I'm working on this horror story. I intend to possibly add more details to describe the surroundings in this first part, but I just wanted reactions on how it is going so far and any suggestions people might have.
A slick, sticky oiliness pervades my skin as I perspire profusely, making me all the more uncomfortable in this deep, dead tropical heat. I'm not acclimated to such high humidity in my native St. Louis, Missouri. I recline in the village circle, while one of the inhabitants, an elderly man barely dressed with cracks and wrinkles traversing his body, is relaying some folktale or other superstitious nonsense about one of the creatures around here. Madagascar houses some of the most unique prosimians on the planet, which was the impetus for me to take a vacation to this godforsaken hell on earth in the first place.
"Aye-aye is death omen. He visit in night and he point his long middle finger to you."
Barely stifling a laugh, I inquire back, "He gives you the finger of death you might call it?" Holding up my hand, I point my middle finger directly at the old dude.
"Yeaaa, he point finger to you--you assured quick to die."
"And this is the sole reason that the creatures are killed? Their numbers have been decimated to where they are nearly extinct. You do realize they are unique to this area and don't live anywhere else in the world?"
"He enter to our village in night and bring death to us. We protect ourselves. What other choice have we?" His dark brown eyes look staunchly back at me almost as if he's daring me to find fault with his logic.
Unflinchingly returning his gaze, I quip back, "Deforestation is why these creatures are coming into towns. You are taking away their places to live."
"My family, my village matter. Your country give help to us and we stop to chop trees," he expressively opens out his hands, indicating this is the end of the matter and there is nothing more he can say or do. This gesture reminds me of how we would shrug for the same type of response back home.
Getting up, he beckons me to follow him to my living quarters. Each of the shacks are tiny with yellow, thatched roofs, lending a picturesque quality to the dirty surroundings. I'll be thrilled to finally find some rest. The entire day has been trying, nothing like I'd pictured my trip would turn out to be. Somewhere in my mind, I'd envisioned majestic plants with colorful animals hanging from tree branches and people who stepped right out of the pages of National Geographic magazine. The onerous heat and lack of civilization (ergo, no Starbucks or even a Seven Eleven) hadn't been gathered into the equation. I'm not a seasoned traveler and I doubt I'll make the mistake of picking a non-touristy spot again. Future vacation plans shall all include a spa and a bar with ice cold drinks awaiting nearby.
A slick, sticky oiliness pervades my skin as I perspire profusely, making me all the more uncomfortable in this deep, dead tropical heat. I'm not acclimated to such high humidity in my native St. Louis, Missouri. I recline in the village circle, while one of the inhabitants, an elderly man barely dressed with cracks and wrinkles traversing his body, is relaying some folktale or other superstitious nonsense about one of the creatures around here. Madagascar houses some of the most unique prosimians on the planet, which was the impetus for me to take a vacation to this godforsaken hell on earth in the first place.
"Aye-aye is death omen. He visit in night and he point his long middle finger to you."
Barely stifling a laugh, I inquire back, "He gives you the finger of death you might call it?" Holding up my hand, I point my middle finger directly at the old dude.
"Yeaaa, he point finger to you--you assured quick to die."
"And this is the sole reason that the creatures are killed? Their numbers have been decimated to where they are nearly extinct. You do realize they are unique to this area and don't live anywhere else in the world?"
"He enter to our village in night and bring death to us. We protect ourselves. What other choice have we?" His dark brown eyes look staunchly back at me almost as if he's daring me to find fault with his logic.
Unflinchingly returning his gaze, I quip back, "Deforestation is why these creatures are coming into towns. You are taking away their places to live."
"My family, my village matter. Your country give help to us and we stop to chop trees," he expressively opens out his hands, indicating this is the end of the matter and there is nothing more he can say or do. This gesture reminds me of how we would shrug for the same type of response back home.
Getting up, he beckons me to follow him to my living quarters. Each of the shacks are tiny with yellow, thatched roofs, lending a picturesque quality to the dirty surroundings. I'll be thrilled to finally find some rest. The entire day has been trying, nothing like I'd pictured my trip would turn out to be. Somewhere in my mind, I'd envisioned majestic plants with colorful animals hanging from tree branches and people who stepped right out of the pages of National Geographic magazine. The onerous heat and lack of civilization (ergo, no Starbucks or even a Seven Eleven) hadn't been gathered into the equation. I'm not a seasoned traveler and I doubt I'll make the mistake of picking a non-touristy spot again. Future vacation plans shall all include a spa and a bar with ice cold drinks awaiting nearby.
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