this is a stolen story called ‘the jellybean beach’, as dictated to me by Jordan. Adams. Prosser.
once there was a beach but unlike most normal beaches, instead of sand it was only jellybeans as far as the eye could see. Green ones, blue ones, pink ones, but mostly black ones because they’re the ones that nobody likes (which I personally never understood because everyone seems to like liquorice just fine).
A man stood on the beach and watched the waves rolling up towards his ankles and when he looked down, he could not tell where his feet ended and where the beach began. For this man had often been teased, goaded, derided, since a very early age that his toes looked quite a lot like jellybeans. It is also worth noting that the man had travelled very far to see the famous jellybean beach, and consequently he was hungry. Now although there were signs at every entrance strictly forbidding the consumption of the naturally occurring jellybeans on the beach, the man required sustenance for he had not eaten in days and he felt like a shell of his former self, such was the arduousness and intensity of his pilgrimage.
Looking down now, dazed, famished, with the echoes of teenage bullies ricocheting throughout his brain and the pangs of insidious hunger echoing within his abdomen, the man bent over as far as he could and within the space of 30 seconds had lovingly consumed all of his own toes.
Black presses against the windows of the ferry, whose bowels grumble and tetch seven floors below. Four hundred people slump where they sit, faces pressed to the linoleum tabletops, parents touching heads with children, lovers limp and waxy together. I think of Jonestown, wonder how long it would take the staff to realise their cargo was all dead
And then the cliffs of Dover ooze out of the blue washed morning and the dead wake up, rub their eyes and sit quiet and solemn as the port rolls in.