Monkey by Batool Hasan

It’s 6 A.M. on a Saturday morning, and I’m driving along Gulf Street. Sunrays dance lightly, basking the world in a soft layer of gold. Convertibles cruise on the street, and people walk along the playful waves.

I wonder how many people I can run over with my car.

I take a right and pull into the parking lot of the beach. Two boys in a red jeep whistle and wave. Their puny minds are a nauseating mesh of sad excuses and porn.

Hey, she’s kind of cute, the one in an orange vest thinks to himself.

Kind of? Oh you deserve to be run over.

I step out and pull my hoodie up. Walking toward the shoreline, I try to push the million racing thoughts of the humans around me to the ghostly outskirts of my mind. Their speeding memories twist likes vines around my ears, wrapping themselves around my skull. A young man in black slacks feeds the bird while checking out a jogger’s ass. Three children paint on the sidewalk using chalks: a purple monkey, yellow cat, and green seahorse.

The vines grow thorns digging into my skull.

Petty humans.

Never mind, I have a mission to complete.

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