Genre: Dystopian Drama
A wise man once said about the drones that they were chrome wheeled, fuel-injected, and steppin’ out over the line. Now they’re only good for knocking from the sky, peeling back the carapaces, and eating the soft, pink innards. I’ve tried roasted drone before and was gifted with bloody vomit for four days.
Gaia didn’t want us to eat the drones. We knew it. We all knew it. The more we ate them, the sicker we got, and the more logic left us.
It was a dare to try a drone. A rite of passage of the sort. In order to understand all that is wrong with the world a bloom must consume it. Now I understand the madness. The blooms that dance like dervishes in the firelight. The blooms that howl curses into the night and commune with Gaia’s spirits. They’re mad I tell you, mad!
I watch them through the cattails from the other side of the riverbank. They whoop and holler surrounded by the hulking carcasses of the fallen drones. I watched them lift the meaty, flailing, squealing innards over the bonfire and throw it in. They wailed, screamed, crowed… The sound, by Gaia, the sound!
I willed my ears into deafness from the sound. I lamented my glen had been constructed so close to the riverbank. I told myself it wasn’t fate. I wasn’t meant to be one of them. I wasn’t meant to see them. I was just like any other bloom. Just like any other gentle, caring, Gaia tending bloom.
But my mother lived in the basement. Locked away. Mad on the meat of drones.
In my dreams, the wise old man sings his song. He tells me tramps like us were born to run. In the morning, I hide the Walkman, and place the Duracells inbetween the weavings of my pallet. I can’t have my family discovering I know music.
I can’t have them knowing I’m mad on the meat of the drones.