Small Filters
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Small Filters


Blog was hungry. It wasn’t the first time.
Blog was usually hungry.
“I’m hungry” thought blog. Often.

Often when blog was hungry, as was and is usually the case. He would imagine with no small degree of precision, precisely what it was that he was hungry for. “Meat” was usually the answer. Sometimes fruit. But mostly meat.

Big meat. Small meat. Most meat was good meat. Blog was deeply appreciative of anyone who went out of their way to acquire any. He did, however, prefer to catch his own meat. “It’s more mentally, physically and spiritually rewarding” thought Blog. Approximately.

There was a sensation, he felt, that could only be experienced by those who had tracked, caught and brutally smashed their own food. Something the berry pickers next door would never understand.

Blog had lots of feelings about things. Feelings he wished to share. Feelings like “Ow” and “Oooh”. Something friends and family found at first alarming and then irritating.

It had started as little more than the product of wild fever brought on, Blog supposed, by some bad berries. With hunger and confusion settling in simultaneously, he had attempted, among other things, to eat some of the meatier looking rocks lying around the cave. This was met with mixed success.

One particularly bloody looking stone, no doubt resulting from a long career as a bludgeon, produced a flavour not entirely unlike meat. Blog was less than satisfied however and proceeded to smash the unfortunate mineral repeatedly against his second favourite wall.

What happened next, was nothing short of feasible. The smashing of one coloured thing against a different thing had left marks of the former things colour on the secondary thing. Blog was, in this moment, euphoric. Probably. In all likelihood enlightened by the sudden awareness of his own intelligence. Maybe.

The following week was a blur. Blog barely left his cave and although nosy neighbours and concerned cousins had continued to bring him a generous supply of berries, most of them wound up smashed, smushed and in various other states of disrepair. The last visitor to stop by was Blog’s estranged ex lover. Knowing all too well of his eccentricities, she had been called in from the next camp over to try and talk some sense into him.

A month went by. The two were inseparable. Some would say insufferable. But didn’t. Lacking a sufficiently complex vocabulary. They instead made lewd gestures.

Every day the two would leave camp together to hunt and gather. And every evening they would return. But rather than sharing and partaking in any communal burning and grunting, as was generally expected, they would drag their meat and berries back to Blogs place and proceed to make wild smashing and smushing noises for hours. One rather bashful young lad even claimed to have heard prolific squishing and scratching. Shushing ensued.

But this evening was different. Blog stood proudly at the entrance to his cave, gesturing with perfect clarity. All were welcome. Despite initial improprieties, curiosity eventually got the better of people and they made their way inside.

The significance of what they beheld that day echoes across history.

A visual guide to proper hunting technique passed down through the generations.

Detailed images of flora and fauna painted in charcoal and rich natural colours.

Wild Boar gets 5 handprints. The neighbour’s berries — one finger.



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The Belligerent Optimist

The Belligerent Optimist

Sociologist, Social Entrepreneur, Sci-Fi nerd.