Eat'em: a story about postponing the apocalypsePROLOGUE
I wasn’t a weird child. I wasn’t awkward or abnormal. I ran track and played baseball. I liked to draw. I had friends. My family cared about me. I was an average student and did my best to stay out of trouble. I certainly wasn’t a social outcast. Truth be told, I failed to stand out in any way whatsoever.
Things changed when I met Eat’em. Eat’em’s an impish blood-red demon with porcupine thick hair, cold blue eyes, and a prehensile tail. His gait is a cross between a man and a spider monkey. His voice sounds like any number of elementary-aged children, with an easy-to-ignore “Mom look!” kind of cadence and a vocabulary equivalent to a coffee-shop philosopher. Eat’em is my not-so imaginary best friend.
When I was ten years old, I woke one morning to the little red demon on my end table. He stood no taller than my table lamp. He held a bottle of Pepto-Bismol antacid tablets my mother left me for an upset stomach.
DEAR CHILD: a poem I wrote for my daughter
Lest you have an objection
I would like to have your concession
I have a confession, need indiscretion for this session
Not a lesson
So don’t question my message
I’m not asking you to be like me so don’t take this as a vestige.
And I immediately apologize
If you feel I ostracize
But I can’t legitimize a compromise for anyone whom can’t reprise
I… I can’t can’t stand… stand stand those that stam stam stammer
Your voice is a nail to the eardrum. I only hear it cuz you’re shit with a hammer
And for wa wa when you st st stutter or mutter
Don’t know if you mess with us or it’s hydrocephalus but you’re making us shutter
Don’t let my words cause too much friction
I’ve got a condition
It’s not nice, my vice without restriction
My addiction to diction
Sure, I might regret that I upset a few folks to whom words are a threat
But don’t fret
If they have something to s s say I