Acroama

Elders Reid and Walker sat in silence after having finished a long day of tracting. As they drove through a frigid Canadian snow storm, their sore legs sank deep into the warm seats of their Nissan Rogue.  “Pull over!”  Reid, a tall lanky boy in his early 20’s, pointed at a man in a red coat standing at the side of the road.  Walker, sitting in the driver’s seat, noticed the man and rolled his eyes. “Elder Reid. It’s past curfew.” Reid leaned forward, tapping quickly on his thigh as they neared the man in red. “I know, I know. But I feel good about this.”  Walker pulled the car over. “Well I don’t.”  REID ROLLED DOWN THE window, “What are you still doing out?”  Reid felt his stomach roll with worry. The name, Justus, hung from a lanyard dangling in front of the man’s red coat – a coat too thin for Canadian winters. Through a thick Nigerian accent, Justus shivered out a response, “I’m waiting to be picked up. I work for Red Cross – getting surveys.”  Justus pointed to the red cross tape

  The orange – well, the clementine – sits peacefully in my pocket unaware of its impending doom.  What a completely wild transformation. “Orange” to “Clementine.” It’s simply smaller and sweeter – easier to peel and cuter.  Perhaps that last note alone justifies changing the first letter of the word from “O” to “C”, but the rest seems obnoxious. Getting smaller earned the baby four more letters? Absurd.  Anyways – regardless of the name – it only has moments left to live.  Now on the table – so perfectly tossable. It will either meet its end decaying in my belly or dashed against some brick wall rotting in the dirt under a bush. Dying next to a lost dusty debit card. I’m inside and the whale-like sonic calls from my belly demands consumption.   I puncture the skin. My fingernails are short – but after years of breeding, the orange skin has lost all its strength and is only about as strong as the tootoo-like wrapping that cups a Reese’s. Perfectly peelable.  I commence my unique shedd