short piece
WRITTEN:
1984, 17 years
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
The WOL and FOL, respectively, The Web of Life and Focus on Life, were our biology textbooks in senior high school. WOL was an old hardback thing, much mutilated and tattered, and FOL was a nearly-as-thick softcover edition with a dark red cover and reasonably up-to-date ideas about the intelligence of mice (to the tangible relief of die-hard Douglas Adams fans). We had to haul these monstrosities around with us, which was especially horrible when we had Biology 4th period, preceded by English, Maths and History, in that order, which involved the maximum amount of running around.
Anyway, during one Biology class (in Lab 1, as I recall, the one we rather damaged the windows of the time we made soap, or what was supposed to be soap) we were supposed to be summarising the salient points from a section in either WOL or FOL, to do with the excretory habits of a subterranean-dwelling bat. "Bats' bits," I thought to myself, "this is boring. I'm going to write about something else instead." And I did. And I even submitted it (along with a hastily-scribbled token paragraph on what I was meant to be doing). Mr R had a sense of humour, thankfully, unlike the previous Mr R, who never quite recovered from my first attack of the adlibs.
We observe the cave organisms, unarmed. They come at us with hatchets and strength in unnatural proportions. Unarmed, we are soon disarmed. Disillusioned, we lie helpless on the floor cave feeling pity for ourselves, while the cave organisms bounce and roll around us, waving our arms victoriously above their heads.
"You know," says Caesar quietly, turning to me, "I was afraid something like this would happen."
He turns his head away and I see how untidily his right arm has been removed; half the shoulder has been taken also, and the half that remains resembles cheese which has been cut with the wrong sort of knife. I squint down past my chin and feel grateful that my arms have been removed neatly, as if with a diamond saw. Caesar turns again; he is crying voluminously.
"You know, I just remembered - I was wearing my new watch!"
Caesar turns to face the cave wall once more, the general areas of flesh and bone between his neck and what's left of his shoulder shuddering, and, to the cliché, he cries.
The cave organisms, whooping and gurgling, throw beads at us from small pouches slung around their middles on... sinews.
A bead hits Caesar on the nose and he howls despondently, beating his heels on the ground. The cave organisms, feeling generous in their easy victory, throw two arms in his general direction. One is his, the other Margot's. At first he is glad to see them, but soon realises that they are both left arms, and neither is the arm to which his new watch was attached. At this, his expression darkens, and he bellows in a deep and threatening voice about the hospitality of the locals...
\\ REPORT # 772
The indigenous flora and fauna were today invaded by a self-introduced species, Humanus Insensetivus, with a short period of competition between the three as a result. A reliable cave organism informs us that the Explorers (as they term themselves), unarmed, slipped on a patch of wet moss and were swiftly disarmed by the cave organisms present. The token bead were, of course, thrown - a perfectly fair exchange in the opinion of the informing cave organism. One of the Explorers apparently suffered unusual distress at the loss of its arms, so two (an equal pair) were thrown back to it. Be assured, however, that this small deviation from standard procedure will not, in any way, upset the excellent economic situation currently enjoyed by our fair Republic.
END REPORT # 772 //