Hunger

Some pieces I read at Cottonwoods Open Mic

I’ve recently found an open mic night for literary arts that feels like a really good space for me. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted a creative group until I went. So last month I pushed myself into the discomfort zone and stood up and read, and as terrifying as it was in the moment, I think I loved it. I’m probably going to read again next month.

The challenge is that I’m knee deep in two long-form projects, neither of which lend themselves well to reading small portions of. So I read some new poetry that turned out just okay, and an old short that I’ve been sitting on for a few months. I liked the short a lot, it was based on a conversation that I overheard in Taipei, but it’s just a snapshot scene. I’ll find a longer framework for it eventually.

The theme last month was Hunger. Subscribe below if you want more micro-fiction in your life.

Hungry Ghosts

To Hunger

Is to Crave 

and be Craven

To strive for, and in your greed, consume

Or else to waste endlessly, and be consumed

The pinnacle of success, driven towards more

And the starving family, subsistence only poor

These are both hungry

But are they okay?

There is a dual nature, to hunger’s visage 

In our language, and in our reality. 

And maybe, there is no greater image

Of our fast approaching mortality

Than one cup overflowing

Another incessantly drying

And an insatiable urge to swallow

So that we’re not swallowed

And then in satiety

We look at this sacrifice

As an obvious necessity

That cold meat that paid the ultimate price.

There is no morality that matters

When a rich vegetarian

Whose stomach growls and teeth chatters

Eats the poor like carrion.

There are still dive bars on orbiting space stations

“I tried to kill myself last year.”

Paul says it while rolling a lit cigarette between his fingers, a smile on his lips. It’s a flippant statement, thrown out with the reckless abandon of someone that’s certain they’ll be misunderstood. That the meaning will be lost on the beautiful face he’s speaking to. He stares into the kind, dark eyes of the other man, whose boyish face falters for a moment at the statement.

“Are you a hunter, then?” His English is thick and slow, each word chosen through a fog of drink and who knows what else. No one smiles that much normally, not here. The corners of his words are rounded by a heavy foreign accent. 

All around them are other conversations in broken languages, pieced together through some small, shared mutual understanding that leads only to a collective misunderstanding.

Alpha station - where people come together. Paul hears the advertisement in the back of his mind, and grimaces. He craved to speak easily with someone, anyone, and not for the first time. To not enunciate and project, his speaking rate unconsciously slowed for the listener.

“Yes, of experiences and meaningless life lessons, mostly.”

The brows of his companion, dark perfectly sculpted things set against wonderfully dark skin, furrow in confusion. Concern? What’s his surname name again? Liu? Hsieh? Paul couldn’t remember, and instead of letting this concern him, took a drink from his bottle of beer, and followed it with a long drag off his nearly forgotten cigarette. Fuck it, I wouldn’t have remembered it tomorrow anyways.

“You cannot hunt here.” His companion responded, clearly confused.

Paul fought back an overwhelming urge to sigh, to roll his eyes. We’re in the middle of space on a mechanical bubble of artificial gravity and reprocessed air, flying around in the orbit of a home world all of us want to forget. The beer we’re drinking is probably, somehow, made from our own recycled piss. No, of course there isn’t hunting here.

“Look, did you want to come back to my place tonight?” Paul says, crushing the remainders of his cigarette into a tray overflowing with them. It’s cramped, poorly lit, and mostly covered by a bed that’s too small for two, just like yours is I’m sure.

The other man cocked his head, unsure of the meaning or unsure of how to respond. Idioms never translate well.

“Do you want to fuck me tonight? I am ready to leave.” Paul spoke each word forcefully, clearly. He stopped short of making any obscene gestures to make sure his meaning was understood. Others nearby turned to look, overhearing him. Some with interest in their eyes, others with conceit.

The other man grinned and nodded eagerly. Paul grabbed his hand and led him from the crowd.