sd gross
05-22-2009, 05:28 PM
As far as I know, this tale is fiction. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or Zombified is purely coincidental.
stephen
:anon:
Wild Child
by Mako
It was during a period of my life filled with blue haze and long, unitelligible words strung together like blinking carnival lights. Almost anything could have happened, some of it believable, most of it absurd.
The primatologist who dragged me to East Africa was a druggie of the worst kind - he actually enjoyed the ether/opium/nitrous oxide cocktails he indulged in! He was cute, albeit rugged, and had developed several good 'lines' at Cal Tech, some of which I snorted and many of which I got snagged on.
His expertise lay in the study of Bonobos (Pygmy Chimps) which have been found to be very plugged in in a variety of ways, the most notable being, they are perpetually horny. I'd seen a PBS special on them one evening and ended up chasing all the young children out of the room.
My skills lay in coaxing little colored balls into pockets with a stick. Learning to breathe properly and relax were a big part of it. Daddy was a Tri-State Eight Ball champion, and now his little girl was following in his size 12 triple E's. They call me Mako. But my real name is Lorrie. With my tortoise shell specs I look scholarly enough but I was always hungry and night after night, I'd eat the 'competition' alive. Outside and beyond the pool halls, I longed to travel. I let the primatologist have his way.
Anyway, there we were in Rwanda, drugged out on grant money and the torpid ambience, attempting to get intimate with Bonobos.
After we'd been there for about a month achieving success in getting close to a clan we'd been following, I awoke alone, hungover, in the forest one morning, stiff and achy, with my clothes shredded and hanging off my body. Last thing I remembered before I lost consciousness was hearing Daddy's voice whispering, "Use a smooth, direct stroke, Lorrie, and hit the cue ball at or just above the center - remember, too low and the ball will fly right off the goddamn table."
I limped back to the camp and upon being examined by the nearest practitioner of Western Medicine, we determined that I'd been raped. The primatologist with his reputation for amorous adventures with young boys, had certainly had nothing to do with it. The locals who worked for us were mainly into abstinence. We "investigated" as best we could but turned up zero.
I was certain I'd miscarried but when my pregnancy flowered, it was apparent I'd made a bad mistake. It was too late to do much except have my baby, so I did.
The Third-World 'hospital' personnel's hush-hush attitude clued me to the fact that we had a problem. The baby looked human - but it must have been influenced by someone's recessive genes because it suffered from what appeared to be hirsuitism. Not only did the tiny toddler have hair where most adults don't have any, but there was one more bit of weirdness that even hirsuitism sufferers don't have to deal with - it had a tail! Not a big, wavy tail like a fox, but a stumpy, hairy thing, like you might see on some kind of primate.
Peculiarly superstitious, the nurses and orderlies shied away from us - didn't even want to touch my child - and I should have paid attention to the red flags that screamed "Be Cautious".
I wasn't all that surprised when, about two weeks later, the child disappeared from our tent. But I was stunned when I heard the stories from travelers some ten years later, about a hungry street urchin covered in dark silky hair who had been seen haunting the back alleys and slums of Kigali, Rwanda's sprawling capital. The kid apparently managed to survive by hustling in the dark and dangerous pool halls of the lawless city of nearly a million, but what drove him, was his search for his Mama. Despite the fact that he was shunned by the superstitious Rwandans, wherever he wandered he would plead with everyone he encountered (it was his one goal in life!) to help him find his mother.
I'd always believed that locals had kidnapped and killed my kid - the thought of keeping and raising him had never been an option - but now I'm no longer sure. To paraphrase, "There's a narrow margin between the civilized aspects of rough Inner City life and the brutal laws of life in nature". "Could the child find a sort of equilibrium in the windows that mark the transition between the closed interiors and the world outside?" Is it possible he could learn to have social relations and learn to adapt? Could he find acceptance in a world which regards him as a pariah - a carnival freak?
I've read tales of "wolf children", feral kids who had managed to keep themselves moving forward despite desperate odds... so who knows? Now most nights find me unable to sleep...haunted by the hungry faces of children, hearing in my mind the soft click of little balls lightly kissing each other...and waiting. Waiting for that knock on my door.:whistle:
stephen
:anon:
Wild Child
by Mako
It was during a period of my life filled with blue haze and long, unitelligible words strung together like blinking carnival lights. Almost anything could have happened, some of it believable, most of it absurd.
The primatologist who dragged me to East Africa was a druggie of the worst kind - he actually enjoyed the ether/opium/nitrous oxide cocktails he indulged in! He was cute, albeit rugged, and had developed several good 'lines' at Cal Tech, some of which I snorted and many of which I got snagged on.
His expertise lay in the study of Bonobos (Pygmy Chimps) which have been found to be very plugged in in a variety of ways, the most notable being, they are perpetually horny. I'd seen a PBS special on them one evening and ended up chasing all the young children out of the room.
My skills lay in coaxing little colored balls into pockets with a stick. Learning to breathe properly and relax were a big part of it. Daddy was a Tri-State Eight Ball champion, and now his little girl was following in his size 12 triple E's. They call me Mako. But my real name is Lorrie. With my tortoise shell specs I look scholarly enough but I was always hungry and night after night, I'd eat the 'competition' alive. Outside and beyond the pool halls, I longed to travel. I let the primatologist have his way.
Anyway, there we were in Rwanda, drugged out on grant money and the torpid ambience, attempting to get intimate with Bonobos.
After we'd been there for about a month achieving success in getting close to a clan we'd been following, I awoke alone, hungover, in the forest one morning, stiff and achy, with my clothes shredded and hanging off my body. Last thing I remembered before I lost consciousness was hearing Daddy's voice whispering, "Use a smooth, direct stroke, Lorrie, and hit the cue ball at or just above the center - remember, too low and the ball will fly right off the goddamn table."
I limped back to the camp and upon being examined by the nearest practitioner of Western Medicine, we determined that I'd been raped. The primatologist with his reputation for amorous adventures with young boys, had certainly had nothing to do with it. The locals who worked for us were mainly into abstinence. We "investigated" as best we could but turned up zero.
I was certain I'd miscarried but when my pregnancy flowered, it was apparent I'd made a bad mistake. It was too late to do much except have my baby, so I did.
The Third-World 'hospital' personnel's hush-hush attitude clued me to the fact that we had a problem. The baby looked human - but it must have been influenced by someone's recessive genes because it suffered from what appeared to be hirsuitism. Not only did the tiny toddler have hair where most adults don't have any, but there was one more bit of weirdness that even hirsuitism sufferers don't have to deal with - it had a tail! Not a big, wavy tail like a fox, but a stumpy, hairy thing, like you might see on some kind of primate.
Peculiarly superstitious, the nurses and orderlies shied away from us - didn't even want to touch my child - and I should have paid attention to the red flags that screamed "Be Cautious".
I wasn't all that surprised when, about two weeks later, the child disappeared from our tent. But I was stunned when I heard the stories from travelers some ten years later, about a hungry street urchin covered in dark silky hair who had been seen haunting the back alleys and slums of Kigali, Rwanda's sprawling capital. The kid apparently managed to survive by hustling in the dark and dangerous pool halls of the lawless city of nearly a million, but what drove him, was his search for his Mama. Despite the fact that he was shunned by the superstitious Rwandans, wherever he wandered he would plead with everyone he encountered (it was his one goal in life!) to help him find his mother.
I'd always believed that locals had kidnapped and killed my kid - the thought of keeping and raising him had never been an option - but now I'm no longer sure. To paraphrase, "There's a narrow margin between the civilized aspects of rough Inner City life and the brutal laws of life in nature". "Could the child find a sort of equilibrium in the windows that mark the transition between the closed interiors and the world outside?" Is it possible he could learn to have social relations and learn to adapt? Could he find acceptance in a world which regards him as a pariah - a carnival freak?
I've read tales of "wolf children", feral kids who had managed to keep themselves moving forward despite desperate odds... so who knows? Now most nights find me unable to sleep...haunted by the hungry faces of children, hearing in my mind the soft click of little balls lightly kissing each other...and waiting. Waiting for that knock on my door.:whistle: