Since the Take-Out Murders a few years back, Kingfisher had become a pretty quiet place again, at least on the surface. Strip malls and cul-de-sacs felt safe, and that was enough to keep the denizens docile.
Middle America has always had a propensity for keeping the dirt under the rug, a whole region of rose-colored glasses and muttered dinner table gossip.
But the dirt piles up: histories unexamined, transgressions unaddressed, and every now and then the weeds of complicit ignorance grow over the border to sully the manicured lawns of tranquil charade.
It came this year. It came for their comfort. It came for their pizza.
Tuesday April 23rd had come and it was the day he would change it all. As good a day as any. Perhaps the perfect day.
“Gonna work like gangbusters,” he thought. “No more fucking tubes for me.”
Really it began on a Sunday, which is as good a day as any to begin. Sun. Day. “What serendipity is this?” he thought as he stared at the brightest star in the galaxy, doing irreparable harm to the rods and cones of his retina.
He had grown tired of eating. It wasn’t the tastes or the food preparation, even. The internal process, he thought, was too disgusting to partake in any longer. “Have you really thought about it?” he’d often ask, ruining dinners and parties and dinner parties. “What with all the saliva and the peristalsis.”
It was the peristalsis that really irked him. Here were all these tubes in his body, turning salivated foodstuff into balls of mush that’d make you yak if you ever saw them outside your body. He’d never seen them outside his body, but boy if he ever did. He’d yak. Guaranteed.
And then there was the waste. If the dinners and parties and whathaveyous weren’t already ruined by now, he’d really throw the wrench in when he started to harp on waste.
Peristalsis. Tubes squeezing tubes. The smells. We all do it, but no one seemed to think about it. Really think about it. Here we are: intake, output, saliva, smells, and the tubes. The fucking tubes.
But he’d found his way out, on as good a day as any. Sunday.
He sat starving in his garden, slumped in a lawn chair, limbs splayed. He’d grown pale and weak without food, but he’d partake in its hideousness no more.
Sweat burned his eyes as the lining of his stomach ate itself away and he cursed aloud, ready to give up the fight and have an egg salad sandwich his concerned neighbor Darlene had brought over.
“Eat something, Bart,” Darlene said.
“Eat shit, Darlene,” he thought.
This was before he knew he might need the sandwich.
Something soft and delicate on the digits of his limp left arm stirred his thoughts and began to burn the last reserves of glucose in his brain.
The skin of an infant.
The petals of a chrysanthemum kissed his fingertips.
His head fell to the left with a hard swivel and the flower came into focus in his sweat-stung eyes.
Here was life.
His gaze turned skyward.
His belly groaned. His cheeks nearly cramped from grinning. Rods and cones atrophied as permanent black spots formed in his vision.
All this brought him to April 23rd, the day he’d begin to photosynthesize.
“I’ll show them,” he thought.
“Never a plan as brilliant as this,” he thought.
“No more fucking tubes for me,” he snickered.
It took months of tireless research, during which he resigned himself to the tiresome eating habits of heterotrophs. This is, of course, as opposed to autotrophs, he’d explain. He’d become a green thumb, better than your every day grandma, but perhaps less a master than a grandma with a degree in botany.
Nevertheless, he’d formulated his plan, set it into motion, and he began to photosynthesize on a Tuesday.
[NEW VIDEO] @marrowtweets | “TWO” | Short film, music video dir. by @AustinVesely
For interested parties: this is how the raw footage of @chancetherapper’s Everybody’s Something looks.
I keyed out the green, used the alpha channel as a stencil for the stock footage that would be in Chance’s body, then copied the alpha and overlayed it on top of that.
[ALTERNATE LINK] “Sex Tape Day” by Austin Vesely & Eryn Allen Koehn | YouTube