Great White Winged One [part 5]


Yes, moving through the sky at stunning velocity and grace is a Great White Shark, its huge wings beating the air swiftly. The complex motion of a wing is  difficult for even physics to describe as though flight itself strains against being fully understood.


The shark soars upwards towards the clouds, squalls of gulls dispersing squakingly towards the element that was formerly the great predator’s one. The gulls do not seem to understand or take kindly to the idea of synchronous movement as a group. Each of them is fixed on solving its own problems, catching its own fish.


The wings on the white pointer look like enlarged versions of those of eagles, curved for aerial combat and go well with the snowy underside of the great fish. It should be evident that this creature is both fish and fowl, the death-bite for an idiot saying that has swam from mouth to mouth for ages. The tail fin no longer serves as a main propellant but has been refunctionalized to operate as a gentle means of steering, alining the airflow around the lamniform body in the direction of the GWS’s will. It is a most formidable sight, even when recorded by the basest of cameras and most untrained of eyes. As is the case with the youthful marine biologist, who we know is called Herman Hooper.


The student, under meekly clapped-together pretexts, has taken three weeks of vacation from his research stay at the isolated marine biology station on the forlorn bay of a most forgotten coast. He still dreams of zooplankton holding great potential for humanity’s glittering future but now these single- and multi-cellular organisms present themselves, under the brilliant microscope of nighttime, as greatly changed, a veritable pelagic nightmare: ostracods with great, glistening fangs / Colonies of pyrosomes taking on sharky shapes, thus appearing as bioluminescent ghosts without shells / stupendous Dinoflagellates [normally, daytime, in the nano-range] with rows and rows of choppers who have some unspecified bloody beef with dolphins aka Delphinidae. Like, serious intermixture going on here between his talentically justified nocturnal visions of marine micro-, nano- and femto-fauna and the new fixation and object of research: a great winged white one.


Herman Hooper’s biggest fear is that the flying shark will soon enough range into densely populated areas, perhaps even cross the air space of a medium-sized city and then become the object of monumental massmedial hysteria and historically unprecedented scientific scrutiny. Of these two fucked-up options the latter is the preferred one but the really-acceptable-to-Hooper being neither at all. With a certain unmitigated horror the risen, bright researcher even manages to imagine the mushrooming of cults. And then, in a splendid vision beholds something he can never wish for: himself, straddling the Winged GWS, commanding it through the air while his X looks on from far below, ant among ants, intra-psychologically torn to bits and pieces by radioactively green envy. None of these scenarios manifests in reality.


Hooper follows the mutaphile creature in a light glider craft. There had been a time when he had wanted to be an Ornithologist, a mindset he finds impossible to imagine now. The GPS navigation system, mounted on one of the glider’s many, criss-crossing aluminum struts that lend the aerial vehicle both structure and flexibility, faithfully bleeps out the exact location of the shark. By sunshine, rain and under the brooding overcast skies that are typical of this part of the continent. The next major conurbation, where a sighting is a certainty, is 700 kilometers away. The airborne predator is covering a good century of clicks a day. Extrapolation of this kind does not take a Bourbaki, which, any way, was a group of rather than a single mathematician.  One week to think his way to how he can turn this miracle to his personal, professional advantage.


Indeed, there might have, for all he doesn’t know, already been sightings of his winged CC. But even if so, the probability that the sighter in question was able to make head or tail[fin] of the animal is close to zero, in the young scientist’s estimation. Without actual footage it was more likely that the sighter was intimidated or annoyed by or apprehensive of the social consequences of staking such an outrageous claim «I swear, by the grave of my unborn children, it was a shark, a great white shark with wings. Flying through the sky. I had a hard time believing it myself!» «Oh Patrick, you old fool, have another swig of rotgut, will you». Even footage was most likely to be dismissed as a viral hoax, the pointless illuding for the fuck’s sake of illuding that is so fashionable these days.

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[t.b.c…..]

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About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
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