three young trees, making them almost float. Caleb even found the occasional box of cigarettes left on the bench he frequented.

Caleb watched these people come and go. Silent.

Reverent.

Leaving small and large changes to the lot, a woman came very early to water and stood watching the sun rise. A young waitress tucked a tiny shoe under the exposed roots of a tree on the outskirts.

Everyone had their reason, their silent compulsion.

During a snowstorm at the edge of winter, Caleb made his evening pilgrimage. Walking toward the bench, he noticed pockets of people kneeling beside their effigies. He looked up and silhouetted in the driving snow and shadows sat a figure on the bench. A cigarette glowing and fading with each slow inhale. Without a word the figure picked the six-pack between its feet up and scooted over to one side of the bench. Caleb's knees hit dirt.

​

 Pop-pop came to stay at my house right after my birthday.  I'm six and a half now.  He really likes nature. He takes me on walks everyday. I think it's because he wants to smoke a cigarette and doesn't think mommy knows.  He’s really good at naming trees, and birds, and tells me all about the types of clouds in the sky. I didn't know there were more than white and grey ones  but pop-pop did. 

He took me on a walk today. We went on a new road up a mountain.  It was great! We saw a deer. And pop-pop showed me honey suckle, I didn't know it had a honey drop in the flower!  We saw bees playing with flowers but we didn't  see many more after we started seeing more and more trash  in the grass. 

Then we crossed the creek and I saw a car parked funny, it was in the water!  The lights were blinking and water was all inside, but the man didn't mind,he was taking a nap. Pop-pop told me to go back he needed to wake the man up. I watched him walk down, grab his arm and shake the man. He never woke up. Pop-pop acted funny after he came back. He said the man was sick and he had to call the doctor.  His funny flappy phone didn't work so he made me promise to stay right where i was.  I would make sure the sick man didn't need anything while pop-pop ran up the road to the next house. 

I watched the man, he was good the whole time pop-pop was gone. It was funny he never turned the blinky light off.  Pop-pop came back and said the doctors were on their way.  Policemen showed up first and went to try and wake the man up.  They came back and whispered to pop-pop.  They said he had deceased.  I'm not sure what that is, I'll ask pop-pop tomorrow on our walk. 

​

 Pop-pop came to stay at my house right after my birthday.  I'm six and a half now.  He really likes nature. He takes me on walks everyday. I think it's because he wants to smoke a cigarette and doesn't think mommy knows.  He’s really good at naming trees, and birds, and tells me all about the types of clouds in the sky. I didn't know there were more than white and grey ones  but pop-pop did. 

He took me on a walk today. We went on a new road up a mountain.  It was great! We saw a deer. And pop-pop showed me honey suckle, I didn't know it had a honey drop in the flower!  We saw bees playing with flowers but we didn't  see many more after we started seeing more and more trash  in the grass. 

Then we crossed the creek and I saw a car parked funny, it was in the water!  The lights were blinking and water was all inside, but the man didn't mind,he was taking a nap. Pop-pop told me to go back he needed to wake the man up. I watched him walk down, grab his arm and shake the man. He never woke up. Pop-pop acted funny after he came back. He said the man was sick and he had to call the doctor.  His funny flappy phone didn't work so he made me promise to stay right where i was.  I would make sure the sick man didn't need anything while pop-pop ran up the road to the next house. 

I watched the man, he was good the whole time pop-pop was gone. It was funny he never turned the blinky light off.  Pop-pop came back and said the doctors were on their way.  Policemen showed up first and went to try and wake the man up.  They came back and whispered to pop-pop.  They said he had deceased.  I'm not sure what that is, I'll ask pop-pop tomorrow on our walk. 

​

 Pop-pop came to stay at my house right after my birthday.  I'm six and a half now.  He really likes nature. He takes me on walks everyday. I think it's because he wants to smoke a cigarette and doesn't think mommy knows.  He’s really good at naming trees, and birds, and tells me all about the types of clouds in the sky. I didn't know there were more than white and grey ones  but pop-pop did. 

He took me on a walk today. We went on a new road up a mountain.  It was great! We saw a deer. And pop-pop showed me honey suckle, I didn't know it had a honey drop in the flower!  We saw bees playing with flowers but we didn't  see many more after we started seeing more and more trash  in the grass. 

Then we crossed the creek and I saw a car parked funny, it was in the water!  The lights were blinking and water was all inside, but the man didn't mind,he was taking a nap. Pop-pop told me to go back he needed to wake the man up. I watched him walk down, grab his arm and shake the man. He never woke up. Pop-pop acted funny after he came back. He said the man was sick and he had to call the doctor.  His funny flappy phone didn't work so he made me promise to stay right where i was.  I would make sure the sick man didn't need anything while pop-pop ran up the road to the next house. 

I watched the man, he was good the whole time pop-pop was gone. It was funny he never turned the blinky light off.  Pop-pop came back and said the doctors were on their way.  Policemen showed up first and went to try and wake the man up.  They came back and whispered to pop-pop.  They said he had deceased.  I'm not sure what that is, I'll ask pop-pop tomorrow on our walk. 

​

Kevin awoke surrounded by crumbs and takeout containers, nothing new. He kicked the leftovers off the mattress onto the growing pile beside his bed. Lumbering his way to the bathroom he stripped down preparing to shower and stopped. Bites on his arms. His legs. His stomach. Small angry red areas stood contrasted against his milky complexion. He scratched one absently. Probably fleas, no big deal.

Starting the shower, he turned to the mirror and froze. A pulsing line moving from his heart, shallow at first then rising to at least an inch before his navel. That was the worst; his navel had pushed outwards and was quivering. As he watched, a small glossy black figure pushed out from under the swollen knot. It stood, waved its antenna then wandered down his stomach toward his leg.

Another emerged after the first. Kevin stared speechless watching ant after ant blunder out of him.

Out of his skin.

Oh hell no. This can't be happening.

He showered vigorously. They had to be after crumbs. Crumbs stuck in a crevice.

He scrubbed with sponge and fingernails, suds and glossy black circling the drain in a never ending stream . He turned the water off and watched as the ants pooled around and over his feet, all watching him. Antennae waiving as they stand stock still, waiting for something. Pain struck deep behind his navel. Nothing like he had experienced before, this pressure felt almost alive. Roll. Adjust. Heavy hot pressure.

Kevin couldn't take it. Grabbing a plastic razor and breaking the casing around the blade he panted, the blade just above the swell of his gut. The glossy black head of an ant started to lean out from its cave as Kevin brought the razor down again and again. Blood mixed with something black splattered down onto the ceramic tiles. The black masses started to become frenzied. Kevin froze mid cut memorized by the mess. Deep within his ruined gut something moved again, pulsing, moving towards the fresh gash.

The razor drops from his hands to be quickly covered by the eagerly waiting black mass at his feet. Pain ripped again and drove him to his knees. Understanding slammed into place as his face met the porcelain floor.

He was an Incubator.

​

Kevin awoke surrounded by crumbs and takeout containers, nothing new. He kicked the leftovers off the mattress onto the growing pile beside his bed. Lumbering his way to the bathroom he stripped down preparing to shower and stopped. Bites on his arms. His legs. His stomach. Small angry red areas stood contrasted against his milky complexion. He scratched one absently. Probably fleas, no big deal.

Starting the shower, he turned to the mirror and froze. A pulsing line moving from his heart, shallow at first then rising to at least an inch before his navel. That was the worst; his navel had pushed outwards and was quivering. As he watched, a small glossy black figure pushed out from under the swollen knot. It stood, waved its antenna then wandered down his stomach toward his leg.

Another emerged after the first. Kevin stared speechless watching ant after ant blunder out of him.

Out of his skin.

Oh hell no. This can't be happening.

He showered vigorously. They had to be after crumbs. Crumbs stuck in a crevice.

He scrubbed with sponge and fingernails, suds and glossy black circling the drain in a never ending stream . He turned the water off and watched as the ants pooled around and over his feet, all watching him. Antennae waiving as they stand stock still, waiting for something. Pain struck deep behind his navel. Nothing like he had experienced before, this pressure felt almost alive. Roll. Adjust. Heavy hot pressure.

Kevin couldn't take it. Grabbing a plastic razor and breaking the casing around the blade he panted, the blade just above the swell of his gut. The glossy black head of an ant started to lean out from its cave as Kevin brought the razor down again and again. Blood mixed with something black splattered down onto the ceramic tiles. The black masses started to become frenzied. Kevin froze mid cut memorized by the mess. Deep within his ruined gut something moved again, pulsing, moving towards the fresh gash.

The razor drops from his hands to be quickly covered by the eagerly waiting black mass at his feet. Pain ripped again and drove him to his knees. Understanding slammed into place as his face met the porcelain floor.

He was an Incubator.

​

Kevin awoke surrounded by crumbs and takeout containers, nothing new. He kicked the leftovers off the mattress onto the growing pile beside his bed. Lumbering his way to the bathroom he stripped down preparing to shower and stopped. Bites on his arms. His legs. His stomach. Small angry red areas stood contrasted against his milky complexion. He scratched one absently. Probably fleas, no big deal.

Starting the shower, he turned to the mirror and froze. A pulsing line moving from his heart, shallow at first then rising to at least an inch before his navel. That was the worst; his navel had pushed outwards and was quivering. As he watched, a small glossy black figure pushed out from under the swollen knot. It stood, waved its antenna then wandered down his stomach toward his leg.

Another emerged after the first. Kevin stared speechless watching ant after ant blunder out of him.

Out of his skin.

Oh hell no. This can't be happening.

He showered vigorously. They had to be after crumbs. Crumbs stuck in a crevice.

He scrubbed with sponge and fingernails, suds and glossy black circling the drain in a never ending stream . He turned the water off and watched as the ants pooled around and over his feet, all watching him. Antennae waiving as they stand stock still, waiting for something. Pain struck deep behind his navel. Nothing like he had experienced before, this pressure felt almost alive. Roll. Adjust. Heavy hot pressure.

Kevin couldn't take it. Grabbing a plastic razor and breaking the casing around the blade he panted, the blade just above the swell of his gut. The glossy black head of an ant started to lean out from its cave as Kevin brought the razor down again and again. Blood mixed with something black splattered down onto the ceramic tiles. The black masses started to become frenzied. Kevin froze mid cut memorized by the mess. Deep within his ruined gut something moved again, pulsing, moving towards the fresh gash.

The razor drops from his hands to be quickly covered by the eagerly waiting black mass at his feet. Pain ripped again and drove him to his knees. Understanding slammed into place as his face met the porcelain floor.

He was an Incubator.

Eli used to say it like a joke.

“Anything once.”

It was something he truly believed deep down. If a thing existed in the world, if it could be touched, tasted or endured, then there was value in it. Just reading about it, or imagining it wasn't  enough. He had to experience it for himself

 At first, it was small things. He ordered things no one else at the table would touch and  made a point of finishing them. Foods with textures that made people cringe or look away. He didn’t rush through them. He paid attention to the sensation,and took his time.  He asked himself what it actually felt like. The initial rush, the adrenaline spike  that came with unexplored territory. 

That was the part he liked.

 

Eli started a journal, compiling everything interesting  he had ever tasted and explored. 

Bull balls, 

Snake,

Squirrel brain,

Fugu,

Kangaroo,

Turtle,

And a myriad of other delights. He took pride in this list, showing it to anyone interested, and some that had no interest at all. 

That rush had a way of surprising him. Like those oysters. He hadn't been expecting anything but the familiar texture and taste as he tilted the shell and let the contents slide in to his mouth. A Sharp crunch from something hidden in the decadent flesh.His tongue probed the intruder  in his mouth.  Small, round, smooth. A pearl. He contemplated spitting it out before his curiosity took over. His skin broke out in goose bumps as he bit down hard. He rolled it along the inside of his teeth with his tongue  feeling the texture resilient but soothing. Eventually swallowing the treasure whole.  Eli sat frozen for a moment, eyes fixed on the empty shell lying before him. 

This was unexpected, not better but closer.

Eli talked about the Pearl to all who would listen.  They didn't laugh this time, they looked at him with pity or simply said nothing at all. One friend interrogated him over what closer meant  but, Eli could only shrug and say he will know when he finds it.  People started pulling away after that. Quietly at first. A few missed calls. Fewer invitations. Conversations that ended  too early.

Eli didn’t seem to notice. Or didn’t care.

He was busy cataloguing and sharing it in his socials. 

Horse meat. Rare.

Closer.

Something fermented.

Closer.

Something he didn’t name.

Closer.

Then came the trip.

After that, the photos along with his posts got harder to place.Markets. Street stalls. Things skewered, preserved, half-prepared. Dishes no one in the comments could identify. Eggs with what look to be a small fetus in its fluid.

Eli started making his own wooden bowls, dishes, and small, handcut slabs of hardwood for plating his food. Just eating it was no longer enough. He wanted control over every bit of the sensation.

The smell of saw dust and lacquer hung heavy in the air as he worked on his latest project, a wooden platter he intended to grace with some exotic raw meat. It had to be perfect.  The saw wined as he sawed and adjusted. The rush of the wood bending to his will made him careless. He should have readjusted the wood ever so slightly. The saw wine came to an abrupt end as Eli jerked back yelling. He stood staring first at the ruined board and the saw looming above it. Then he looked down.

 Eli’s finger lay in the sawdust near his boot, so cleanly severed it almost  looked artificial.

Then the pain hit. Sharp. Agonizing.

He bent to pick it up and stopped just short of touching it. For a moment, all he could think was ice. Pressure. Hospital.

Then…

What if they couldn’t reattach it? What would they do with it? Dispose of it? Incinerate it with the rest of the waste? 

The thought turned him cold.

No.

 It was his. It was part of him. His to keep. His to decide. He wrapped his hand, then found a plastic bag, and dropped the finger inside.

He tucked the bag behind the beer and takeout containers in the back of the refrigerator. Then he drove himself to the emergency room.

When the doctor asked where the missing finger was, Eli didn’t hesitate.

“ I don't know. Couldn't find it.” “I panicked.”

Two days and a surgery later, he walked into  his kitchen with his hand wrapped tight and his thoughts lagging behind the painkillers. His eyes were drawn to the refrigerator.  A beer would be perfect right now. 

As he pulled a beer from the six pack he saw the bag tucked away. He knew the finger had a day, maybe less before going bad.  Eli thought about preserving the finger and displaying it  as a novelty but, when would the opportunity to try human meat present itself again?  No one, or at least no one else is being hurt.. he had already bled for this. 

Mistake.

 Opportunity.

This could be it. 

He removed the meat from the bag, and prepared it carefully with wine and hand picked herbs.  He decided to plate the meat on the serving platter that resulted in this meal. Tweezing a sliver of bone jutting from the meat he raised it to his lips, hesitated then bit down.

His teeth dragged tendon and meat before it gave.

He stared at the serving platter as he chewed. 

This was it? 

Eli used to say it like a joke.

“Anything once.”

It was something he truly believed deep down. If a thing existed in the world, if it could be touched, tasted or endured, then there was value in it. Just reading about it, or imagining it wasn't  enough. He had to experience it for himself

 At first, it was small things. He ordered things no one else at the table would touch and  made a point of finishing them. Foods with textures that made people cringe or look away. He didn’t rush through them. He paid attention to the sensation,and took his time.  He asked himself what it actually felt like. The initial rush, the adrenaline spike  that came with unexplored territory. 

That was the part he liked.

 

Eli started a journal, compiling everything interesting  he had ever tasted and explored. 

Bull balls, 

Snake,

Squirrel brain,

Fugu,

Kangaroo,

Turtle,

And a myriad of other delights. He took pride in this list, showing it to anyone interested, and some that had no interest at all. 

That rush had a way of surprising him. Like those oysters. He hadn't been expecting anything but the familiar texture and taste as he tilted the shell and let the contents slide in to his mouth. A Sharp crunch from something hidden in the decadent flesh.His tongue probed the intruder  in his mouth.  Small, round, smooth. A pearl. He contemplated spitting it out before his curiosity took over. His skin broke out in goose bumps as he bit down hard. He rolled it along the inside of his teeth with his tongue  feeling the texture resilient but soothing. Eventually swallowing the treasure whole.  Eli sat frozen for a moment, eyes fixed on the empty shell lying before him. 

This was unexpected, not better but closer.

Eli talked about the Pearl to all who would listen.  They didn't laugh this time, they looked at him with pity or simply said nothing at all. One friend interrogated him over what closer meant  but, Eli could only shrug and say he will know when he finds it.  People started pulling away after that. Quietly at first. A few missed calls. Fewer invitations. Conversations that ended  too early.

Eli didn’t seem to notice. Or didn’t care.

He was busy cataloguing and sharing it in his socials. 

Horse meat. Rare.

Closer.

Something fermented.

Closer.

Something he didn’t name.

Closer.

Then came the trip.

After that, the photos along with his posts got harder to place.Markets. Street stalls. Things skewered, preserved, half-prepared. Dishes no one in the comments could identify. Eggs with what look to be a small fetus in its fluid.

Eli started making his own wooden bowls, dishes, and small, handcut slabs of hardwood for plating his food. Just eating it was no longer enough. He wanted control over every bit of the sensation.

The smell of saw dust and lacquer hung heavy in the air as he worked on his latest project, a wooden platter he intended to grace with some exotic raw meat. It had to be perfect.  The saw wined as he sawed and adjusted. The rush of the wood bending to his will made him careless. He should have readjusted the wood ever so slightly. The saw wine came to an abrupt end as Eli jerked back yelling. He stood staring first at the ruined board and the saw looming above it. Then he looked down.

 Eli’s finger lay in the sawdust near his boot, so cleanly severed it almost  looked artificial.

Then the pain hit. Sharp. Agonizing.

He bent to pick it up and stopped just short of touching it. For a moment, all he could think was ice. Pressure. Hospital.

Then…

What if they couldn’t reattach it? What would they do with it? Dispose of it? Incinerate it with the rest of the waste? 

The thought turned him cold.

No.

 It was his. It was part of him. His to keep. His to decide. He wrapped his hand, then found a plastic bag, and dropped the finger inside.

He tucked the bag behind the beer and takeout containers in the back of the refrigerator. Then he drove himself to the emergency room.

When the doctor asked where the missing finger was, Eli didn’t hesitate.

“ I don't know. Couldn't find it.” “I panicked.”

Two days and a surgery later, he walked into  his kitchen with his hand wrapped tight and his thoughts lagging behind the painkillers. His eyes were drawn to the refrigerator.  A beer would be perfect right now. 

As he pulled a beer from the six pack he saw the bag tucked away. He knew the finger had a day, maybe less before going bad.  Eli thought about preserving the finger and displaying it  as a novelty but, when would the opportunity to try human meat present itself again?  No one, or at least no one else is being hurt.. he had already bled for this. 

Mistake.

 Opportunity.

This could be it. 

He removed the meat from the bag, and prepared it carefully with wine and hand picked herbs.  He decided to plate the meat on the serving platter that resulted in this meal. Tweezing a sliver of bone jutting from the meat he raised it to his lips, hesitated then bit down.

His teeth dragged tendon and meat before it gave.

He stared at the serving platter as he chewed. 

This was it? 

A traveling fair came in the way they always do. Suddenly there one afternoon, sitting in the empty lot beyond town like it had always been there.

The Ferris wheel was the first thing I noticed.

It didn’t match the rest of the rides. Looked older, like it had been standing there longer than the town surrounding it. 

My daughter tugged my sleeve before I even finished parking.

“Can we go?”

I should’ve said no. I don’t know why I didn’t.

We bought tickets. The operator didn’t speak. He just scanned them  and nodded absently. He didn’t look at my daughter. That should’ve bothered me more than it did. 

Our gondola clicked into place and lifted us up.

At first, it was normal. The fair shrank  below us. My daughter pressed her hands to the glass, pointing at the other rides.

Then the noise started to fade.

Halfway up, I noticed something. Another gondola,  Three above us.  A man sat inside it alone.

He wasn’t looking around like people do on rides. He wasn’t pointing or smiling. He just sat there. Still. Watching the sky like he expected something to happen.

I almost looked away.

Then he was gone.

Not thrown or falling.

One moment he existed in that seat.

Then the next, the seat was completely empty.

“Did you see that?” I asked my daughter.

She didn’t answer. She was already watching the car above us. 

We kept rising.

I told myself it was perspective. Lighting. Some trick of reflection. But I couldn't make my mind accept it. Below, the operator stood with the ticket scanner in hand, watching the wheel. His lips moved silently, like he was counting.

The wheel kept turning.

And every time a gondola reached the top, someone disappeared.

No pattern at first. Then I saw it.

Only the ones who looked up 

Only the people not holding on to anything. 

By the third rotation, I was gripping my daughter’s hand so hard she told me it hurt.

“Don’t look up,” I said.

She frowned. “Why?”

I didn’t have an answer that didn't sound crazy. So I just said it again.

“Don’t look up.”

The top was close.

The air became thinner. Sound from the fair below washed away like it couldn't travel properly.

My daughter leaned forward wrenching her hand free of mine. 

Curiosity. Instinct. The thing kids do when they don’t know any better than to just listen.  

“Where do they go?” she asked, glancing up as the gondola hit the apex.

For a fraction of a second, I saw her face show recognition. Like she saw something she had forgotten until just that moment.  I reached for her.

She was still there. Then she wasn’t.

No scream.

Just absence, like she never existed. 

I stayed seated.

I screamed. 

The ride continued.

Below me, the fair went on like nothing had changed. 

The operator looked up once, checked something unseen made a mark, then raised his hand to the next rider.