The 17th FloorEdit

The hungry hippo entered through the crooked apartment door, into a dimly lit, run down hallway. She was there to greet him, teeth baring. With her carnivorous smile she beckoned him into the bedroom. Sensual. Soft. Young. She had him at her feet. And this time there was no anticipation. It was a day of stealth. Clean cut. Noiseless. Death.


That first breath. She hadn't even noticed she was holding it. He no longer squirmed, his gut no longer rippled from the movement of his chest each time he struggled for a breath. He was as good as dead anyway. Dead man knocking.

The head lay limp, facing the window of the room on the 17th floor. His engorged trunk like neck now concave, and a slight bit elongated. There was a tennis ball sized lump beside the ear. She studied him, no longer smiling. It was done. There was no more to do. She would take her time with the next one.

She laid down the linoleum cutout. Within a couple shoves his body crumpled down with a single dull, cushioned thud. With delicate hands she gripped the hacksaw, and severed off the head completely, cutting right under the jaw bone. The elongated neck was next, hacked above the collar bones. They were visible now, before she had questioned their existence underneath his porky chest. But now the bone white contrasted beautifully with his beet red blood. The arms. They were next and would be divided into 4. She grabbed the axe.

The bones cracked once. Twice. Three times. Four times. Five. His left wrist was stubborn. She had to chop at it twice. Or had she been distracted by the funny realization that the severed limbs resembled a hotdog, cut diagonally. With his dulling grey skin wrapping in a thick layer over the lard, stuffed with his innards. Good riddance. Her crisp, airy laugh echoed through the dimly lit, run down hallway.


With all the bits and pieces in bags somewhere within the city's dump she sat in the back of the bus, legs perched up on the seat in front of her. The city turned to dust. The noises faded. The clouds turned blue. The sky was white. Her eyes scrambled faces in the crowd. Like a herd people huffed and shoved to get on at the stop. No we are not animals.

She studied them, for they were put on this earth for her to study and dismember. To sculpt and resculpt. They had no souls, no real meaning. They walked on twos, some with bulging noses. Others had snouts. So many breeds. She was hungry for them all. By day her previously suppressed appetite grew bigger. The pit of her stomach full for but a moment before it hollows again. The need for food surrounds the atmosphere. The need to sustain. To survive. To live. But they never will.

And neither will she. Succumbing to the soil which gradually sucks all it creates back into itself. No, we are not animals. We were created. Born into a world too dazzling to describe. With its concrete walls, scattered and asymmetrical, mazed with cracks. Its soiled lands, barren and distraught. The blackened waters, some as thick as blood. God must have sold out his creation eons ago.

Think what you want Fin.