Saturday's Storyteller: The Zoo
The Zoo
by Belinda Roddie
Look, they've locked all the beasts in cages, son. They don't have claws or sharp teeth, or mangy fur or evil eyes. But they are crying. God, how the beasts cry.
The zookeepers use our dollars to feed them potatoes and water. Potatoes give them all the nutrients they need. No meat for beasts like these. All the heat is gone from their eyes. They don't starve, but they stay at a very light weight. Their ribs protrude like the bars that close them in.
The beasts get to play once in a while. Sometimes, they swim in their pools. Sometimes, they play with toys. Sometimes, they communicate with each other, mostly with their hands and with other "gestures." Language left them long ago. Their mouths move. But we can't make sense of it.
Most of the time, they sleep.
And when they sleep, I believe they dream. They must dream, my boy. They must dream about birthday parties and merry-go-rounds. They must dream about roller coasters, drive-thru movie theaters, and bouncy castles. They must dream about hot chocolate and pumpkin pie. They must dream about love. They must dream about hate.
Their dreams are the only things that make us remember what they used to be.
There will be more beasts here soon, I think. The zoo is growing, expanding every day. The zookeepers have their jobs cut out for them. Domesticating, grooming them, feeding them and purifying them. Their sin is in their physiology, and while they can repent, they can never be absolved. So say the powers that be.
I don't think I want to take you here anymore. It's too much. It's all too much.
Don't gawk at them, son. Pity them.
For they were not beasts once.
This week's prompt was provided by Jocelyn Morton.
by Belinda Roddie
Look, they've locked all the beasts in cages, son. They don't have claws or sharp teeth, or mangy fur or evil eyes. But they are crying. God, how the beasts cry.
The zookeepers use our dollars to feed them potatoes and water. Potatoes give them all the nutrients they need. No meat for beasts like these. All the heat is gone from their eyes. They don't starve, but they stay at a very light weight. Their ribs protrude like the bars that close them in.
The beasts get to play once in a while. Sometimes, they swim in their pools. Sometimes, they play with toys. Sometimes, they communicate with each other, mostly with their hands and with other "gestures." Language left them long ago. Their mouths move. But we can't make sense of it.
Most of the time, they sleep.
And when they sleep, I believe they dream. They must dream, my boy. They must dream about birthday parties and merry-go-rounds. They must dream about roller coasters, drive-thru movie theaters, and bouncy castles. They must dream about hot chocolate and pumpkin pie. They must dream about love. They must dream about hate.
Their dreams are the only things that make us remember what they used to be.
There will be more beasts here soon, I think. The zoo is growing, expanding every day. The zookeepers have their jobs cut out for them. Domesticating, grooming them, feeding them and purifying them. Their sin is in their physiology, and while they can repent, they can never be absolved. So say the powers that be.
I don't think I want to take you here anymore. It's too much. It's all too much.
Don't gawk at them, son. Pity them.
For they were not beasts once.
This week's prompt was provided by Jocelyn Morton.
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