By Zachery S. Beauvais
I work in a sloppy land for a sloppy man. His name is McPherson.
Fifteen years ago, I left home to go and find the world. I thought I was a musician. I left for a fantasy land, a bohemian paradise, but all I found was goo.
Twelve hours a day, six days a week, I mix the slop--a steaming concoction not dissimilar to gravel and afterbirth. I was starving and needed work. The Factory was my only choice.
The slop pours out of four tubes into the vat. Splish-splashing out onto the steel grate. There is where I stand--a man with his paddle. Alone. Mr. McPherson says it's crucial the goop is mixed evenly and constantly. Once a shift, a truck pulls up to the vat. A man in a plastic jumpsuit and winged-frame glasses nods up to me and attaches his hose to the vat. He leaves. I am relieved by a burly man with a cigar, and then return to my chambers. The same day--nine years.
I work in a sloppy land for a sloppy man. His name is McPherson.
Fifteen years ago, I left home to go and find the world. I thought I was a musician. I left for a fantasy land, a bohemian paradise, but all I found was goo.
Twelve hours a day, six days a week, I mix the slop--a steaming concoction not dissimilar to gravel and afterbirth. I was starving and needed work. The Factory was my only choice.
The slop pours out of four tubes into the vat. Splish-splashing out onto the steel grate. There is where I stand--a man with his paddle. Alone. Mr. McPherson says it's crucial the goop is mixed evenly and constantly. Once a shift, a truck pulls up to the vat. A man in a plastic jumpsuit and winged-frame glasses nods up to me and attaches his hose to the vat. He leaves. I am relieved by a burly man with a cigar, and then return to my chambers. The same day--nine years.
Continue reading The One That Got Away.
