blog photo 210 mooseWHAT IT IS

Being alert, is being alive. If days existed when tranquility was morning coffee, roaming was afternoon utopia and contemplation of the minute and inconsequential rounded out the evening, then those days were gone forever. Not all of the seven and a half billion declared an almighty intervention of farms, interstates, chainsaws and rifles, all culminating in the self serving science of wildlife management and a dominion granted by us, for us and about us. When the gate keepers, awkward and ridiculous as they can be, roam the convenient habitats of the places they do not belong, their belief in virtuous destruction and the superiority of human kind will imprint and eventually destroy these habitats, as we have numerous incidents hidden and occasionally revealed in our own historical records.

The wash is; it will be unkind, it will be unkind forever, it will be unkind as we look around at the drained swamps, the gnarly clear cuts, the speed-kill highways and broken communities of chopped up biodiversity unable to sustain what bureaucrats and managers promised. It doesn’t take seven and a half billion, it will never take seven and a half billion.

The moose watched as a small Saw whet owl was shot out of a pine tree by a young man. After tumbling to the ground, the young man casually moved it around with his boot before walking away. Not in season. Not out of danger. The moose trudged silently into thicker bush.


It is said, a moose hasn’t been seen in the beautiful state of Illinois in over twenty-five thousand years when stag-moose roamed the mid west terrain of North America. But a citizen’s report is expected to be investigated, so with that in mind, Jill Deakins was meticulously scouring the backroads of Illinois looking for such a beast.

Mrs. B poked her head from beneath the truck’s hood just in time to see the police cruiser go by. It was the second time that morning, same cruiser, same cop; she wondered if she was being followed.

Jared Deakins bartered his way into possessing a perfect carrying case for his small plant from a blind woman staying at the same hostel as he had a few weeks prior. In exchange for the case, the woman wanted Jared to tell her how he and Little Mr. Deakins met.

Several years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Deakins, along with their two children, Jill and Jared, were vacationing in San Francisco. An evening stroll through Fisherman’s Wharf turned ugly when a live chicken kill demonstration being conducted by some culinary students went afoul. A head chef, holding a sizable meat cleaver, was about to lop off the head of a rooster when a massive swarm of insects invaded the area, throwing everything into chaos. The startled chef dropped the cleaver, cutting off two fingers of one of the students, the fingers unfortunately fell into a vat of superheated virgin olive oil originally intended for the rooster. As the havoc continued, the rooster escaped, flopping and running around the restaurant until seeing what looked like an opening to the outside then crashing his way through a large window into the arms of a passerby, Jared Deakins.

Jared looked at the small plant and told him it needed water, so off they went toward a small stream just off the road. The barking dog in the distance sounded like Jackson, the huge swarm of insects overhead reminded him of San Francisco and the sound of metal careening off cement made him go and investigate.

Looking down the road a police cruiser was flipped on its side, further down an epic struggle between  robotic nano bugs and insects darkened the sky and beyond that the translucent man staggered across the road, helped along by Mrs. B.

Author: whatitiswhatitisnot

Member of Camerauthor, a cooperative that writes on the blog What It Is/What It is not. Our membership includes a fantasy writer, a general fiction writer (Ellie) and two amateur photographers. All photos on the blog belong to Camerauthor.

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