GMO

The world may be coming to an end, but at least some things still went on. The government had considered banning the festival but they could not. For one, the people would have swept out onto the streets, protesting. The government already had enough problems as it was. For another, it kept the people happy. Why ruin a perfectly good thing. Maybe they should have cancelled it. They did not have the heart. It was also a good decision to keep it going.

The Spanish sun beat down hard and fast. Ole ole. People wore bright clothes, all studiously avoiding one color, the only one they needed to avoid. Children wearing round hats, those of their favorite winners from years past. The cobblestone pavement was worn, and made varying sounds as different materials of shoes trampled onto it, as they did every year. Leather, rubber soled, reused plastic. Many different kinds.

Some made their way to the stand, to participate, others lined the streets as they had done for many years, to watch. The lucky ones were in their houses, windows open, waving handkerchiefs, a sign to the participants of luck and love.

The air rose with a shimmering heat, smelled of baking stone, and rising bread wafting from open windows, as people would eat as they celebrated and watched the festival. The streets were warm to the touch, shoed feet tingling with delight, just as the heads of those on the selfsame streets were baking furiously.

There was a small white stand, not too exquisite, not too plain. Volunteers were handing out capes to participants. They were all that one color. The one that would attract them. A judge stood nearby, and a doctor, to hastily examine the medical forms brought by participants. Everything else was in place.

The sun stood in the sky, watching. Lazily making its way down its routine arc through the heavens.

Everything was in place. A horn blew, the same way they had blown it for centuries. Creaking could be heard. Huffing, puffing, scraping of steel on stone. The monstrous beast rushed out, the participants started to run, it chased after one, and then the other. It shook its head, seemingly tired. It chased one, who had come too close, it faltered. Stumbling. It shook its head once more, as if shaking off flies. Yet there were none outside its head. It stopped. Men began coming closer. A few taunting it. The one closest looked into the dumb creatures eyes, and began scrambling away, running, trying to tear the red cape off his back. He dropped it, and fled. There was laughter from participants, from observers. It stopped, as another man who had glimpsed the animal’s eyes did the same. It huffed and turned around. Those closest to it, who could see for themselves, screamed. The tiny beady black eyes were intelligent with evil. More intelligent than any dumb animal had a right to be. More evil than snakes and things that slithered about as they stared eerily. Shivers ran up their spines, and they tried to run. A lot of red was shed that day. A lot of crimson painting the old cobblestone streets.

In hindsight, the government should have banned the festival. But how could they have known.