Showcasing creative writing by university students around the world.

Published Sunday, October 6th, 2013

Words by

Kwa Kwaark ?!?

The blue-speckled tripod perches on the balcony. It pans left and right in flustered hunger, looking desperately for a meal to swallow, digest, and later regurgitate for its young, who sit at its feet. A crack appears in the door to the court-room, and a waft of fresh paedo-stank wafts to the nest of young polaroids, suckling at the tripod’s teat.


Enamoured with the smell of child molestation, the starving mother strikes.


It lurches forward, each of the three legs thudding in order on the concrete balcony. It takes a leap from the high altitude and crashes with chaotic precision. Too long have the young polaroids gone to bed hungry, dreaming of small children with adult genitalia rammed in their mouths. Too long have the small cameras had to sustain themselves on ragwater police-corruption cases – insufficient morsels of low-profile foodstuffs.


Other cameras hear the cry. The tripod is not alone in the hunt. Around the urban corner a thousand optical devices stampede into view, a clan of video-phones go neck to neck with camcorders, and a confused ultra-sound machine wobbles onto the scene mistaking the scent for a pre-birth baby. The digital and the video sniff at each other, sensing a threat but being far too hungry to concentrate on anything but the hunt. The court door is fully opened.


A shuffling prey is manhandled out, paparazzi-cams flock first as always; pinching strands of flesh within easy reach, but not dealing any sort of definitive blow. The paedo-monster-villain-prey continues forwards, stubby arms blocking the flash-bulb attacks from piercing its eyes. A black car  with tinted windows doses nearby, waiting for the paedo-monster-scumbag-arsehole-villain-menace  to join it so they can journey to fertile grounds.


Close to their prey, the cameras at last start to fight amongst each other. Handheld phone-cameras squawk and flutter and pester one of the large high-def-high-news cams, and the larger beast squashes as many of the smaller as it can but is soon overwhelmed. The rest of the news clan run on, leaving the fallen companion to endure the blows of the twittering-facebooking-blogosphering phone cameras. As it finally falls, the digital beast vomits a putrid yellow “BREAKING-NEWS” banner into the street and the smell attracts the lesser animals.


The mother tripod is still ahead of the pack, largely unaware of the frenzy behind it. The paparazzi have been working, and the tripod can smell paedo-blood. In it’s eagerness the tripod trips, and coughs bloody info-graphics onto the tarmac. “80% OF VICTIMS FEMALE”, reads one, “ATTACKS TOOK PLACE DURING SCHOOL HOURS”, reads another. The tripod regains footing. It bears down on the paedo, and takes one great snap with it’s lens before the wounded molester is shut inside the car.


The other cameras are too late. The digital news cameras press their nozzles against the darkened windows, flashing erratic bulbs trying to break the blackness. The camera-phones swarm and try to wrap their teeth around the flat panes, glass teeth gnashing ineffectually.


The young polaroids feed warmly on the silky rape stories, passing from the tripod’s gullet. With full stomachs, the small cameras grow. Two of the three mutate into thick-hided all-weather local news ocular equipment, and the third, the runt, grows a beak and follows a dream, and soon runs off to film polar bears for high budget documentaries with soothing narrators.


The unfed cameras are milling despondently on the ground, wistfully recalling successful hunts of the past where the implied anal penetration of young boys kept them full-bellied for weeks.


The screeching and yelping of another hunt tears into the square where the disappointed cameras lie, and the wide lenses turn in unison to the direction of the latest quarry. An old camera that still uses roll-film slowly winds itself ready for a new exposure.

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