Then there’s the snake. Rock Python. Four feet long. Tame and gentle—if warm, fed, and  left alone. Eats rats. One every three weeks. Must be live rat. Won’t touch frozen. Ethical  thing. 

Buy this rat. Big white one. Healthy, happy. Almost pretty. Oh well—into the cage he goes. Snake not hungry yet. Thinks about it. Meditates. Watches. 

An hour passes. Rat gets impatient. Launches. Lands on snake’s back like a bull rider, bites  him once behind the head—snake dies. Dead as hell. Just like that. 

So now I got this rat. White one. Alive and well. Eats rock pythons. Must be live pythons.  Won’t touch dead. 

Dog still eats cellophane, paper clips, dust balls—just not near the snake/rat cage. Won’t  go near that. Ever. 

Me? I stand in the kitchen, staring. Wondering if I call animal control, a priest… or National  Geographic. 

Got this rat. Eats snakes. Must be live snakes…

The post Got This Rat Problem. . . appeared first on The New Absurdist.

“It?” is all I can muster. 

The short man trembles with some strange, almost religious conviction. 

I feel as though I’ve forgotten something important. 

“You know very well what I’m talking about,” he growls, snapping me back into the moment. 

“I honestly have no clue,” I mutter, sitting down. I’ve been here one minute and I’m accused of a crime. 

The short man balls his fists, two small hams quivering with anger, and slams them on my desk with a sharp bang! 

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know you’re responsible. Thief! That is my property. That whiteboard defines my work, my legacy, and I will not be disrespected.” 

A whiteboard? There are dozens scattered throughout the office. What makes this particular whiteboard sacred? 

“I just got here. Is it possible you misplaced it?” 

“Misplaced a five-foot-tall whiteboard?” he snarls, eyes wild. “That board contains the sum total of my thinking, my diagrams, my very soul!” 

I glance around my cubicle, my desk, computer, and walls. No whiteboard. It must be exceptionally important for him to lash out like this. 

“All the information I need is on that whiteboard. It’s irreplaceable,” he says. 

“You didn’t keep copies on your computer?” I ask.

“So anyone could access my ideas on the shared drive? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No. I won’t make it easy for you to steal everything I cherish.” 

He buries his face in his hands and exhales sharply. 

My stomach drops. Did I move a whiteboard? Maybe I touched it? Maybe I rolled it away without even realizing? I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember? 

“Pay attention! Where is your shame? You will show me respect!” he snaps. 

I look at him, puzzled. Maybe he’s confusing me with someone else. Or maybe I’ve been demoted to the office scapegoat. 

“Give it back, or I’ll escalate this to the supervisor.” 

“Go ahead! But unless I’ve been rolling whiteboards around in my sleep, I’m not your guy.” 

The short man’s face crumples like a wrinkled mask. Sweat beads on his forehead, dripping down as if he’s standing under a spotlight. 

“Disrespectful thief!” he bellows, spittle spraying. His finger shakes, a trembling spear of accusation. 

“You’ve robbed me, and you sit there, like a fool. That board is everything, it’s my life’s work, my proof of existence. Where I’m from, rules are sacred. Break one, and the universe splits at the seams, vomiting a hell so fierce even devils scramble for shelter.” 

Turning quickly, he storms out toward the supervisor’s office. 

I stand and peer over my cubicle wall. One by one, heads poke out like meerkats on the savanna, watching for predators. 

The short man gestures wildly in the supervisor’s office. The supervisor leans forward, locking eyes with me. His sharp stare pierces my chest. I shiver. I don’t think he likes me.

The door creaks open. 

“We will get to the bottom of this,” the supervisor says gravely. 

His eyes fix on mine and they say: Here. Now. 

As I walk toward the office, the short man stomps past me, possessed by all the devils in hell. I catch a glimpse of my face in the window of the supervisor’s office and see the face of an unkempt stranger staring back. The meerkats watch silently, eyes wide, as I enter the lion’s den. 

“Please sit,” the supervisor says. His tone is flat but firm. 

I sit. His desk towers over me, littered with coffee mugs. The one facing me says: But first, coffee. 

The walls are lined with diplomas and a single photograph, a tree on a hill, barren and dead. As if a skeletal hand is reaching from the grave. A family photo sits on his desk: his wife in an orange sundress, her smile strained. His two daughters wear identical expressions, solemn and heavy, as if they understand the weight of existence. 

“Do you know why I’ve called you here?” he asks dryly. 

“It seems a whiteboard has been misplaced,” I reply in the same tone. The nagging feeling I’d forgotten something swells into a full wave of fear. 

“Misplaced? How does one misplace a whiteboard? Can you misplace a desk? A chair? How about the office itself?” 

“Of course you can,” I say. 

“Nothing happens in this office without my approval. I control the very air you breathe. Are you suggesting I authorized the removal of company property?” 

I stare. Is he serious? 

“Everything in this office is as it should be. I work day and night to maintain order in a world of chaos. Every person in my machine is meant to do one thing: produce. Until today, we held a perfect balance. Now the balance is disturbed. Disturbed balance is like a disease, leave it untreated, and the organism dies.” 

In this moment, I realize. I forgot to brush my hair this morning. What an oversight. If I can’t manage that, what else have I done without realizing? 

“All I ask is that you prove you didn’t steal the whiteboard. Simple, right? If you can prove your innocence, the matter is closed. If not, we are talking about disciplinary action. Perhaps termination.” 

I nod reluctantly. 

“Everything from this point on will determine how we proceed. Do you understand?” 

I nod again. 

“Do you know what happened to the whiteboard?” 

I shake my head. 

“Have you ever touched office equipment that didn’t belong to your section?” 

I hesitate. Of course I have. I nod. 

“So you admit it,” he snaps. 

“Admit what?” I ask, confused. 

“You admit to tampering with company property in direct violation of policy.” 

“I admit I’ve touched office equipment,” I protest. The phone rings. 

“Return to your desk,” he says, turning away. 

What just happened?

I stand, dazed, both fists clenched as I walk back to my desk. 

“Oh, and take some pride in your appearance. Coming to work disheveled reflects poorly on the company.” 

As I sink into my chair, the office is silent. Everyone stands, watching. The meerkats are on guard. The lions have caught the scent of prey. 

I stare at the blank glow of my computer screen. 

The weight of sins I never committed crushes my chest. I wish I was the culprit. At least then I could control my fate. I’d strangle this farce in its crib. 

Instead, I sit here. Innocent and guilty all at once. Schrödinger’s employee. 

A tall man appears at the edge of my cubicle. Menacing and brutal. His hands look as though they could crush the life out of me. 

“Come with me,” he says sternly. 

“Where are we going?” I manage as I grab my bag. 

“This way.” He walks with purpose, but slowly. 

We move to the back of the office. The lights are dimmer here. A dying bulb flickers; it’s near death. 

A row of doors greets us in the growing darkness. 

“Here,” the tall man gestures to an open room. “Continue your work. Someone will be along shortly to collect you.” 

The room is barren. Four walls. No window. The desk is empty except for a single chair. 

The door slams shut. 

I sit. The chair groans under me. As I lean back, its spine gives way, and I nearly topple over.

How can I work without a computer? They want me to stew in guilt. A guilt I shouldn’t feel, but it’s flooding me all the same. Did I do this? No. Of course not. I would remember. Wouldn’t I? 

I should shout at the top of my lungs, “I am innocent! I’ve done nothing!” 

Instead, I sit in silence, judged and exiled. 

Time dissolves. Minutes, hours? I can’t tell. Humans spent centuries mastering time, measuring it to feel in control. Yet here, time is meaningless. 

Soon they’ll come to walk me out like a criminal on his final march to the gas chamber. 

Will the meerkats avert their eyes when I pass? Or will they jeer and chant in unison: 

“You’ve earned this! No mercy for the wicked! Finally, his reign of terror is over!” 

The chair screeches. The walls close in. 

How much longer will I wait? 

I should storm out. Seize my fate. Preach hellfire like a Baptist minister: Sinners! Every one of you is a sinner, and only through fire can you be forgiven! 

But I don’t move. 

I lean back in the broken chair, staring at the ceiling lights. I close my eyes, letting the glow filter through my lids. I imagine golden light washing over me, purifying me. 

Grace. 

“Sleeping on the job?” 

The tall man’s voice cuts through my baptism. He stares down at me with cold contempt. Those hands balled into fists.

“He’s ready for you,” he says. 

Here we go. 

I stand and follow him. Thoughts of thick crowds, gallows, and a swinging noose swirl in my mind. 

But the office is silent. No faces. No jeers. Of course, it’s not a public execution. It’s a purge. Silent. Efficient. 

The supervisor stands with arms crossed, fire burning in his eyes. The meerkats are gone, burrowed deep underground. 

“Sit,” he commands. 

I sit, my stomach in my throat. 

“Sir, I would like to say…” 

“No.” He raises a hand. “No need to apologize to me. It is the people you should be apologizing to. The group is more important than the individual.” 

I shift unsteadily in my chair. 

“You’ll give a formal apology to the entire office,” he continues. “Additionally, you will be docked a day’s pay. You’ve been here all day and failed to even log in. You have cost this company enough with your disruptions. Any more inappropriate conduct from you, and I will replace you. Understand?” 

My face burns. Rage coils tight beneath my skin. I nod once, stiffly. 

“Good.” 

He smacks his hands together sharply. CLAP. “You’re ready, I hope.” 

We exit the office into a sea of faces. 

“Attention, everyone!” the supervisor shouts. “We don’t allow unprofessional conduct here. When a cog is out of sync, the whole machine breaks down. Now it is time to set the cog on this machine back into place.” 

He turns to me. 

“Well?” 

Blood drains from my face. Every eye pierces me like a blade. 

I should shout my innocence. Condemn the system that crushes us all. But the words won’t come. Why can’t I think of anything? 

“I apologize,” I whisper. 

The supervisor cuts me off. 

“There. The affair is over. No more interruptions, back to work.” 

He faces me. 

“No more screw-ups. And please, catch up on your hours before you leave.” 

I walk towards my cubicle and pause a moment when a familiar figure catches my eye. The short man sits at his desk, typing away, oblivious to me. 

I glance at the printer as it hums to life. A single sheet slides out: a comic strip. 

With a smug satisfaction he reaches over and clips it to a whiteboard. 

I hadn’t noticed it at first. The whiteboard stands there, whole and unremarkable, a monolith to this short man’s whole belief system. 

Multiple comic strips are clipped across its surface. I stare at the back of his head. 

“I see it’s been returned,” I say quietly.

“What? What are you talking about?” he replies, not turning around. 

“The whiteboard. It’s back.” 

He pauses. 

“Hmm… So it is,” he mutters, still turned away. 

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. He’s already forgotten me.

The post The Idol appeared first on The New Absurdist.

They liked flying, actually. Cramped over the meditative throat-singing of the 747’s turbines, they indulged in the vapid shadows of deep space, blue aisle lights framing the edges of their ice solid feet, unfeeling ass, brittle shoulders, fuzzy throat. A pleasing sight the flight tracker was. They caressed the pixelated plane with their eyes, following its bright tail over the lapis of this rendition of Earth. You couldn’t tell by looking, but, by watching, they observed the tail stretch longer and longer. Their limbs stale and content. No need for binoculars for this type of birdwatching. What a thrill! 

A sudden white light flashed to their right. According to the plastic cage holding this most-watched bird, the time of origin was 05:32. Sour morning breath. Thoughts with all their carbonation lost. And yet, the white of a freshly opened laptop screen polluted the view. They blinked. Would asking their seatmate to shut their laptop be worth cracking away the crisp posture they’ve set themselves in? At least glassy eyeballs slid around easily; their seatmate clicked around a scant paragraph displayed on the screen as if scratching around would reveal the vocabulary they were looking for. 

“It’s a eulogy.” 

They pondered if their pudding was setting by gelatin. Agar agar is a common vegetarian option, although it produces a sharper jelly texture. They preferred konjac-based puddings, wondering if mallard ducks or, maybe, tufted titmice liked… 

“…huh?” 

“It’s a eulogy.” The window-seater rubbed the cord of their hoodie. They removed their other hand from their chin, resting it back onto the keyboard. “The hell am I supposed to even say,” they mumbled. Their chin rested back into their palm. “I barely even knew them.” 

The hours of building up crust in their joints tumbled away as they turned towards this eulogy-less seat partner and observed their document with a closer eye. 

“You’ve been staring. Looked like you wanted to know.” 

Look again. Maybe this person hasn’t ever had a whole steamed fish before. Just quinoa salads and diet soda, sans eyeballs. “I don’t know how helpful I’d be though.” 

“Hm.” They clicked around the document. “I would appreciate an outside opinion.” 

“I’m afraid I’m no expert on funerals. I’ve never died before.” 

“Huh. Me neither.” They looked up from their bright rectangle. “It looks like we have some common ground.” 

Why did they taste a bit of earnestness from them both? 

“When’s the uh, the funeral?” 

Their seatmate finished blinking away the afterimage. “It’s tomorrow. Or, actually, I guess tomorrow is today. It’s today.” 

Pudding doesn’t set completely when disturbed. A total bummer. No one likes a runny, unexciting custard soup. Not even a rock pigeon. “I’m sorry, you said you’re not close with them?” 

“Mmm.” 

“So why are you the one writing it?” 

“Parents passed. No siblings. No spouse. Didn’t really speak with anyone at work. Just me, but it’s not like they could’ve given their reports to no one.” 

They decided to also rest their chin onto their palm. Perhaps sitting the same way would spark some ideas about this stranger’s lonely life. 

“I don’t know if I can even say nice things about their work. They were always late-always needed extensions. Their slides were garbage. But they were the only one who knew how to refill our printer toner. They worked at that printer company before it went down, and none of the original documents were saved. Big boss never got us a new one. Or a new printer.” Their seatmate turned their neck and gazed out into the darkness punctured occasionally by a red light on the tip of the wing, this portal shallower than the abysmal document on their screen. 

“I’m pressured to feel a bit of grief, but I can only lie about them so much before my conscience corrects. They’ll always be my employee. A child to a couple. A refiller of printer toner. But…” They watched the wing’s lights flutter. 

“…it’s all relative to something else. Always dependent on another. I’m trying to speak about them as an individual, but I’m finding that no form of their person exists without the presence of another. Just a possession by syntactical possessiveness. No matter how I describe them, it must be tied to a person, a setting, a role. Even in the act of falsely describing them as a hard-worker, it implies that they are more hard-working than the persons around them. Such a simple adjective like ‘polite’ requires that a set of the impolite to exist. They cannot be independent despite living such a separated life because their mere existence requires relative existing entities to be judged against. I cannot even describe them as dead without acknowledging the living, or the definition holds no meaning. 

“We can only live to exist relative to the other. We can only exist, in life or death, in relation to that which exists pre- and post-self. For something to exist at all, it must exist within the bounds of another’s existence. We live to be something to another, and them to us. To exist, even, defines the binary of not existing. We live a life deprived of a mutual exclusivity in our autonomy. Is life just about how you live in comparison to others?” 

They couldn’t express their gratitude without disturbing the newly setting pudding forming at their brow bone. This one felt particularly promising, like the red and green cubes neighboring cantaloupe and honeydew at the buffet. Before shifting from their palm back into their seat, they waited for the bright tail to stretch another pixel or two. 

And waited. 

Even after blinking another coat of sticky sweet glaze over their eyes, the tail remained the same length. 

“I can even make an example out of us now. We are occupying these seats strictly because the other ones are empty.” 

“What?” 

“We can’t describe ourselves as seat-occupiers without acknowledging that the others are vacant.” Their seatmate, unmoving, continued to suffocate themselves in the black sky. 

“What do you mean they’re-” Their words caught at the sight of the untouched seatbelts and smooth, pleather seats to their right. Their seatbelt dug into their thighs when they whipped up. Not a single head populated the layers of seats in front of them. Not a single face greeted theirs at full turn of their neck. “What?” Touching their temple left a sticky residue on their fingertips. Red and green syrup dripped down their jaw and trailed onto their neck. 

They fumbled their seat belt open and stumbled forwards up the aisle. “I’m sorry, but, what?” Their tailbone, legs, heels, and toes buzzed angrily with static. No attendants in sight either. Row after row of screens greeted no one with “Welcome. Bienvenidos. Bienvenue. 迎。 

Not one body in first class either. Syrup dribbled onto their collar bone. They tried the cockpit door handle, frightened by how it swung open with ease. 

Empty. 

“Living just to be dependent. Living just to have others depend on you.” Their voice rang clear through the darkness the plane pierced through. 

They turned back around and streaked past the first-class curtain. They were sitting exactly as they had been, face engulfed in the ink beyond. 

Their voice seeped from the syrup, and their skin greedily sponged it up. “You can only describe me as alive because I can describe you as dead. Isn’t that right?” 

Their skin crystallized at the riverbanks and tides of the syrup that crashed over their body. Each sandy wrinkle eroded to dust, filling the plane as it shifted around folded tray tables and overhead bins. Powder hugged glazed walls. 

“In loving memory of one of my best employees, it would be a grave understatement to say I wouldn’t be here today without them.” 

The post Eulogy Pudding, Fresh-Glazed appeared first on The New Absurdist.

We all know why we’re here: our country is being stolen. They’re here to take our food, they’re  here to take our jobs, and they’re here to take our homes. They think they’re entitled to our  healthcare. They think they’re entitled to our wealth. They think they’re entitled to our possessions.  We know what’s going on: they think they can be the new us. 

For too long, we have suffered this injustice. I say, no more! No more to their lack of morals! No  more to their terrible English! No more to their sucking on our women’s breasts! It’s time to act.  Babies will not replace us! 

Look around! Babies are everywhere: in our pre-schools, in our playgrounds, even in our maternity  wards! And they’re disgusting. They don’t even look like people. Their heads are gigantic, their  hair doesn’t grow right, and — and — Excuse me. It’s just so unnatural — no real human is that  short. We should not have to share our air with these aberrations.  

And have you ever talked to one of these monstrosities? It’s impossible. Many of them just make  noises. Not a word of English! And the rest are even worse. They need you to read to them. Can’t  do it themselves! No education! And they don’t even listen if you try. They refuse to understand.  You read about green eggs and ham and they talk about “gween eggs anam.” You read about three  little pigs and they go on about “free yidduw bigs.” And don’t get me started on Peter Piper picking  peppers! If they won’t hear us, why should we tolerate their presence? They have to go! 

Now, I know some say we should love babies. “Babies are God’s creatures,” they say. But I’ve  read the Bible. Look at Genesis! It’s right there. God created one man and one woman. Where are  the babies? Nowhere. It’s Adam and Eve, not Mommy and me. “We were all babies once,” they  say. But we’re not anymore. We left that behind. We’re better than them. “We need babies to keep  the population up,” they say. But what about the immigrants? Our beautiful immigrants need space  to live. Their accents are so musical and their cultures are so vibrant. We don’t need babies and  they don’t deserve our compassion! 

So what can we do? Well, first, deportations. The babies have to go. All of them. Back to where  they came from. Back to women’s bellies. It will take determination, but if we do enough chopping,  and grinding, and maybe seasoning, our women, our capable, capable women, can eat all the babies  within a year. Then they’ll be gone. And then? Then we make sure no more of those minuscule  abominations enter our great country ever again: We need new laws to defend ourselves. Our  schools must teach the dangers of heterosexual sex. Free contraception must be available to the entire population. And abortions — abortions, our God-sent panacea! — abortions must be  mandatory. Everywhere. For everyone. The character of our country is at stake.  

We can’t wait any longer to save ourselves from being replaced. We must act. And we must act  now! Vote for me and I promise to do everything in my power to save our way of life. Down with  the babies and up with the flag! Make our country grown again! Now is our time! 

Thank you. God bless you and God bless our great nation. 

The post The Growth of a Nation appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Before Vlad had time enough to imagine his own mirthful tableau, the receptionist  beckoned him to enter the office.  

“Ah, Prince Țepeș!” Mr. Apate smiled, shaking his hand. “It is so good to meet you,” 

“Good day Mr. Apate.”  

“Please, call me Dolus. All my friends do.”  

“Then you must call me Vlad,” the prince replied.  

Dolus motioned Vlad to sit on a leather chair in front of a mahogany desk, as he seated himself on the other side.  

“So Prince Țepeș…I mean Vlad, how can I be of service?”  

“I want to change my image. When people think of me they see a bloodthirsty monster.  It’s not helpful for my day-to-day transactions.”  

Dolus grinned.  

“You’ve come to the right place. Here at Mirage Media we specialize in…how shall I put  it? Image softening.”  

“I don’t want to seem soft,” Vlad explained. 

“Of course not!” Dolus replied. “You will still be you. Powerful in every way. Just kinder, gentler.”  

“But I fear it’s too late.”  

“Nonsense! At Mirage Media time is a malleable concept. Tell me Vlad, who has been tarnishing your reputation?”  

“Don’t you first need to know what’s being said?” Vlad asked.  

Dolus chuckled.  

“Not at all. To dismiss an accusation, you must first discredit the accuser.” 

“Sensible,” Vlad nodded in agreement. “There is a man. An Irishman by the name of  Stoker who writes monstrous things about me.”  

Dolus took notes.  

“Tell me everything you know about this Stoker.”  

“I don’t know much. We’ve never met.”  

“No?” Dolus asked. “Then how does he write about you?”  

“He reads reports about me and speaks with my Translyanian compatriots, peasants really.”  

“So his accusations are based on rumors,” Dolus noted. “Does he claim any facts?” 

“How could he? He’s never even visited my country.”  

“Fake news!” Dolus exclaimed. “It will be an easy thing to dismiss this gossip monger.” 

“But what of the reports? Can you dismiss these as well?”  

“Ah, yes,” Dolus cleared his throat. “Here we will require some details. Tell me what are the accusations against you.” 

“Well first, there’s my nickname,” Vlad suggested bashfully. “You know — Țepeș —  meaning the Impaler.”  

With his right hand, Vlad mimed holding a stick and thrusting it upward. 

Continuing to explain, he added, “I know it sounds bad but it wasn’t just me, everyone was impaling. Honestly, we were at war with the Ottomans and they did it too.” 

Dolus waved his hand in the kind of motion you might use to stop a small child’s whining.  

“Vlad there is no need for justifications. Mirage Media is a judgment free zone. Tell me about these Ottomans.”  

“Yes, they were bad ones. They came from Turkey. They attacked us!”  

Dolus’s face lit up.  

“These Ottomans, are they by chance Muslim?”  

“Yes.”  

“Terrific! That’s the angle we’ll play. You were merely defending against Al Qaeda agents. Going tit for tat or…as the case may be, spike for spike with these terrorists to defend your homeland. You’re a hero, not a monster!”  

Vlad smiled.  

“So Vlad is that all the dirt or is there anything else?” Dolus asked.  

“Well…” Vlad cast his eyes downward.  

“Tell me Vlad. We can’t have any secrets.” 

“There were some bad people in my country, a nasty lot. I found out they betrayed me, so I got a little angry. I wanted to teach them a lesson. Not slaughter them mind you, but just make sure they’d be too afraid to ever defy me again.”  

Dolus impatiently tapped his fingers on his desk.  

“And?” he coaxed.  

“Well, I kind of roasted their children and fed them to these people for supper.” 

Dolus made no sound. He propped his elbows on the desk, closed his eyes and placed both hands under his chin.  

“I didn’t kill all the children, just a few,” Vlad clarified.  

For one minute and twelve seconds Dolus remained in complete motionless silence. Then he opened his eyes.  

“How were there reports of this? Did you make any announcement?”  

“Not at all. I suppose the story was spread by servants. They really are a chatty group, my servants.”  

“So these reports were based only on what they saw?”  

“I suppose so,” Vlad replied.  

“And what they saw were a bunch of roasted babies?”  

“Not a bunch, just a few.”  

“Wonderful!” Dolus proclaimed. “They only have the proof that their eyes have shown them and that is no proof at all.”  

“But the babies looked like babies. It was cute. My cooks placed little apples in their mouths—” 

“Listen,” Dolus interrupted. “Have you tasted those “Inconceivable Burgers”? They’re amazing! No one could distinguish them from real beef. They look and taste just like a  hamburger. Now they’re making the Inconceivable Chicken. It’ll be exactly like the roast bird itself.”  

“What does this have to do with me?” Vlad asked.  

“We’ll just run a story that you were testing out a new vegan product. It’s 100% soy based and flavored to taste like human flesh for vegetarians who want to indulge in the cannibal experience.”  

Vlad felt giddy.  

“These ideas are fabulous…but…”  

Vlad’s expression began to sour.  

“As I tried to explain earlier, it’s too late.”  

“It’s never too late.” Dolus declared. “Mirage Media has worked throughout the ages,  supporting nobles, presidents, and celebrities of all sorts. We provide our clients with insurance  that the masses will have the correct interpretation of history.”  

“But I’m dead!” Vlad exclaimed. “I don’t exist. There is no substance to me, I’m merely an apparition.”  

Dolus Apate smiled.  

“That’s not a problem. All of our clients could say the same.” 

The post A Kinder, Gentler Impaler appeared first on The New Absurdist.

His prisoner’s fire dissipated and that slight smile, sly, and maybe a little flirtatious, returned to his countenance. “Five days of walking and you’re running low on my rations,” he said. “Can’t blame a rascal for trying to cut and run.” 

“If the fugitive makes two or more attempts to escape custody during transit, Marshals are within their rights to use lethal force to subdue them, provided their remains are turned over to the Washington Burst Survivor Community Council,” Albert said.

“Who will lethally subdue me anyway,” the prisoner said, chuckling. 

Albert didn’t argue with this criminal. He reached up with his wrinkled hand and pulled on the nylon shade of his tent. It furled to the plastic rod holding it up, and revealed the gray waste of northern Ohio, painted by scattered light throwing sour pinks and deadly reds over a once-green-and-lush countryside, reduced to ash and death by a random and unpredictable cosmic event. Nothing in the sky but the bleak sun, and all that remained of the wavy midwestern meadows, bountiful corn fields, and flocculent forests were bare, stripped trees and bushes stuck in the white ground like burnt candles in a birthday cake. 

He hadn’t been this far from DC in thirty years, but he still had memories of driving I-90 with his wife and daughter, stopping at a rest stop, where his wife would delay them further by sitting on a bench and staring at the corn fields and blue skies, and singing hymns low and sweet so his heart rate would fall and the hairs on his arms would stand up. This place had changed so much. 

The whole country had changed so much. Many people died during the Burst, many right after in the ensuing breakdown. Within a couple months the cancers began to kill the bulk of the world’s population, then the starvation and suicides took their toll. Now there was no United States, nor any other country. There was nothing passing for civilization, Albert thought, except for the Washington Burst Survivor Community. They had codified laws, elected representatives, those who administered those representatives’ authority, like him, and they had order. People could get food and shelter, most of the time, without resorting to murder or cannibalism. A man could sit in his dwelling and eat dinner with his wife and daughter, without fear.

Albert had changed very much as well. Thirty years ago he was a bookkeeper, aspiring to no higher ideal than to be home for dinner with his wife and daughter. What aspirations did he need before the Burst? Justice was not a myth. They were good times because an enlightened justice was served by strong men. Now Albert had to be one of those strong men. He had to be the Council’s justice, and the Council’s justice had to extend to Chicago, where his current prisoner had murdered a Council diplomat. The farther justice traveled, the more people would believe in it. 

At nearly sixty, such a trek had made him weaker than he’d hoped. And his prisoner was correct that rations were running low. This potential failure disenchanted Albert. He’d been doing this job for years, but since the world had fallen so low, it would perhaps take men much stronger than him to elevate it back to the necessary heights. 

Albert reached into his canvas backpack and pulled out two small measuring cups, one marked “M” for Marshal and one marked “F” for fugitive. Then he pulled out a dirty glass cylinder, one quarter full of dead American cockroaches. He dumped all that remained in the cylinder into the cups. 

“Eat now,” Albert said, and placed the “F” cup in front of his prisoner. 

The prisoner stared at him. His prisoner seemed remarkably shrewd for someone who, by all witness reports, spent nearly all of his time alone. “Why?” the prisoner asked. “Fugitive rations must be administered at a minimum frequency of every forty-eight hours.” 

“But these are our last. We should take greater care.”

“It is not the practice of the Marshal service of the Washington Burst Survivor Community to ration food for fugitives to this extent, and we apologize,” Albert replied. “Your council should apologize to you as well, Albert,” the prisoner remarked. “You look worse than I.” He sipped on his roaches and chewed slowly. “In fact, unless you are completely captivated by the prospect of giving your own life for the chance to take mine, I would say your best chance at survival would be to release me from this strange contraption.” He grabbed and shook the pole lightly. 

Albert ignored his prisoner and didn’t bother to inform him that that contraption developed by the Burst Community’s engineers only detached using a special key held by an officer in DC. It could be forced open, but any human capable of producing two thousand pounds of force who didn’t die in the Burst was surely too poorly nourished to do so now. 

“Unsanctioned detours may be taken to remedy such shortages. In this case, to Cleveland, to seek arthropod colonies along Lake Erie.” 

“Ah, Cleveland. The so-called Pasture of the Bright Horses,” the prisoner replied solemnly, but mockingly so. 

“The Bright Pasture,” Albert corrected, absentmindedly. 

“Oh, well forgive me, Albert. The Bright Pasture of the Bright Horses. The only horses to survive the gamma ray burst, by coming out of that cataclysmic event feeding on their own radiation, their manes full of fire, their spirits more wild and fiercer than any animal still alive, maybe even than any that ever existed. Even more impressive are their Riders, men strong of body and of will, capable of taming such fiery beasts. Men who don’t need to eat, but when they do, they subsist on the irradiated flesh of their own horses. Men who will save us, waiting for our resonant call for a return to order from the darkness.” 

“We need food,” Albert said. “There’s food at Lake Erie, everyone says so. Shut up.” Albert upended his cup and ingested his entire portion at once. He gagged severely as the flaky exoskeletons and slimy innards of these vermin hit the back of his throat. 

The prisoner guffawed. “You elders, living whole lives before the Burst. You still have your old weakness,” he said. “I don’t judge. I have my own. A weakness for vengeance. Look where that landed me. You’re lucky we’re still miles from the Bright Pasture. You don’t want your saviors to see you go green eating roaches. You might face culling.” 

Albert jabbed the prisoner with the pole. 

After they’d finished eating, Albert wasted no time taking down his tent, folding the nylon sheets into precise two-by-two squares, and collapsing the plastic rods into each other so they fit in one twelve-inch tube. He then slid the sheets and the tube into the proper outer compartments on his backpack. 

He had raised an objection with the Council’s subcommittee on the Marshal Service before over the fact that these materials were to be stored on the outside of the Marshals’ backpacks during transit. In a world where the ozone layer was decimated and would not replenish itself within a dozen lifetimes, shelter from UV radiation was worth more than anything that could be stored inside Alfred’s backpack. A gust of wind, a rambunctious prisoner, or a trip and fall could knock the sheets or tube out of their compartments and into a patch of irradiated sand or just a rock or stick that could tear them. Then, if Albert could find shelter, such as in a major urban ruin, the location and quality would not be of his choosing, and therefore not ideal for security or proper rest. The subcommittee said they take the input of Marshals very seriously, and would take this into consideration. That was nearly two years ago. 

Albert pushed the yellow button on the hilt of the pole, and it extended out to 15 feet in length, hurrying the prisoner along. They walked the road to Cleveland in silence for over an hour. Silence was best, especially so near to a major urban center where the BC didn’t have jurisdiction, and in fact no one had jurisdiction, so there was no one to reason with. 

The ruins of Walmarts, Targets, gas stations, urgent care clinics, and fast food joints were more frequent now. They needed to get closer to the water to make any stop worth it. Albert’s weary mind took these landmarks as signs of success, and his left eye drooped and his right leg buckled. 

The prisoner jerked to a halt and looked back, by which time Albert was already back upright and in motion. They walked on. “Don’t you dare go into darkness on me, Albert,” the prisoner said. He was a highly expressive man, and since his hands were bound and covered, he used his neck and his head to gesticulate. “You are as much my albatross as I am yours.” After saying this, he gesticulated with his behind, shaking the pole that connected them. 

Albert kept his head on a swivel, always watching the tree line, and the exits of any structures. He swiveled it past his prisoner and saw the man sulk. 

“Your community, your life, is shrouded in rules and regimentations,” he said. “You leave no room for humanity and emotion. How can such a person be so foolish as to believe in the Bright Horses?”

“I never said I believed,” Albert replied. 

“Do you?” 

“I’ve met a lot of people who’ve seen them,” Albert said. 

“Have you!” exclaimed the prisoner, again mockingly. “Good thing you didn’t actually see them yourself. You’d have abandoned your post and become their court jester.” “You don’t know shit,” Albert wheezed with a jab. “You were born after the burst, weened on these fucking bugs. We used to eat meat, fresh vegetables. When we were strong we were really something. Why wouldn’t the Burst change the horses? Why wouldn’t these Riders exist?” Albert let out a groan under the weight of his backpack and his words. “It made sense to believe. It made sense to have hope. In my book it still does.” 

“To hope that there are mystical, powerful men, strong enough to take the reins, as it were. Strong enough to build a better world, to give you back what your pathetic bureaucracy cannot.” “You’re just a fucking kid,” Albert said. “Nothing matters to you. No code, no sense of justice. You kill and spew poison worse than the sun.” Albert saw the prisoner tense his neck and seethe. “The world doesn’t matter to you because you have no home, no community, no family. You need the Riders of the Bright Horses to be a myth. Otherwise you’d be too scared of your own fucking weakness.” 

“I had a family!” The prisoner’s voice boomed over the desolate landscape. He turned abruptly and stared daggers at Albert, his eyes as powerful as the moonlight. Albert hovered his finger over the red button. “Go on,” the prisoner continued. “Get your shocks in. Show me hope, show me belief. Show me your justice!” He kicked at the dirt like a horse. Albert didn’t move. Not his feet, his thumb, or his eyes. 

“I had my lover. I had the woman I would lie next to under the shadows of great rocks. The woman who would shelter me when I was weak, who loved me enough to accept food when she was weak. Your men came to Chicago to talk this shit about law and order. One of them was lonely. She rebuffed him. So he broke her neck. So I killed him. Would you not do the same? What was this monster to you? A stranger. And yet you kill for him? Is that strength? Is that justice?” 

Albert fell silent and his eyes paused in their scan. They landed on a surprisingly tall and thick tree just off the road. It was decaying, but slower than the rest. It had several healthy, hearty branches whose bark looked, in the vibrant moonlight, to have the color of bark storing moisture. Albert saw a flit of a wasp’s wings landing on the largest branch. 

“What did they tell you?” his prisoner asked. “I assume you didn’t know.” 

Albert went back to scanning the area. He pushed the prisoner forward. “I don’t need to know. It doesn’t matter.” 

“It surely doesn’t,” the prisoner said. “You will try me, sentence me, and execute me, because you surely don’t have the resources to jail me like they did before the Burst. Just as I am not strong enough to resist vengeance, like you all were before the Burst.” 

Without proper rest and nutrition, the mind too fell weak to defend against invasive thoughts. Albert felt such contempt for this man. Not for the life he’d taken, but because in this moment, he’d reminded Albert of all the times he’d looked at his wife and been certain of what his love for her had made him capable of. He didn’t want to think of his wife in the presence of this man. 

“So your man killed my family, I killed him, you kill me,” the prisoner continued. “My friends will come for you, Marshal Albert. Who will come kill my friends after that? I could find no closure, your Council provides no justice. There is no justice anymore. This is what life is now. If you have a family, or friends, when we reach DC you should prepare them for a lifetime of vengeance.” 

They took a few more steps, and perhaps out of an innate competition, not wanting this man to have the last word, Albert spoke, albeit feebly. 

“I still have hope we can make it better,” he said. 

The prisoner wouldn’t let that linger. “Oh, certainly. The Riders of your Bright Horses are probably such angels, none of them would ever take a shot at my wife!” He bellowed the last phrase as though he was shaming Albert in front of an audience. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Albert bellowed in return. 

As the last sound of the last syllable dissipated in the distance, another sound bounced back at them. They stopped dead in their tracks. A moment of adrenaline kicked in, and Albert’s senses were on high alert. There was a fifty-fifty shot it was just their own screams echoing off of the distant steel and concrete, and not something threatening. 

When he didn’t hear any other sounds, not words, not footsteps, not the flit of a wasp’s wings, for five more whole minutes, he said, “Continue in silence. Get off the main road when we can.”

Neither of them made another sound for hours as they approached Cleveland. As they made their way deep into the city and down to the shore, Albert felt that he was on high alert for no good reason. This place was so desolate. No signs of human life at all. He’d forgotten just how many people the Burst had killed. Cities became uncanny places. They inherently signified dense, bright, blazing, brilliant life, symbols of how far humanity had come, seen for miles around, but no more populated than the countryside, even despite being hotspots for arthropod colonies. Albert was reminded of what DC had looked like before the community had formed. Monuments were shelters, reminiscent of homeless encampments, or they were nothing. He felt a bit better about what they’d accomplished after seeing Cleveland. 

“Your Bright Pasture, Albert,” the prisoner said. 

The moon had reached its peak, but Cleveland was not brighter than any other moonlit metropolis. Many of its structures had crumbled into the dirt, but none had seemed to sprout a verdant pasture in their place. There was no life at all, much less great horses with blinding manes. Despite the human heart beating fifteen feet in front of him, Albert had the uncanny feeling of being completely alone in a city. 

They reached the shores of Erie without incident after several hours. Albert’s knees and ankles were sore. The sun was a couple of hours away, and the deepest cold of the night had arrived. He rubbed his arms and his chest with what little strength he had. He grabbed the hilt of the pole on his hip to steady himself, but the steel was cold, and his hand recoiled. The prisoner stopped, which he was not supposed to do with instruction, but Albert welcomed the respite.

He stared at the great lake. The moon poured down like milk and made steely honey of the wild water. Not a drop to drink, not a fish to catch, no croaking frogs or slithering snakes, no fowl silhouetted against the night sky. 

The process for gathering any extant arthropods, usually cockroaches and/or fruit flies, from areas adjacent to large bodies of water was a simple yet arduous one. Gatherers, or in this case Marshals, were to follow the shoreline, watching for any pipes or junctions still holding water, or concentrations of tree litter, such as leaves or mulch material. If they come across any of these that appeared to house nests, they sucked up what specimens they could using the glass storage cylinders’ vacuum function. 

Albert removed a cylinder from his backpack with an overtly belabored grunt. He and the night were both on their last legs. He remembered how long it could take to find food using this process, and was dispirited. He had not felt so nearly empty since the Burst. He felt as if this journey from DC to Chicago and back had filled those thirty years. He was tired of this process, tired of scouring the shore of a dead, poisoned lake for cockroaches to eat and share with a ragged stranger attached to him by some law he fought for. He was tired of not being warm, not being with his wife and daughter, of living at night and fearing the sun. He was tired of the way things were. 

After only a few minutes of scouring, his prisoner appeared to share that sentiment. The man fell to his knees in the sand, right next to a rather large irradiated patch, and then sat down. “Get up.” Albert’s voice cracked.

“I think not,” the prisoner said. “If you’re to lead me to my ultimate death, whether from starvation, dehydration, exhaustion, or execution, it might as well be here. It’s a nice spot. If your Bright Horses come along, ask them to save you.” He sighed loudly. 

The new angle of the pole pulled Albert down, and he fell to his knees. His eyelids gave way to gravity, and he noticed the sky getting brighter. His vision filled with myths. In place of an empty lake he saw one lit up with vibrant seaweed and shimmering scaly fish. In place of what was once Cleveland he beheld the Garden, all trees from palm to pine, fruits of precious pigment, and all animals, known and unknown, extant and extinct, performing a processional promenade with polite precision. He saw his wife and daughter running through streams and dancing. But they kept stopping to stare at Albert and point to the right. 

Albert opened his eyes. The colors faded except for one: red. There was a plastic trash can fifty feet in front of him on the beach, piled high with what looked like wood and bark. And leaves? He sprang up with renewed energy. He sprinted halfway there and then was tugged back by the prisoner’s stagnancy. He pressed the yellow button on the hilt of the pole, and the prisoner slid through the sand toward Albert, their distance reduced to five feet, but he never rose. Albert summoned all his remaining strength, like water from a stone. His legs felt as dead and burned as the countryside, but he pulled, never looking down at the man sliding across the sand, obstinate in his acquiescence. 

With strength of mind giving strength to his body, he made it to the trash can. It was mulch. Someone had gathered what leaves and healthy wood they could and made mulch, teaming with cockroaches and even a few ants! Albert knew there was something special about Cleveland!

“Here!” he shouted. He aimed the cylinder all around the pile and gathered as many specimens as he could as they scattered. Bits of wood and leaves got sucked up too. He didn’t care. He unscrewed the top and devoured the contents. His hunger didn’t stop him from gagging as his only chance at survival crawled across his tongue and squirmed in his esophagus. 

His prisoner appeared beside him, the very form of gaunt and haggard. Albert looked at him with a sense of shared triumph that the man did not return. He just held out his hands. Albert fed him, and he ate stoically. 

A screeching noise filled the air around them. A noise Albert had not heard since the Burst, and had heard only a handful of times before it. Metal skidding across metal, but metal made of flesh and blood. 

“What was that,” the prisoner slurred. 

Albert whispered, “A horse.” 

After a few seconds, they heard hooves on pavement, moving at a gallop. Albert closed his eyes and said a prayer. He opened them and saw a glow, its source shielded by the cracked cement sloping up toward the city. His prisoner started laughing. A low growl at first, then a heartier cackle. An absurd laugh. He’d heard the funniest joke, and he’d heard it before many times. 

The figure emerged all at once atop the cement embankment. The horse had no burning mane or glowing irradiated flesh, but Albert’s mind still worked fast enough to be astounded that such a healthy mammal was alive in this new world. A magnificent white steed, strong as any pre-Burst horse. Even its nostrils were so forceful that when it snorted its contentment, Albert felt knocked back a step.

And its Rider was no less surprising. While he didn’t resemble mythical figures like Achilles or Ajax, he had the strong physique and alert senses of a pre-Burst military leader. He’d adorned his fingers, wrists, arms, and neck in various gold rings, old Rolex watches, and gold bands and chains, all shining from the light of the burning torch he carried in his right hand. He was alert, but not frenetic. He wore a smug, collected look. 

“I’ve waited a long time for a chance at this glory,” the Rider said. He had a thick Mediterranean accent, Greek or Turkish. He rolled over his R’s and grunted his vowels like he spoke the language of human history and glory. The prisoner stopped laughing. “You are not mere vagabonds,” he stated, matter-of-factly. 

“My… my name…” Albert stuttered, hoarse. “My name, is Albert. I am a Marshal with the Washington Burst Survivor Community, and I am transporting-” 

“This gives you the right to steal from the Riders of the Bright Horses?” the Rider asked. Albert paused and looked away, shamefully. He should have realized this makeshift smorgasbord would have a vigilant owner. But his accuser was a man of justice, and Albert was on a mission of justice, so his appeal would be sound. 

“Sir, I have no excuse,” Albert said. “Like you said, we’re not just moochers or scavengers. I’m charged by my leaders with serving justice to a murderer. I hope you can understand how important it is that I keep my strength up. I hope you can show mercy.” 

The Rider casually looked from Albert to the prisoner and raised his eyebrows. “This man committed a murder? What will you do with him?” 

“He’ll be afforded a trial, and sentenced if found guilty.”

The Rider scoffed and shook his head. “Your Council is ridiculous. You travel hundreds of miles, bind this murderer to you, give him precious food and shelter, even stealing ours to do so?” The Rider dug his heels into the belly of his horse. The beast leapt down off the embankment and landed gracefully in the sand below, two or three yards from the prisoner. “Such practices would never keep your strength up,” he said. “And you ask me to show mercy for such weakness?” 

Albert looked at the prisoner. His smug, cynical scowl was evident even through his exhaustion. “Save us,” Albert whispered. Then, louder, “Save us.” The prisoner looked at him as though he was mad. Albert accepted the implicit accusation, then turned to the Rider. “We traveled the stars. Now we scrounge in the dirt. We’re not supposed to be like the roaches. I couldn’t face my wife in heaven if she knew I died without hope. We tried to build something bigger, but you’re right, we’re weak. So save us. Please.” Albert felt tears stream down his cheek. “That’s what we hear. The Riders of the Bright Horses will save us!” he shouted, accusatorily, angry at the Rider for not already turning the world to the Eden he saw in his haze and setting his wife back by his side. He looked at the prisoner. His eyes lacked their former light. He looked at Albert, and then they simultaneously lowered their heads, and it felt like solidarity to Albert. 

The Rider looked at him like an old dog needing to be put down. He and his horse exhaled, so heavy, like they were heaving fate into Lake Erie. 

“We will save you, when the time comes,” the Rider said, calmly. “But not with the creature comforts of the old world. Your hope is small. Human aspiration is forever changed. In this time of death, glory never dies. I am equipped with the spirits of the Riders and old world warriors before me.” He brandished his torch, and the jewelry on his fingers and wrist clinked together. “You are both insufferable fools,” croaked the prisoner. He kicked the ground and sand shot up into the air. Albert saw every grain. First light had come. 

The prisoner spoke with strength he had not displayed in days, with the volume to issue his challenge to all the Riders in the Bright Pasture. “Hope is not for your aspirations, it is for sustenance. When everything around you is blackness and perdition, to persist with poetry in your heart and to push back, to lift what is too heavy, and rise, and to hold each other through the fear of a bright, full sun. This world, any world, becomes sufficient. That is hope. When we cower at dawn, we do so together. When we cheer as twilight breaks, we do that together. Humanity doesn’t need glory or godhood. You old worlders raised humanity as high as we would go, and the cosmos slapped us down. Yet we still fight?” 

Albert had served only the Council, never himself, for years, and aside from lacking physical comfort and fulfillment in dogged pursuit of justice, he had also deprived himself of emotional comfort and fulfillment. In this moment he remembered who he’d been before the Burst. He looked at the prisoner, both of them still nearing death from starvation and exhaustion, and now saw a man to whom he would’ve shown mercy and understanding, a man he would’ve been happy to have a drink with, a complex man whose mind did not offend, but rather offered harmony, despite his transgressions in this hard time. Albert thought of the faces of those he’d turned in who had not bothered to speak as much as this man. He looked at the trash can piled high, and again saw a wasp flit down and land on the nutritious bounty of reddish leaves.

The prisoner hung his head. The Rider sighed and shook his head. “Marshal Albert,” the Rider said. “I have decided I will show mercy. You may eat and be on your way. Go in peace. I will show true justice to this cynical degenerate.” 

The prisoner’s head shot up and he locked fearful eyes with Albert. The Rider kicked his horse, which reared up and neighed fiercely. The horse then turned around and the Rider drove his heels into it once more. Albert could see what was coming, and moved his thumb to the yellow button on the hilt of the telescopic pole connecting him to the prisoner just in time. As the horse’s rear legs flashed through the morning mist at the prisoner’s chest, the pole extended, and the horse’s back hooves collided not with flesh, but with the steel joint of the pole. The prisoner and Albert were both knocked on their backs from the immense force of the kick. 

When Albert picked his head up, he saw the prisoner free of their forced connection, and frozen on his feet, his eyes alone in flight, moving between Albert and the Rider. Albert scrambled to his feet with great difficulty. The Rider turned his horse back around. Albert tried to grab the pole and lift it, but the cold steel felt like dry ice on his old, withered, weak hands, and his hand recoiled from the sting. The prisoner took note of what Albert was attempting, and shouted “Here!” He darted towards the pole and kicked it up into the air, so that the end that had been attached to him soared towards the Rider. As it arced over the magnificent mane of the white steed, Albert pressed the red button. The end of the pole crackled in the morning mist and then made contact with the Rider’s immense chest. The Rider seized up and shook, and tumbled down off of his Bright Horse.

The prisoner mustered a weak smile and nodded at Albert, then ran, as fast as his legs would carry him, to the east along the shore, most likely in search of shelter and a way to free his arms from the prison Albert had set them in. Albert pressed the yellow button again and the pole retracted totally, no longer than a kaleidoscope. Not wanting to cross near the writhing Rider, he ran off south. It was really more of a trudge. His shin bones felt like they were made of old particleboard, and could crumble at any moment. 

He ran two whole blocks into what was once Downtown Cleveland. He looked back and couldn’t see the Rider chasing him, so he stumbled over a fallen wall into a nearby building. There were faded shards of glass all over the floor, a couple of tables and chairs strewn about, and behind the counter at the far end of the room were dusty ovens and toasters. Albert chuckled at the fact that he was about to die of starvation in an old sandwich shop. 

The air was thick and he struggled to breathe. He heard two or three voices shouting down by the lake. He took off his backpack and lay down. When the Rider knocked him over he must have fallen into that patch of irradiated sand, because globs of black cesium mud dripped from his rolled-up nylon tent. The nylon material deteriorated and disappeared quickly. The Council delayed in addressing his suggestion, and now the failure of his mission was truly certain. 

Rather than being disenchanted by his potential failure, he was now content with his certain failure. He didn’t know justice and strength beyond what the Council told him, but if that Rider was a man of justice and strength, Albert wanted no part of it. There was no harmony in bringing that prisoner in. There was no harmony in bringing any of them in. Just like his prisoner, he had transgressed in these hard times. He was not himself. He was twilight rising and dawn falling. 

Still, his failure had been a success. The prisoner was free, and he was a true survivor. Albert hoped with all his heart that despite his transgressions in these hard times, he could still offer that harmony to a pained young man. 

Dawn broke. The deadly sun burst through the gray sky and filled the streets outside. Albert looked out the window and saw the sturdy brick wall of a church. How lucky he felt, to not have chosen this shelter, but to take what the city offered. 

His breath got shallow and his vision got blurry. The voices approached as he departed. He heard the church bells ringing, he heard his wife singing. He closed his eyes and stared into the blackness. 

Albert cast his heart into the past, with his wife and daughter, with good food and a peaceful life. With his last ounce of hope, he cast his mind into a future where he would stumble upon the true Bright Horses, prancing in their Bright Pasture, lit up by their fiery manes and wild spirits. The old world and the new would be set ablaze by the burning beasts of myth, and we could cast off the tired tasks of redeeming justice and serving aspirations, and persist with pleasant poetry in the paradise of a glorious dawn.

The post The Bright Horses appeared first on The New Absurdist.

“Seems they have you in the wrong place.”

“No. I’m supposed to be in the maternity ward.”

He looked at her. “A mistake. But an understandable one given what your previous doctors knew at the time.”

“This morning?”

“It appears so.” The doctor stepped out into the hall. “Nurses, I need the patient in this room moved one ward over.” Two nurses came in. Martha thought their scrubs made them look like blood clots. It was not reassuring. She tried to think of them as giant cranberries. They removed the monitoring devices from her and started to wheel Martha’s bed out the door. 

“Where are we going?”

“A short distance. A minor change. Nothing drastic,” the doctor replied.

“Why shouldn’t I be in the maternity ward?” She held her belly. “I’ve been here a week. I thought we were supposed to induce?”

“Don’t worry,” the doctor continued. “It’s all very normal.”

“But why move me? What about my things?”

“The nurses will get them for you. Again, this is all regular. Part of the standard procedure. Just sit back and relax.”

Martha looked up at the ceiling and tried to count the tiles. She made it to seven on three separate attempts before stopping. The overhead lights were too disorienting. They glared at her like cars on a highway at night. The nurses pulled Martha through a room for premature births and she caught a glimpse of pink bodies wiggling inside of their incubators. She tried not to imagine her own child ending up there.

Soon they were in another hallway. The doctor called for a hard left, and the wheels of the bed squeaked. Martha covered her ears. They went through a set of white doors, followed by another that were red. She looked up and saw a sign announcing that they were leaving the maternity ward.

“Where are we going?” She asked a nurse.

“Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine.”

“Yes, but fine where?”

The nurse pointed to a sign that read: GENERAL LYING-IN. 

They went through another set of doors and the staff parked Martha and her bed into an empty room. She looked around at her new surroundings. The walls were yellow instead of the familiar white. It was not overwhelmingly bright, but the paint reminded her of dirty teeth. Martha leaned back on her pillows and tried to get comfortable. Her gown itched and the fabric was riding up with the doctor would call her intergluteal cleft. She wanted to pull it out and down, but not in front of the other people.

Martha waited for them to leave. New tasks and minor crises kept presenting themselves. The staff had to reattach wires to her abdomen, sweep and disinfect the corners, give her a series of shots, take her temperature, replace her pillow, provide her with a vitamin to swallow, do blood work, and bring over her things from the other room. Through it all, they kept reassuring Martha that it was all normal, standard, and typical, promising her that although she was late, her pregnancy was, in fact, quite boring.

“Not that you’re not a top priority for us,” the doctor said. He pressed the button for a device near the foot of the bed. It started to release a beep every thirty seconds. 

A nurse continued. “You just don’t present a special case.” 

“Okay.”

“But’s that’s good too!” She rubbed Martha’s legs playfully. “You want to be like everyone else.”

“But not in the maternity ward?”

“No. Here’s just as good. Don’t worry. It’s all very normal.”

“Very regular?”

The nurse smiled. “Yes!”

The doctor smiled too. “You want to leave here with a baby. Not with something in a textbook named after you.”

They left but before she could adjust her gown, her partner Stanley came into the room. Their head was freshly shaved and glistening like the floors outside. They kissed her on the forehead. “I came as soon as I heard they moved you.” 

“Thanks.”

“I talked to the nurses. Your new doctor too. Seems it’s normal.”

“Seems so.”

“Nice and regular.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Part of the process.”

“That’s a new one.”

“How are we?”

They put their hand on her abdomen. Martha looked down. She held up one of the thins wires running from an electrode stuck to her skin. The wire ran off the bed and to a monitor that sat on wheels. “I look like an octopus.”

“I know. But it keeps us updated.”

“To see how normal I am?”

“Yes.”

A nurse came in to check on Martha. She gave her a menu for dinner. Martha just wanted something light and opted for a fruit salad. Stanley was there when the meal arrived. Martha ate it quickly and still felt hungry. She asked Stanley to go to the vending machine to get her something to eat.

“But you said you wanted something light!”

“Not that light.”

“You should probably eat something healthier.”

“At this stage, Stanley, it won’t matter. Unless I’ve got another week, or month here,” she started to cry.

“Okay, okay, I’ll get you something.”

“See if they have any ice cream.”

“Ice cream? In a machine?”

“Sometimes they sell it.”

“Okay.” He paused by the door. “If I can’t find ice cream, what should I get? You want candy?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything with nuts?”

“If they don’t have plain chocolate sure.”

“Milk chocolate?”

“Stanley, you can figure it out. Okay?”

“Fine, fine.” He left and Martha put the tray and container for her dinner aside. The nurses returned. One took them it away, another gave her an injection. 

Martha spoke up after the prick. “Oh, to move things along?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “What did you think it was?”

‘There’s been so many injections.”

“It’s part of the process. Don’t worry.”

“Normal for when I’m not normal,” Martha mumbled.

The nurses left and Martha spread across on the bed as much as she could. The gown was no longer an issue. She looked out her window. It was already dark outside. Martha found herself struggling to keep her eyelids open and her head upright. When she was able to look, she looked for Stanley. Martha worried that by the time he managed to find a frozen treat for her and came back to the room, she would be asleep, and Stanley would have a melted dessert on his hands. She tried to focus on the device that was still beeping at the foot of her bed. Something so regular and annoying was bound to keep her awake.

It did not. Martha woke up and the darkness outside was gone. She felt a warm patch on the bed where the sunlight had been lingering over her thigh. Martha stretched and looked around the room to see if Stanley had spent the night. They were gone, along with whatever they found in the vending machines. Martha got up off the bed and prepared to walk towards the bathroom that was attached to her room.

She knew the procedure. Certain things had to move with her. Martha reached out for the portable vital signs monitor in order to wheel it over to the toilet. It was gone. Martha checked her wires and they were gone too, along with the nodes that were once stuck to her. Her belly was flat and felt lighter. Martha pressed a button for a nurse.

Two of them came in, nearly getting stuck together in the door. The cranberry twins asked what was wrong in unison.

“Why are the gone? Where’s the beeping sound? Where’s my baby?”

A nurse fluffed her pillow and directed her to lean back on the bed. “Don’t worry. Please. It’s all normal. Everything went normal.”

“What did?”

“You’re a mother.”

“I am?”

“Yes,” the other nurse said. “Come on, let me introduce you two. Come in.”

Martha leaned up and put her arms out, ready to receive her child. She hoped her partner would accompany her child. Maybe all this time Stanley had been outside, welcoming their progeny into the world. The nurse left and came back pushing a wheelchair. A teenage male in a hospital gown was sitting on it. He was lanky, with unkempt hair, and a phone in his hand. He waved at her and returned to looking at the screen. Martha put her arms down.

“What’s going on?”

“He’s your son.”

“No. It’s can’t be!”

“Yes, he is. Can’t you see the resemblance?”

“He’s…old. He’s got a pimple. Pimples. He’s got fuzz on his lip.”

“Not every baby looks like they do in the ads,” the nurse tried to assure her.

“Fine. But not like this.”

“You can’t judge him based on unfair beauty standards.”

“What standards? That’s a teenager. You’re saying I pushed a teenager out of me?”

“Gross,” he said.

“Again, they’re not all going to look like the baby on a baby food jar.”

“The doctor made a mistake. Get the doctor.”

The nurses left. The teenager kept scrolling. “Really, how did you get here?” Martha asked him.

He shrugged. “I dunno. You brought me here. You tell me why.”

“What’s your name?”

“You have to give me one.”

“What?”

“They say I don’t get one until you give me one.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

She shouted at him. “You’re joking!”

He shouted back. “No!” 

“Well, I’m not giving you a name. Sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not going to participate in this. This is some stupid prank.”

“How do you think I feel? One moment I was sleeping and warm in a nice place and then the next moment I’m out here and you people are yelling at me.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe you woke up from a coma or something.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

The doctor came into the room. “Ah, Martha, I see you two have met.”

“Yeah.”

“Your son. I mean, your child.”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?” He laughed. “There’s a no returns policy here.” He walked up behind the wheelchair and ruffled the young man’s hair in a playful manner. “Some disbelief over the process is quite normal. It can manifest itself as shock. Even resistance and denial. This is all regular. Part of the very common undertaking for many women.”

“Not like this.”

“Do you need to speak with a specialist?”

“You’re not a specialist?”

“I meant someone who focuses on psychology. Do you think you might benefit from therapy at this juncture?”

“I would benefit from seeing my baby. My actual baby. My real child. Please, you don’t have to cover anything up for me. Did something go bad?” Martha started to cry and put her hands together over her navel. “Just let me know what happened. This is worse than a joke. I’m going to sue you all.”

The doctor looked at the teen. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. I’m confused.”

“Martha, everything is fine. This is a very healthy child. You should feel proud. He broke all our records.”

“Yay,” he said.

“Get him away from me!”

“This reaction isn’t good for the child. Think about how he must feel?”

The young man looked at the doctor. “Yeah, why am I here?”

“That’s what I want to know!” Martha shouted at both of them.

“Martha, please. You don’t need to be parent of the year. We understand this is all new to you. But remember, it is nothing new overall. Martha, billions of women, billions Martha, have gone through this. Your mother, your grandmother, her mother, all part of one maternal chain stretching back to the beginning of the species. It is normal to be shocked at how our infants first look. It is normal to feel alienation at how different they appear. And yes, there is some feeling of resentment.” He turned to the teen. “I’m talking to both of you.”

“Cool. Cool.”

Martha wiped her eyes on the sleave of her gown. “Where’s Stanley?”

“Still looking for your ice cream,” a nurse told her.

“What?”

“You told them to find you an ice cream right?”

“How do you know?”

“They told us on the way out.”

“Where are they now?”

“According to our security cameras, Stanley is currently walking around the Nephrology Center. They found vending machines for drinks, candy, and chips, but nothing frozen for you. Their search continues.”

“Can I bring them back? Can you ask them to come back over the intercom?” 

The nurse looked at the doctor. The doctor thought for a moment. Martha could feel her gown starting to bunch up and make her uncomfortable again.

“The trouble is that we don’t have a code,” the doctor explained. 

“A code?”

“We use a color code to announce to the staff what’s going on. It keeps patients and visitors from panicking. Normally we use a hue and follow it up with a name. The alert tells people here where to go and why. Both doctors and nurses follow the system. It’s a very normal way to handle irregular situations. Most hospitals do it.”

“And what does this have to do with me?”

“Well,” the doctor said solemnly, “we’ve run out of colors. We don’t have one that tells Stanley to end the search for ice cream and come back to this room. Especially in a way that conveys immediacy without emergency.”

“I see.”

The teen put his phone down. “I’m hungry.”

The nurses and the doctor looked at Martha. Martha folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, and?”

“The natural process is favored by current literature…”

She shook her head. “No. Doctor. He’s got teeth! He can’t eat a sandwich or something?”

The doctor laughed. “At his age? No.”

“Come on, if you’re gonna bring me here, at least feed me,” the young male pleaded

The nurses helped the teen out of the wheelchair. They lifted him in their arms and carried him over to Martha’s bed. After putting him down, they turned him rightward towards her chest. His right arm was still holding his cellphone. His left one stretched out to his mother. The doctor and nurses applauded. Martha was confused.

“His reflexes are coming along nicely,” a nurse said. 

“Thanks,” the teenager replied.

“Well, do you have any questions?” the nurse asked Martha.

“A lot. A lot of questions.”

“That’s normal,” the doctor said. “Perfectly normal and regular.”

“Part of the process,” Martha said.

“Exactly,” they all replied.

Martha unbuttoned her gown. The young man’s head started to move towards her breast. “Maybe it’s all normal,” she wondered aloud.

“Of course,” he said. “It’s why I’m here.”

Someone tapped her shoulder. Martha shook her head and opened her eyes. She was back in a white room. Her old room. It was Stanley. Their thinning hair was back but there was no ice cream in their hands. Instead, Martha saw an infant, squirming and wrinkled.

“Hey,” Stanley kissed her forehead.

“Oh my God, I don’t know what happened.”

“It’s okay. You’re tired.”

She noticed her gown was still open. “I was trying to feed.”

“You were. But when you dozed off, I took the baby away for a moment. Do you want to try again?”

“Yes.”

Stanley carefully transferred the baby from their arms to hers. Martha slowly brought the warm body up against one of her nipples and felt the tiny mouth begin to suckle. Stanley brought a napkin over and started to dab Martha’s side.

“Sorry, some of the milk is dribbling.”

“We have a sloppy eater on our hands,” she giggled through tears. 

“We do,” he laughed. “We do.” He started to cough and said he needed to get another drink of water. Stanley ran the to the bathroom, cupped their hand under the faucet, and began to sip from it. Little of the water reached their mouth. Martha noticed the family resemblance with the baby in her hands. The room was filled with smell of something burning.

Martha looked around for a source and listened for an alarm going off in the hospital or one of the buildings across the street. She strained to look out at the hall. Doctors, nurses, and other patients walked by without panicking. Some of them were coughing just like Stanley. Martha gazed out the window. The sky was hazy and red. She squinted to look at the sun. It was a dark pink, like an areola hanging over the city skyline. Martha wondered if she needed to wake up yet again, until she felt another pang at her breast. 

The post The Separation for Her Infirmity appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Back then, some quarter century ago, the nuns knew little about anatomy. Modest by nature and training, they either didn’t look or never noticed that my testicles didn’t drop. They had nothing to drop into, I was born without a scrotum. Many were too timid to even look at my penis. It’s just an organ, Sister Elfriede said. Without it none of us would be here. 

It’s dirty, some said. 

Dirty but necessary, Sister Elfriede rejoined. The two or three nuns who were least squeamish – they had brothers, they’d been around – were assigned to care for me. The others were excused. 

This was in a remote part of East Tyrol. Visitors, wealthy, middling, or impoverished, were, despite the abbess’ hopes, rare. 

My caretakers were musical. They hummed and sang religious music, hymns mostly but sometimes plainchant, as they washed, fed, or comforted me. I heard more song than conversation until I began my secondary education. 

Once I passed my toddler years, they let me walk the grounds unaccompanied. My voice, closer to a countertenor than anything else, was influenced by the chittering of the creatures I heard in the woods and clearings during the day, the distant sound of yodelers, and the screeches of the beasts culling their ranks in the night. 

I received my earliest formal education in the convent. The sisters had no way to send me to the nearest school, kilometers away. They suspected public education anyway. 

Progress came to our corner of the Alps. When I was twelve or thirteen, the road in front of our convent was paved. We started receiving visitors but no benefactors. One of our new guests mentioned there was a school bus stop a kilometer away. The nuns conferred. The following September they enrolled me in an all-boys prep school. I was a scholarship student. 

My first class was gym. We all had to strip. The teacher wasn’t gay. We’re in a gymnasium that believes in first principles, he said. Back to the Greeks! We stood in a line while he inspected us. He pulled me aside. 

Where are your balls? he asked. 

Balls?

Your testicles. 

Testicles? 

He marched me, still unclad, to the principal’s office. A woman’s group was in the waiting room waiting to speak to the headmaster about who knows what. Since the gym teacher had seniority, besides he had a class to teach, the receptionist waved us in ahead of the committee. They seemed more incensed about being bypassed than by my nakedness. 

The principal allowed the headmaster to return to class then called the convent. Sister Elfriede was indisposed. The second in command said she never noticed anything irregular about my anatomy but then she’d never seen me naked. The principal wrote out a slip, told me to report to the nurse’s office. I couldn’t find it till midway through second period. The nurse palpated me, said she couldn’t feel anything irregular besides my missing equipment. She gave me my clothes, which my gym teacher had a boy deliver, then sent me to the nearest hospital a village or two away. 

There I was X-rayed, MRI-ed, massaged again, made to cough and perform calisthenics. It was the first time I’d ever exercised. They had me lay on an examining table. Someone took pictures, others took notes. They planned to write an article about me for some Munich medical journal. 

A specialist came in. He explained that the procedure to create an external scrotum for my gonads to drop into was risky and very expensive. He doubted Sister Elfriede, given her poverty and beliefs, would pay for it. He’d seen the videos of the round nurse rubbing me, saw my erection. Your desires are normal, he said. You don’t need the operation. He wrote a lengthy note. Give this to your gym teacher tomorrow, he said. We saw you exercise. We know his type. He’ll go easy on you. 

The gym teacher read the note next morning. You must be a sissy, he said. Drop and give me ten. 

Ten? 

Ten pushups! 

Pushups? 

He dropped and demonstrated. He must have done fifty. 

I lowered myself then came halfway up. 

You may dress, he said. I need to get the boys ready for competition. 

I sat in a corner and leafed through a book about Salzburg’s heyday while the gym teacher forced some students to run laps around the gym and others to perform soccer drills. Those who weren’t on a team could do as they pleased. Most of those played basketball or used the gymnastics equipment. 

Next morning I had music first class.

I bet you didn’t expect to see me, the gym teacher said once we were all seated. I didn’t know what to expect. 

There’ve been a few budget cuts, the teacher explained. It’s all for the better. Franz, the old music teacher, retired. I hear he’s composing and conducting now. I don’t have the musical talent that old Franz has but I do know some things. He then yodeled for five minutes. As he ranged from low to high and back again, we sat in our seats dumbstruck. After our applause died down, he asked each of us to sing a short passage. He took notes on our voices. We’ll meet again next Wednesday, the gym teacher said at the end of class. During the peak of sports seasons, we’ll have music once a week. Later, towards Christmas, we’ll have music two or three times a week, depending on how much time I need to prepare you to sing in the concert. 

The following Wednesday, he arranged us in a semicircle then stood facing us. I was on his far left. The next closest person was a few yards away. Not all of you will be choristers, he said, just as not all of you will perform on a sports team. Since this may be your first formal exposure to music performance, I’ll give you all a chance to make the squad. 

He handed out sheets of music. The first song was a Christmas carol, “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht”, of course. I’d heard it, we all heard it, many times. 

As we filed out of the classroom, the gym teacher asked me to stay behind. 

You have a wonderful voice, he told me. You haven’t just made the choir; I want you to be a soloist. He gave me a book of songs. I want you to practice as much as you can, during gym class of course, but also at home. 

The nuns of course were pleased that I succeeded at something. 

I was the featured soloist at every performance my first three and a half years there. Bored with the repertory, I added melismatic effects and other trills and tremolos to my parts. Audiences looked forward to my eccentric interpretations, never knowing what to expect. I changed them from evening to evening not so much for them as for me. 

In the spring of my last year there we performed an operetta, von Suppé’s Galatea. The female roles were sung by students of a nearby girl’s school similar to ours. That was the first time I saw Lotte, who played the lead. I was cast as Ganymede. 

I played the role straight, as straight as I could. Like all my schoolmates I was smitten with Lotte, a medium height fraulein with black curls, freckles, dimples, hips, and what we imagined was a stupendous bust. The production was a great success. The last performance was a matinee, the Sunday before school let out. Backstage we heard that Pelagio, the famous impresario, was in the audience. Lotte, usually composed before we went on, was jittery. I held her hand. How can you be so calm? she asked me. I didn’t tell her I’d never heard of Pelagio, had only a vague idea of what an impresario does. You’ll be fine, I said.

Lotte sang and acted better than she ever had, better than anyone who’d ever appeared on our schools’ boards. The audience applauded a full fifteen minutes, demanded she perform an encore. She sang a Lied by Schubert a cappella since the musicians had already left. 

As the star, Lotte had the only private dressing room. The rest of us shared a long dingy green room. Many of my classmates were going to fancy dinners to celebrate the capstone of their scholastic musical careers. I had to take the last bus to the nunnery where I’d eat cold leftovers from the communal dinner. The abbey’s finances hadn’t improved much. I’d be lucky if any meat was left for me. 

Worried that I’d miss my bus, I was on the threshold of the doorway out when I felt a familiar hand upon my shoulder. 

Thank you so much for encouraging me, Lotte said, then turning to Pelagio, who was with her, this is the man who inspired me to my greatest performance yet. Lotte turned me around, kissed me chastely on the lips. It was the first time I was ever kissed. 

Have you completed your farewells? Pelagio asked. 

Till then, it hadn’t occurred to me that I wouldn’t see Lotte after my final performance or, for that matter, most of my classmates after the coming week. I wasn’t accepted to any universities, had no job offers. 

Come fall, I’ll be studying at the Mozarteum University, Lotte said. 

Ah, Salzburg, I thought. 

In Innsbruck. Pelagio will visit me at least monthly and arrange that I get extra instruction. After I graduate I may sing in one of his opera troupes. 

That’s fantastic, I said. 

I told Lotte I didn’t know what I’d be doing when she asked. Lotte batted her eyelashes at Pelagio. You’re a major benefactor to the Mozarteum, she told Pelagio. Surely you can find something for our Ganymede there. 

His voice is more than adequate for someone with his training, Pelagio said, but it’s not up to university standards. The school always needs janitors. He turned to me. Can you push a broom. 

I can learn, I said. 

After much back and forth, though only after Lotte threatened to give up music or go to another school, Pelagio agreed to hire me. I’d get room and board plus a miniscule stipend. 

Lotte’s parents emerged from the shadows. Her father gripped my hands hard, her mother smiled at me. They both thanked me for my pep talk. Let’s celebrate our deal! Pelagio said. He then took Lotte and her parents out to dinner.

I missed my bus. I didn’t get home till just before the front door was locked. They’d never given me a key. The sister who let me in told me that the leftovers for dinner were already added to the compost heap. We’re becoming a green nunnery, she said. 

The next morning I told Sister Elfriede of my plans. She agreed that I could stay at the convent till the new school year. She’d even let me wash walls and floors. I didn’t realize that they planned to banish me once my education was complete. 

I worked mostly with Turks and Arabs. My voice deepened though it was still higher than most. There wasn’t any demand for a singer with my range. My deepest note was at the high end of a light tenor’s range. 

At the beginning of my second year there, Bruck, a wealthy Englishman or an Anglophile, I couldn’t tell the difference, sponsored a performance of Purcell’s The Fairy Queen. Tryouts were winding down when Pelagio appeared at my locker at the end of my shift. He spent most of his time in Vienna and Milan, sometimes in Salzburg, rarely in Innsbruck. He asked me why I didn’t try out for a role. 

They only ever want baritones and tenors, I said. I was told to stick with my brooms. 

Not for this piece, Pelagio said. He showed me the part for the Chinese Man. Bruck is a very wealthy man, much wealthier than anyone your nuns will ever know. This is the first piece he’s sponsoring. We need to wow him. 

Next day I won the part. My partner was a Korean woman, not Lotte. My supervisor gave me time off to rehearse and perform though I wasn’t compensated for the hours I missed. 

Bruck was detained by some lucrative business in Cambridge. He was only able to attend the final performance, another Sunday matinee. Lotte, who played not Titania but Juno, approached me before we went on. She asked me if I was nervous. 

No, I said. It’s a small role. 

I’m worried, Lotte said. Bruck isn’t like the other burghers who sponsor our productions. I hear he’s very knowledgeable and demanding. The stakes for our institute are high. 

I held Lotte’s hand. She calmed. Pelagio appeared. What’s this? he said. 

Nothing, Lotte answered. 

He left, most likely because he didn’t want to disturb Lotte before her finale. 

We all performed splendidly till the last line of “Yes, Daphne” my final song. The rest of the cast carried on as if I didn’t flub my part. 

Pelagio was already in the green room when I entered. We could still hear the audience’s applause. It may have been the loudest ever heard at the Mozarteum.

What do those yahoos know? Pelagio said. I sat next to Bruck, saw him wince as you concluded your part. I told him you weren’t part of our academy, just an outsider we decided to bring in, we didn’t want to make it a breeches role. 

I’m an aesthete with a cultivated ear, Bruck said. Even so, I understand that singers don’t always hit their notes just as athletes and actors sometimes miss their marks. Besides, this is a music school not the Royal Opera. That was the last he said to me. He left as soon as the final curtain fell. I’m ruined and it’s all your fault. 

Lotte approached as Pelagio finished his tirade. He left the green room apparently without seeing her. 

Pelagio wasn’t ruined. We didn’t stick around to find out. Instead, we flew – where else? – to New York. 

I’m fed up with Pelagio, Lotte said on the plane. I didn’t know if she was angered by his attention or lack of attention to her. 

We had to share a room our first night in Manhattan. Lotte sent me out for pizza while she showered and changed into her nightclothes. After we ate she told me to shower and to come to her naked. 

I approached her side of the bed more excited than I’d ever been. She touched the tip of my quivering penis, examined the fair hairs around its base, gazed at the spot where my scrotum should be. You may dress, she said. 

That’s it? 

I just wanted to see if you’d passed puberty, she said. I should have known from the peach fuzz on your cheeks. Who castrated you? 

I wasn’t castrated. My testicles didn’t drop. 

That’s gross, she said, but we’ll still be friends. 

Lotte, her parents, or someone that they knew has connections in New York. We soon found work. Lotte was accepted at Julliard. 

I went a-whoring with all the spare money I scrounged. The whores didn’t notice or didn’t say anything about my missing equipment. This went on till the director of the troupe pulled me aside. Lay off the hookers, he said. Satiety is bad for your acting. Remember the part calls for you to long for your beloved. 

He didn’t prohibit sex, I just had to seduce or be seduced by my partners. The few cis women I slept with were queasy about my equipment. I had better luck with trans women. Our company had an about equal supply of both. Lotte sang with us summers and during winter breaks, her duties at Julliard were that demanding. Wholesome as a milkmaid, she stood out from the rest of the troupe.

Lotte graduated from Julliard with honors. She wasn’t able to find many roles. Casting directors for conventional media – TV, mainstream theater, even film – looked at her history with the various groups she played in, considered her healthy appearance, and scratched their heads. My troupe evolved. We didn’t have any major roles for singers with Lotte’s talents and appearance. She didn’t want to play mere foils to major characters. One day the director fired her. Lotte came to me straight after. I don’t know what to do, she said. My father is sick, maybe dying, my parents have to cut my allowance. 

The following Sunday – we no longer performed matinees – I took Lotte to a pier in the West Village to help her forget her troubles. We brought mountain bread, a hunk of gray cheese, and Grüner Veltliner in a wineskin, my treat. It was the first fine day of spring. For some reason we had the pier to ourselves. After we had a little bit to eat and drink, we sat on a blanket at the end of the dock, our legs dangling over the Hudson. I held Lotte close, was about to kiss her when we heard someone shout, What’s this? 

We turned. It was Pelagio. He put the cheese and knife in his bag, slung the wineskin over his shoulder. Do you have any idea how far I had to walk to find you? he said to Lotte. Come, I’ll get a taxi, we can still catch a 6 pm flight to Vienna. He tore Lotte from my arms and dragged her to the street where a cab was waiting. I reached for the wine, found only the bread, a sort of flattened boule, tore a chunk off, and chewed it. I, who ever since my rescue by bony Sister Elfriede sought solace only in buxomness, had a long empty afternoon and Monday ahead of me.

The post The Horny Castrato appeared first on The New Absurdist.

That creek was the only thing separating the Davis estate from a lesser property whose  quaint Tudor home had been on the market for years, gradually depreciating with the turning  seasons. The summer sun would fade the roof and burn the finish off the porch until the beams  warped inward like the hull of a Guineaman ship. The falls were mild and didn’t do much  damage. In the winters, though, the pipes would freeze, and when they thawed come spring, the  realtor would pay a plumber to plug the leaks. Yet the sun and wind were petty compared to the wrath of water. For if the creek overflowed, the basement would take on a few swampy inches,  and in the weeks following the realtor would leave the doors open so the carpet wouldn’t mold.  From a mile away you could hear the wet vacs humming and the choppy voices of carpet  cleaners as they yodeled ay-yai-yai into the blades of oscillating fans. 

The realtor was content to let the creek serve as the property line, like the Rio Grande or  the mighty Mississippi. But Jefferson wasn’t about to leave his family’s fate to the whims of a  matriarch like Mother Earth. He drew the brittle yellow deed from a safe that gleamed inwardly  with heirlooms and, assuming his tea-time post atop the third-story veranda, compared the  notarized sketch with the current landscape; indeed, the creek had shifted with the last flash  flood. Whenever it rained for days on end, it would reroute ever-so slightly, the bed deeper, the  bank steeper. This time the momentum had eroded his side of the bend, displacing it as a jut of  earth on the other. Hence, telling by several ancient elms that served as landmarks, he now  owned a fraction of the neighboring property. Just enough to fish from.  

In case of a legal dispute, Jefferson summoned his lawyer to redraft the deed. The two  men conversed over a pair of shared binoculars as would generals before battle. Meanwhile  Keesha took five, turning up the radio and wiping sweat from her brow with blanched hands. When Jefferson caught her in the crosshairs of those binoculars, her image advanced on him like  a darkroom negative or postbellum vendettist, this black woman in whiteface. And since she  seemed closer than she actually was, he said “Afternoon” in a voice she couldn’t possibly have  heard. 

What she did hear was the host of NPR detailing the recent toppling of statues in a  number of city centers and college towns, the movement of her people coming to a head as if it  were a planned tricennial: the ’60s, the ’90s, and now the ’20s. And here she was playing the part. She took some comfort in knowing she wasn’t alone, that there were still the quiet caddies  at the country clubs, the hooting cooks at the hot chicken joints, the humpback shoeshines at  Nashville International. Then there was her father, a former barber. When gentrification  shuttered his shop in East Nashville, she’d dropped out of Julliard Drama to join this farce;  because around here, being typecast still paid better than breaking character. 

Keesha squeezed the sponge like a stress-relief toy then dropped it in the bucket and  watched the two men head indoors after a lot of insistent pointing. If only her employer would  plant some boxwoods. That way, no one would notice the stains left by the rising water. That  way, she wouldn’t have to whitewash the goddamned gazebo again. Waiting for the sponge to  bloat, she let herself be distracted by an acrobatic squirrel; a jet drawing a chalkline in the sky;  the leggy realtor across the creek, teetering in stilettos across a sodden lawn to uproot the For  Sale sign.  

Keesha was halfway around the gazebo when the sun was low enough to look at. She  reviewed the checklist in her mind. She’d changed the linens. Beaten the Persian rugs. Windexed  the windows and Cloroxed the commodes. She hadn’t mopped the floors, but that could wait  until tomorrow since she’d mopped the day before yesterday. Satisfied with the state of the set,  she left the sponge in the bucket so it wouldn’t crust then went inside to ask if there was anything  else she could do before heading home. Jefferson was in his study returning the deed to the safe.  Keesha made a point of turning away before she saw the combination. Backing out of the room  without a word, she drew the curtains in the master so Jefferson wouldn’t wake up when she  arrived early to bake a cake for the new neighbors. And…scene.  

* * *

The boxes labeled BED were in the bedroom. The boxes labeled BATH were in the  bathroom. The boxes labeled FRAGILE were in the kitchen. Jasmine was in the kitchen too,  taking stock of her new home. She stood beside an old coffeemaker, the first and only appliance  she’d unpacked. Bringing a cup to her lips, she blew at the seemingly placid surface then  proceeded to scald herself when the doorbell rang. Not the harsh buzz of a Boston brownstone  but the Westminster chimes of a grandfather clock. She could practically see the full octave  plotted on sheet music, falling for half a bar before rising in equal measure.  E-C-D-G, G-D-E-C.  

Jasmine figured Carl had lost his house key, or else it didn’t fit. If so he would fix it  without calling a locksmith. As newlyweds she’d loved having a handyman for a husband. But  she was starting to see he wasn’t as industrious as he was stubborn. He would cut out his own  tongue before asking for another man’s help. She opened the door. Where she’d expected to find  a middle-aged man holding a blunt key, she found an old man holding a crumb cake. 

“Morning,” he announced with a voice like a bugle, throwing glances over and around  her. “Thought I’d drop by and say welcome.” Jasmine stood quietly with her hand on the jamb,  that slender arm her only barricade. When no one else came to the door, he turned his full  attention to her. “Well, welcome. I’m Jefferson.” 

Jasmine made a platter of her palms, and Jefferson lowered the back of his hands onto the  front of hers as though they were about to play slaps.  

“Jasmine.” She showed him in. He cupped his ear and she said it louder. “Jasmine. Like  the flower. And you really shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t, to be honest.” Jefferson followed her down the hall, limping a little and halting  to regard an unhung diploma: Harvard, Magna Cum Laude. “My help baked it. I try always to be  forthright.”  

“Your ‘help’?”  

“Maid? Housekeeper? Domestic worker? You’ll have to forgive me if I’m behind the  times. But you wouldn’t begrudge living assistance to an old widower?” 

Jasmine put the crumb cake on the counter beside the blinking coffeemaker: twelve,  twelve, twelve o’ clock. She synched it with her wristwatch. Rounding to the nearest half hour, it  was eight-thirty. Early. Too early for a house call.  

“What did you study?” He pointed his chin at the diploma. 

“Music,” she said. 

“Which instrument?” 

“The lungs.”  

“Sing me something, if you don’t mind.” He aimed his better ear at her. 

“I’m no early bird.”  

“Doesn’t have to be fancy. A do re mi would do.”  

“You wouldn’t prefer ‘Wade in the Water’?” 

“I fear we got off on the wrong foot. That, or you got up on the wrong side of the bed.” “We haven’t bought one yet.” 

“We?”  

The conversation was interrupted by the tooting of a horn. 

“That’ll be my husband with the U-Haul. He’s been driving all night.” 

Before leading her guest into the foyer where the latticework of the Tudor facade showed  in relief, Jasmine took the pot off the hotplate and poured what was left into a travel mug. If he  was surprised to see a white man walk through the door, Jefferson didn’t show it. The white man,  on the other hand, was clearly surprised to find a stranger in his house. Handing off the  brimming mug as carefully as a torch, Jasmine introduced Carl to Jefferson, Jefferson to Carl. 

It hardly seemed worth giving their guest a grand tour of stripped carpet and bare wall, so  Carl suggested they have a slice of the crumb cake on the back porch. When he opened the  sliding door it made a horrible grating noise; he assured everyone it just needed a little WD-40.  The lawn chairs were sitting right out in the open, right in the sun, and without the cushions the  wrought iron was hot to the touch. They ate standing up.  

“What do you make of the neighborhood?” asked Jefferson.  

“So fah so good,” said Carl.  

“Jersey?” Jefferson said of the accent.  

“Boston.” Carl dunked his cake in his coffee, which meant he couldn’t be invited to  dinner parties.  

“And what do you make of the house?” Jefferson asked.  

Carl nodded at a window below their knees. “Basement’s watahlogged.”  

“Floods every April.” Jefferson shook his head regretfully. “You’re in a sinkhole, in case  the realtor didn’t tell you.” 

“Yeah, yeah. She toll us,” Carl said with a mouthful. “That’s why we could afford it.” He  lost the last bit of his crumb cake to the mug. 

“At least she’s forthright,” Jefferson thought out loud. “Had my doubts about her.”

Carl finished his coffee and slung the grounds into the yard. “I’m gonna fix this place up  on the cheap. But don’t worry, it won’t look it. Your property value’ll go up with us next door.” The Davis residence stood on the other side of the creek beyond the willows and reeds,  alone and imposing and white. Jefferson admired it from afar as any outsider might. If for  nothing more than this new perspective, he was glad he had come.  

“Funny,” Carl started. Jefferson saw that he too was admiring the Davis residence. “Me  and Jazz didn’t think no one lived in the place. No one but a ghost, maybe.”  “No ghosts.” Jefferson laughed. “Not as long as I’m alive and kicking. After that I can’t  guarantee anything.” 

“And if it wasn’t a haunted house, we guessed it was a clubhouse.” 

“Wrong again. But you come over for billiards whenever you please. My son Jeff’s  always looking for someone new to hustle. By the end of the night he can’t stand up straight, but  he can sink an eight ball corner pocket.”  

Carl loosened his toolbelt and suggested they walk off the cake. They followed the  boundary of the back lot where honeysuckle grew in clumps along the creekbank.  “So you’re a handyman,” said Jefferson, “and she’s an Ivy Leaguer.” 

Carl was treading around flatfooted in search of mole holes. He hadn’t mown the lawn  yet. The realtor had been paying a teenager to mow it.  

“Can I ask you a question out of sheer curiosity? Promise me you won’t take offence.”  Jefferson waited until Carl nodded. “I pulled some strings, but Harvard rejected my Jeff. We had  to settle for Vanderbilt.” 

“Settle?” said Carl. “Vandy’s all but Ivy.” 

“You said it,” said Jefferson. “All but.” 

“Vandy’s why we’re here, matter fact. Jazz was hired to teach music appreciation.” “Was she accepted to Harvard outright?” 

“Outright?” said Carl, still patching divots with his foot.  

“She’s clearly made the best of it, and she’s to be commended for that.” Jefferson clasped  his arms behind his back and kept walking even after Carl had stopped.  

“Really?” said Carl. “You’re asking if that’s why Jazz got in?” 

“I’m asking if that’s why Jeff didn’t. He can’t land a decent job. Or can’t keep one at  least.” 

Carl would’ve taken offense, but he was a man of his word and had promised not to.  “Jazz is waiting for me to unload boxes.” He walked toward the house without looking back.  “You know, Carl…” Jefferson’s legs creaked like an antique chair when he squatted to  run a palm along the unmown grass there on the ledge of the creek. “My family used to be in  charge of this land. Not just this spot, but the whole kit and caboodle. Everything south of  Kentucky. Speaking of this spot, though.”  

Before he could get to the point, Jefferson was cut short by a sharp grating sound. Carl  was back inside, pantomiming with his wife behind the sliding glass door.  

* * * 

Later that morning Carl was hanging a crossbar for the curtains when he spotted a  trespasser. The man seemed innocent enough, reclined in a beach chair with a foam cooler by his  side. As he came closer Carl saw the chair had cupholders in the armrest, one of which held a  silver beer can. The trespasser himself held a fishing rod between his knees while snoring  through a sunburnt nose. Before waking him, Carl looked him over. A decent-looking man of  thirty something in a half-buttoned shirt, madras shorts, boat shoes. 

Carl cleared his throat, then said “Skews me,” then gave up and tapped the guy on the  shoulder. The trespasser came to as if he had a fish on the line, leaning forward and reeling. He  didn’t notice Carl until he had the hook in hand, vexed by the missing bait. “Dadgum it.” He  fumbled in the cooler for his worm can but came up with another beer, prying it open with a  gritty fingernail. He’d dug up the worms right here on the ledge where the soil was new and  moist, leaving the shovel stabbed in the ground the way a butcher leaves his cleaver in meat. To  either side of the shovel were a hole and commensurate mound. “One more drink never hurt  anyone, right?”  

“It’s ten-thirty,” said Carl. Or it was when last he looked at the coffeemaker.  “Already?” The trespasser slid on the Croakies he’d been wearing like a necklace and  peered up at a sun that was climbing right along with the temperature. “Then it’s now or never.  Fish don’t eat lunch, you know. Only breakfast and supper.” 

Carl was busy today, so he cut to the chase. “What’re you doing out here?”  “Not having much luck, that’s what.” 

“What’re you doing out here?” Carl tapped his foot. “Stead a somewhere else. There’s  plenty more creek down the way.” 

“My father told me this was the spot.” The trespasser peered into a pail that should’ve  been stirring with fins then looked up into the sun again with the beer pressed to his brow.  “This is my back yad,” said Carl. 

“Where are my manners?” The trespasser stood and held out a hand. “I’m Jeff Davis.”

Carl stuck out a hand of his own and Jeff squeezed it harder than anyone ever had. About  that time a cloud came between them and the sun. A few fat drops wept onto their shoulders.  Jeff, shaking a fist at the heavens, stepped under the umbrella of a willow and pulled out a flask.  When Carl followed him in, Jeff offered it up.  

“I don’t drink that stuff. Not straight anyway.” 

Jeff heard possibility in Carl’s reluctance. “Then let’s send for mint and sugar. We’ll  make juleps. We’ll make a day of it. We’ll send Keesha to Kroger. Or you can send yours.”  “Mine?” 

Jeff looked over his shoulder at Carl’s house. “The lady hanging curtains.” “That’s my wife,” Carl hissed.  

Jeff flushed. “Honest mistake. No hard feelings? Truth be told, I envy you.” “Yeah?” Carl crossed his arms. “And why’s that?” 

“Doing what you want to do. Doing who you want to do.”  

Jeff walked out from under the willow. The rain cloud had passed. He arched his back,  opened his mouth as if to scream, and made the most monstrous face Carl had ever seen. Then he  patted his lips with a lethargic tribal sound. “High time I get back to my nap.”  “First I’d like a word with your father.” 

“No can do.” Jeff slumped back down in his beach chair and propped his feet up on the  cooler. “He’s at the chiro.”  

“Tomorrow then.” 

“Tomorrow’s the ortho. Father’s on his last leg, you see. One bad spill and it’s all me.” “The family fortune?” said Carl. 

“The family name,” said Jeff. “That’s why I’m laying low while I can.” 

Jeff rebaited his hook, doubling it through a single worm to form a fleshy tumor. That  graceful rainbow of a cast landed nowhere near the reeds, the line wafting down until it hung like  gossamer in the gnatty afternoon. 

“Fine. How’s about I have a word with you, then you have a word with him?” Jeff  nodded and Carl went on. “Look, I know no one’s lived in our place for a while. But here we are.  And we’re here to stay. Now I don’t mind you dropping by from time to time, but I’d appreciate  if you didn’t make a habit of wandering over without letting us know.”  

Drawing that deed from his pocket, unfolding it according to the creases, Jeff handed it  over to Carl. Carl held it up like an x-ray, the daylight illuminating all but the black contours of  the contiguous estates. He traced the dashed line that followed the course of the creek, faithful  but for a single divergence along this side of the bank.  

“Heck Carl, I don’t mean to patronize you.” Jeff reeled in and recast. “But the  paterfamilias told me to show you that.” Jeff plunged his naked arm into the ice water and  pitched a cold one at Carl’s chest. “Now you just go on and make yourself at home.”  

* * * 

Come late afternoon a boy of about ten found the shovel just where Jeff had left it. He  pretended he was King Arthur as he pulled it from the earth, fencing with his shadow until he’d  slain the dark knight several times over. Only once did he wind up on the wrong end of the  sword, having tripped over a hole in the ground still wriggling with earthworms. He pinched one  between his fingers, pulling it apart, and waited for it to become two. This concept— regeneration—he’d learned in science class. He bored when the worm didn’t grow back right away and, taking the hole as a suggestion to dig, commenced to slinging soil over his shoulder.  Some of it landed in the creek. Some of it showered down into his hair, which was about as  sheeny and unkempt as frayed copper wire.  

Carl spotted him first, but Jasmine said she should go. Knowing kids tend to skedaddle  when approached by a stranger, she came upon him quietly but without realizing her shadow had  preceded her. The redhead spied it and, presuming the dark knight had been revived, sprang to  his feet. He charged right into Jasmine’s grasp, braces flashing as he bit into her forearm. She  staggered back and examined the imprint of his crowded teeth. Then she looked at the boy  himself. He’d recovered the shovel and retreated a few steps, lunging and gashing the space  between them so she’d keep her distance, his nose scrunched ferociously, his freckled cheeks  bunched under his eyes. Jasmine resisted the urge to call him a brat or monster or little shit.  

“Whatcha digging?” she asked with a strained smile. He glanced at the hole, now a few  feet deep, before turning one wary eye back on her. “Is it a grave?” she asked. Jasmine didn’t  mean to be morbid. Next to the hole was a pair of twigs that resembled a homemade cross. But  the bark was worn in the middle, meaning the boy must’ve abandoned them after failing to make  fire.  

“Maybe.” The kid seemed to like that idea. “Yeah. That’s what it is. A grave.” When she  asked whose grave, he shrugged. “A dead person’s.” When she asked if he knew a dead person,  he nodded eagerly. “Mimaw. But she’s already got a grave.” When Jasmine asked who the grave  was for, then, if not his grandmother, he said, “None of your beeswax,” and scratching his  cowlick, added, “Maybe it’s for me.”  

Were the boy a man, Jasmine might’ve concerned herself with that last comment. But he  was still a boy and thus immortal in his own eyes. Die! Die! Die! he would yell while shooting bullets from his finger. And if he himself died—a cop or robber, a cowboy or Indian, a Rebel or  damn Yankee—he would lie like Mimaw had in the casket until no one was around, then jump  up and run for his life.  

“But that’s silly,” said Jasmine, “because you’re not dead.”  

“You don’t gotta be dead to have a grave. Papaw has a grave right by Mimaw’s. It’s got  his name and birthday and when he croaks they’ll add his deathday.” 

“Speaking of names.” She knelt so they were eye to eye. “I’m Jasmine.” 

He switched the shovel to his left hand and shook—“J.D.”—then leapt back in a  defensive stance.  

“I see,” she said. “Another Jefferson Davis.” 

“That’s Papaw’s name.” He dropped the shovel to list three generations on his fingers. “Here’s how to remember it. Our names get smaller, just like our ages: Jefferson, Jeff, J.D.” He  explained this lineage with his head held high. Initials were something a boy could be proud of,  stitched as they were into the child’s pajamas, etched as they were into the father’s flask.  “And what number are you, all in all?” 

The boy made a face. “Who’s counting?”  

“Someone, I’m sure. Some kooky historian.”  

“Then why should I?”  

J.D. narrowed a pupil at the sinking sun then reached of a sudden for the shovel. Across  the way Keesha picked up her pace. It’d been two days and she still hadn’t finished the gazebo.  Now that the boy was at ease in her presence, Jasmine snuck up on him and snatched the shovel.  

“Hey, give it back!” he demanded, but she held it higher than he could jump. “Give it!”  When he tired of jumping, he kicked her shin and retrieved it on the drop.

“You little shit!” she said before clapping a hand over her mouth. 

“I’m telling,” the boy sang.  

“Keep digging!” Jeff called from the other side of the creek. “Do your worst, J.D.! Dig to  Red China.”  

Carl made his way onto the scene. He’d been watching from behind the new curtains, and  when the kid kicked his wife, he could stand by no longer. He joined Jasmine, followed the  thread of her gaze through the creek’s parallel treelines. There was Jeff, sipping on a Julep. He’d  climbed up on the veranda to take in the last of the sun. He raised his tarnished cup to Carl and it  caught a ray of light, gleaming with a luster both silver and gold.  

“Now Jeff,” Carl pointed a toe towards the hole, “we got us a little problem here.” “Come on over,” Jeff suggested. “We’ll hash it out over a cocktail.” 

“I don’t want a cocktail, Jeff. I want this hole filled. Someone could get hurt.” “He won’t hurt himself. He’s dug holes up and down the Gulf. Heck, he’s buried himself  neck deep at high tide.”  

“I’m not talking about him, Jeff. I’m talking about us. The people who live over here.” “If you’re that worried, put a fence around it.” Jeff stood as the last of the sun lifted from  the veranda. He made a bullhorn of his hands. “Let’s call it a day, Keesha. You too, J.D. Time to  wash up.”  

“That’s not our responsibility,” said Jasmine.  

Jeff opened the French doors that led into one of many bedrooms. “Alright, lady. Have it  your way. We’ll fill the hole for you.”  

* * *

Keesha was wearing the same overalls for the third day in a row. By now they appeared stonewashed, though they’d been true blue when she’d bought them on Jefferson’s dime. She  spread her limbs like a scarecrow and stood in the sun until the smears dried to her skin, then  took off her shoes and entered through the backdoor—the routine she went through whenever  nature called. She didn’t bother washing her hands since she would just dirty them again. She  simply flushed the toilet and ran the faucet to lap at that cold popsicle of tap water. She thought  she heard the doorbell and turned the faucet off to listen. A woman screamed upstairs, followed  by two gunshots and a blare of music. With Jefferson in his study and Jeff sleeping one off, J.D.  was sneaking in an R-rated movie. How the boy craved violence.  

Keesha wiped her hands and went for the foyer. The driveway was a straight shot of  marble chips and magnolias. She hadn’t heard a car crunching its way forward, meaning the  caller had come on foot. She saw through the cut crystal doorframe that it was the new neighbor.  He looked small standing on the porch between two Grecian columns. He didn’t introduce  himself, just studied her—her clothes soiled and her hair skunk-striped with whiting. “Can I have a word with Mister Davis?” 

“Which Mister Davis? We got three of those.” 

“The oldest,” he said.  

“He indisposed.” Keesha started to shut the door but felt it stick with the wedge of a foot.  “What is it you need, mister? Sugar? Flour? You short of something other than manners?” “That’ll be all, Keesha,” said a voice from the top of the stairway. “I’m happy to chat  with Carl.” Carl noticed the duckhead cane Jefferson used to make his descent, the way he  placed both feet square on each stair. Keesha tried to come to his aid but Jefferson waved her off. 

When he reached the landing he clutched the banister and caught his breath before conquering  the last flight to stand surefooted on the marble. “Little early for billiards, isn’t it, Carl?” Carl was shuffling his feet to keep from losing momentum. Were this his own house, he  would’ve been pacing. “What’s with the flag in my yad?”  

“Your yard?”  

“My yad. Your yad. What’s the difference? It looks like I’m the one whistling Dixie.” “You asked us to fill the hole, so we filled it. And yes, we posted a flagpole so there  wouldn’t be an unsightly scar in our yard.”  

“I thought I heard you up here.” Jeff smiled groggily at Carl, having finally emerged  from hibernation. Guzzling straight from a bottle of V8, he wandered into the foyer with bedhead  and a cheek scarred from pillow stitching. “What’s up?” 

“It’ll never end, will it? Not till one of you’s castrated.” Carl pointed upstairs at J.D., who  was spying through the spindles. The boy would have gone undetected if not for those jailbird  hands. “He’ll have a son, then he’ll have a son, then he’ll have a son.” 

Jefferson poked Carl’s sternum with the heel of his cane. “What on earth are you  rambling about?”  

“This.” Carl presented Keesha. “For Christ sake, man, you even have her barefoot.” Carl  had mistaken Keesha for a pitiable throwback as opposed to the talented guerilla actress she was.  “Come work for me and my wife. We’ll find something for you to do. And we’ll treat you right.  Whatever he pays you, I’ll pay that and a half.” Carl made to spirit her away, but Keesha didn’t  budge from her blocking. “Fine.” Carl patted the seat of his cargo pants. “I’ll double it.” 

Keesha didn’t exactly break character, but she did look to Jefferson as if to say Line? After all, she had bills to pay. Her father’s and her own. 

“Last I checked this was a free country, Keesha. You work for whomever you please.”  Having given that direction, Jefferson stood back to watch the intended dénouement:  Keesha slamming the door on Carl.  

* * * 

Seeing that the neighbor had tracked in mud from his creek crossing, Keesha could no  longer put off mopping. Giving up on the gazebo, she rinsed out the bucket of whiting and  refilled it with soap suds. Then she lugged it inside to slap at the marble and wrench the gray  dreadlocks. Morning passed. Before texting the guys to come down for lunch, Kesha improvised a bit, leaving a fresh layer on the landing between flights and waiting in the trap room under the  stairway until she heard the bony avalanche. One hip would’ve done it, but by the sound of it, she’d gotten both.  

As the other Jeffersons rushed to the foot of the stairs, Keesha gathered her things and  slipped offstage. She lowered the flag to half-staff before making her commute without breaking  the speed limit, like any other day. Once home, she cut and compartmentalized her father’s pills then stood alone before her bathroom mirror picking off streaks of dried paint that pulled her  skin as tight as stitches. Only then did it occur to her that she had toppled the wrong statue. The rusty old figurehead was merely corrosive, whereas the coppertone cupid was newly armed. 

The post Jefferson Davis the Nth appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Lora Lee broke up with the ocean. The news talked about it for as long as they talk about any celebrity drama, so about one afternoon. They mentioned that Lora Lee moved to Amsterdam, and she’s a poet and you know what they say about poets (this is the part where the reader is supposed to nod wisely and try to remember any prejudices about poets). Misspelled her hometown’s name three times in three different articles. 

What the news didn’t say is that Lora Lee wears perfectly ironed shirts and cuts the crusts off her toast. That she hasn’t written for over a month but she sings to the flower pots on her window in the evening. When singing she positions herself so that the flowers and her and the view out of the window fit into a perfect perspective, silhouettes in gold, portrait of an artist in the city of art. Lora Lee has long fingers and smiles with only the corners of her lips. 

Lora has dated lakes, a small, warm-water sea. She wrote poems in the curls of their beaches and they whispered pleasantries in waves, cradled her in mirrored sunsets. They phased in and out of love in soft watercolor touches. It was different, with the ocean. 

They met on a ferry. Lora has a plan for what she’ll do if she finds out the world will end in ten minutes but never had a spare tire, so adventure, so raincoat and rubber boots but no umbrella, face to the rain. The rain is also the ocean (many things are). The ocean ran down Lora’s face with the professional intimacy of a make-up artist, asked her the traveler’s questions: where are you going? Where are you from? Lora’s voice flowed with stories. Somewhere between an evening in Paris two years ago and the pigeon she met in the park this morning Lora invited the ocean to her friend’s gallery opening – Sunsets In Porcelain is perfectly exquisite, I do hope the critics do it justice. They wandered the streets, Lora in her raincoat and the ocean in her sunlit rain, glimpses in puddles and storefront screens. Lora Lee showed her cafes and antique shops, strung in and out of conversations, made every street lamp into a stage and passerby into protagonist. The ocean held most of everything and Lora Lee held the ocean and everything fit. 

They broke up in a year. Lora Lee was sitting on the waves, not quite walking on water but letting it hold her with its being. Lora read her poems from memory. In them the ocean was a field, a desert, lovely beast with stomach full of sun. In her poems the ocean was a woman with a gentle smile and never spoke of anything but love. 

I don’t think I ever felt like this before. 

Like what? 

Small. There is so much of me that never fits in your poems. 

Quaint. Surely nothing important? 

The ocean ran her heavy waves along the bones of ships, bloated corpses centerpieces in the ballet school of scavengers. Took stock of trash islands, strange squirming life, jagged edges and soft, lush rot blooming in her shallows.

I don’t really know. I don’t think you could love any of it. 

Lora lies in bed in her beautiful apartment and runs months through her fingers. Waterside walks, quiet evenings, breakfasts in bed. Carefully curated secrets. Her face smiling back at her from the water. Love story with no beats missed. Roll credits, roll credits, never mind what happens next. 

Lora Lee volunteers at the lost and found, tries to let things be simply things. The young person looking for their phone and the phone the lost and found received a few hours ago do not match in tak, she recommends another lost and found, doesn’t know how the story ends. The lipstick-kiss sealed letter sits and sits and is mostly dust. Every once in a while a person with ink stains on their fingers or lovestruck look walks in, keys and keys and ticket, the letter sits. No address. No narrative. 

On her way to the lost and found Lora greets the bushes, the storefronts, the sidewalk puddle. It’s usually there, shaped by the pavement, sky-colored and oil-painted. No words, small wave, small wave back. 

There’s a name on the outside of the letter and Lora checks the phonebook, not quite sure what she’s looking for. Finds addresses. Anette on Tidorestraat, on Makassarstraat, on Boniplein. Anette by the park and Anette with a full view of the docks, ships and ships and life. Maybe the letter was to go by ship, by train, France to Denmark or the other way around or something else entirely. Maybe the Anette in question is registered as Levi or Antoine or any other ghost. Maybe this story has no ending at all: Lora Lee, dear Lora Lee, is it so against your being to leave anything unfinished? 

The Anette on Tidorestraat cannot speak for long, fatigue lining her face, children noises. Her apartment smells of cats and pasta and looks like it was intended to be something else. She is not looking for letters and she has enough of love. It began to rain between Makassarstraat – sorry, she moved out a few months ago, moved in with her partner, I think, – and Boniplein. It fits, Lora tells herself, the third act rain, of course there would be rain and music and running for the last door, warm orange to contrast the storm, violin music swirling in anxious notes. Rule of threes and third acts. 

A woman answers on the second knock. Smiles with only her lips, interrupts Lora a few sentences in. People are speaking in the living room in hushed voices and her eyes are brimmed with red and she sounds as tired as she looks. 

I’m sorry. I am not expecting any letters. There must have been a misunderstanding. Have a good day. 

The door shuts and Lora stands in the rain and doesn’t notice how the letter is soaked through, the trace of someone’s lips mixing with the ink mixing with the water, one recipient short of a kiss. 

She walks back to the lost and found, keeps her head down, hides from the rain in her jacket. People hurry past and there’s a child stomping through every puddle with all the joy a human heart can hold and she doesn’t take note, doesn’t make it into a poem. The rain feels nothing but wet and cold. 

The lost and found is closed for the day and Lora sits on the steps and nothing, nothing. The world goes on and she has no plot. 

Hi, says the puddle, rippling with rain, a thousand faces per second. Tough day? Lora opens her mouth, closes it. Nods. Lets the silence stretch beyond comfort. 

There’s an absence sitting beside her in the shape of an ocean and there’s an absence in the shape of her, too, and she can’t think of anything to say that would cover it. 

Yeah, she says, three breaths and a few selves later. Something like it. 

The puddle gurgles in sympathy and it’s a little bit the ocean – many things are – but not enough to remember any lasting hurt, any long-lived wisdom. All it has to give is a little understanding, and Lora gives some back. 

It rains and rains and she and the puddle talk about nothing – rubber-booted kids, the underbellies of umbrellas, the world cast in the shadow of leaves floating on your surface, poems, published and not, hometowns with names so forgettable they get misspelled thrice and so you feel inclined to pick a name that really rolls off the tongue. 

When the rain tires out of itself Lora goes home, the letter doesn’t. Maybe once it dries some bird takes the fallapart paper and shapes it into something like home, maybe its never-recipient lives so much she hardly missed out on any love, who am I to know? 

Lora Lee’s learning how to live and she’d rather not fit herself into any more stories. Enough to say she carries an umbrella with her from time to time.

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