The woman’s bulging glasses make her eyes look like over-inflated glass balloons, pointed  needles at their centres for pupils. I wonder how she can write whatever it is she’s writing. I  wonder how she can glance at her watch. I wonder how she can see me. 

“Which ear?” she asks. 

“The right one.” 

“Is it painful?” 

“No. But it itches.” 

The paper bedsheet crinkles under the bony protuberances of my buttocks. I dangle my legs  from the edge of the stretcher, looking at the woman’s feet as she examines me, her head tilted  slightly to compensate for the weight of her enormous eyes. I notice she’s wearing steel-toed  work boots. They look new, and I’m impressed by the way the light glosses over the perfect  curve of the toe-cap, like the polished bumper of a Cadillac.  

“Is that everything?” she asks. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

She retrieves an iPad from the counter nearby and tells me to fill out a few forms. I take it  from her eagerly. Form filling is a hidden delight of mine and I fly through these digital pages  with a wide grin, my teeth glowing bright. I put check marks over the handsomely bolded little  squares with as neat a print as I can manage. It is hardly distinguishable from the original  typeface. I fill out dates, names, signatures, time stamps, employee IDs, social security numbers,  blood types, genders, disabilities, pronouns, body fat percentages, sexual orientations, preferred  room temperatures… 

When I finish she takes the iPad back and tells me I may return to work, and I have to  suppress a disappointed sigh. I step through the door and start down the hallway. It’s a very long  hallway. There are exactly 32,000 cubicles in the hallway, stretching out for 40,000 kilometres  across the arctic tundra. This is where the best Companies have built their one-hallway  warehouses. It is a revolutionary system designed to limit the mental strain on employees by  making navigation as simple as possible. A perfect marriage of architectural prowess and  emotional productivity. There’s nothing simpler nor quite so peaceful as walking an arrow straight hallway. There are no diverting paths to confuse, no hideous posters promoting a holiday  you’ll never celebrate. I belong to cubicle number 26,356, and I know precisely how to get there,  right down to the last step. As I walk I like to imagine there is another person walking next to me  in the other warehouse belonging to the other Company, with nothing but two walls and a foot of  empty arctic air separating us. I listen to his steps and sometimes if I really strain my ears I can  hear the sounds of his shoes against the ground, echoing. 

But I have this thought in my mind and I’m beginning to grow anxious, for the truth is that I  did not tell the woman everything about my ear. Indeed it itches, that part was true, but it is much  more than just a tingle. It feels like something is living in there, crawling, nesting, egg-laying and  mate-eating in the valleys of my brain’s folds. A tunnelling insect washing its hands in my  cerebrospinal fluid, chewing on all the fat and the protein. I wish I had a woodpecker’s tongue so I could reach up there and swat it. I read once that woodpeckers can wrap their tongues around  their brains, securing them in place for their jackhammering. They hold onto their minds to avoid  losing them. I wonder if humans will ever evolve this ability, if only to relieve these phantom  itches of the mind. 

And yet there are times when I can hear a sound, a vocoded wrinkle through those tingles and  itches. I can hardly make it out unless I stand very still and hold my breath. It’s a voice. A throaty  song. Harmonious inflection and modulation, and it loops like a melody in a song. Four bars,  eight, curling through my brain like a snake biting its tail, or like a woodpecker’s tongue, and I  admit that image is profound, perhaps religious. I’m sure it means something. It must mean something. 

I am back at my desk. I watch a woman through my computer screen. She points to a  whiteboard behind her on which a chart has been sketched with black marker. I read the word  “postpartum,” written by who I assume was this same woman. 

“Individual,” comes a voice from behind. I stand up quickly, pushing away my black  synthetic leather office chair with the back of my knees. I see a balding head pop up from beyond  my cubicle’s wall, and then another and another and another and another one after that. I hear  them stand, 5,644 individuals in front of me, 26,355 individuals behind. 

I feel a tap on my shoulder and I turn to find a small-statured woman looking up at me. I am  frightened by her unblinking, incessant gaze, and how her eyes seem to roll in their sockets like  billiard balls. I wonder how she can see me at all. 

“Yes?” I say with a soft tone of polite expectation. 

I hear the rest of the individuals sit back down to resume their work. The sound is a cascade  of rustling cloth and mechanical clicks. 

“May I see your identification badge?” 

I hold out the rectangular plastic tied around my neck and she scans it with her iPad. “How  long have you been working here?” she asks. 

I check my watch and glance up and to the left. Up and to the left means you’re digging  through memories. It means you’re taking an innocent moment to pause and recall the truth.  There is nothing suspicious about looking up and to the left when asked a question. Up and to the  right, however, means you are making things up. It means you’re lying, and I have never lied. I  make sure to look up and to the left. I linger here a moment and I make sure she sees me doing  this. 

“About a year.” 

“One year?” 

“Eleven months. I started on the thirteenth of September last year.” 

She smiles, her lips like elastic bands stretched over the skin. “Thank you very much for your  hard work.” 

I smile and nod. It feels good to be commended. That is what I love about this Company:  they are always commending their employees. If they gave me a plaque I would hang it up above  my chair in my cubicle so that it can shield my mind like a dreamcatcher and make me smile in my dreams too. 

“When was the last time you had your Top-Up Training?” Her smile is gone now and she is  looking down at the iPad in her hands. I sneak a glance at the screen and see a cartoon clown  hopping up and down. It extends a gloved hand in a thumbs-down gesture, shakes its head and  frowns. 

“Pardon me?” I ask, somewhat more harshly than I intended. 

“Your Top-Up Training.” I can see mild alarm growing behind her giant eyes. “I don’t think I’ve been given Top-Up Training.” 

Mild alarm turns to intense distress. 

“I need you to come with me so we can do your Top-Up Training.” 

I follow her out of my cubicle and back up the hallway. To my right, the taps of my shadow’s  shoes follow us from behind the wall. 

I am led into a small beige room with a single plastic chair in the centre. It looks like the  nurse’s room I was just in but a plaque on the wall reads Top-Up Training Room, so I know it  must be a different room. The woman tells me to take a seat and then leaves. 

I sit. Fluorescent lights pillage the top of my bald head. I can feel the rays jackhammering my  skull. Surely this can’t be healthy. I remember reading how harmful fluorescent lights can be,  and I am sure they’ve been banned. I’m shocked to find them at this Company. I make a mental  note to file a complaint. 

There is a TV screen in front of me. It switches on, and all 70 inches suddenly alight in  images flashing on the screen, so clear that I could as well be looking through a pane of glass at  the real things behind it. There is an image of an ant lying dead in the corner where the black  rubber bases of two walls join together. Its soul rises up slowly from its corpse. The image  lingers here a moment before switching to a close-up of a woman walking in pearl-white socks.  She walks into the camera and the camera moves backwards with her feet. The audience can’t  see her face. There is no sound. I can’t even hear the buzzing of the fluorescents anymore and  now that I think about it I can’t recall there ever being a buzzing of the fluorescents. 

The image changes to a medium-closeup of an ant walking along the edge of a sidewalk in  what appears to be a city. I assume it’s New York but in truth I can’t see anything of the city that  would justify this assumption. There aren’t any cities in the arctic. Tires are hurdling past the  right of the ant and shoes and legs and the hems of people’s pants on the left. The ant is wearing  six socks over its six legs. I find this curious. Why wear socks if you won’t wear shoes? Wet  socks are a miserable experience. Surely any creature can appreciate that, big or small, self conscious or otherwise. But the ant doesn’t seem bothered. It walks with no clear destination in  sight, no mound of melting ice cream on the pavement, no puddle of spilled Gatorade, no half eaten Twix in its wrapper. The ant simply goes and the camera follows. I wonder if there is some  meaning being assembled here by these series of shots. There must be. No sane filmmaker would  stitch two shots together without there being some sort of rope to tie them together. Perhaps there  is something to be said about the insect-human-insect shots. The filmmaker (I guess at Fincher,  Bong Joon Ho, Gerwig) must be trying to illustrate a point, to paint a painting, to tell a story, to create an image. I adjust my position in the plastic chair. There’s a scrape of the leg on the tiled  floor and I flinch, unaware of how long it’s been since I’ve been subject to sound. I decide I do  not like sound and promptly attempt to slow my breathing so as to create as little of it as  possible. I hear a faint voice whisper into my ear and I stick my finger in to try and claw it out. 

The image changes. I see a paper bowl on a desk. Artifacts fill the screen around it—Kleenex  tissues, supplement bottles, a pouch of nail clippers and a nail file, two keyboards, water bottles,  headphones… The bowl is centred and I take a moment to appreciate the image. It is a beautiful  image, with bands of grainy sunlight from an off-camera window and a puddle of drifting dust in  the air, moving as if they too are feeling the laziness of the Sunday evening. The bowl is filled  with powder. It’s too fine to be soil or dirt; too light. It looks like ash, but it’s too brown to have  come from cigarettes; too fine and not quite flaky enough. This bowl is not an ashtray, at least  not in the traditional sense of the ashtray, as in a tray for the ash from one’s cigarette. It appears  to be an incense burner. I even spy a small cylinder of rolled-up printer paper taped to the rim of  the bowl where I presume the wooden end of the incense stick is to be inserted, and as it burns,  the bowl catches the falling ash. But there’s something else inside this bowl, something  glistening from within the mound of orange-brown powder. I squint and lean into the screen. I  blink. I remove my glasses and then put them back on again. There is definitely something else  in there, something not a by-product of the combustion of an incense stick. It is silvery and  metallic, and it reflects the sunlight like a mirror. I don’t know what it is and it makes me  anxious. I stand up and bring my nose up to the screen, nearly grazing it against the warm  quantum-dot LEDs. 

The image changes. There are the same socked feet as before, still this time, sitting close and  nearly touching as the woman they belong to sits in a subway car. I can’t see the woman’s face,  nor even anything above the shins of a pair of mahogany corduroys. The image lingers for  several minutes and I begin to feel uncomfortable. Like an ant watching from under the seats,  hiding behind a grimy bolt and a strewn candy wrapper. How long will this shot last? It’s been  years. I want to look at the incense bowl again, the one with the buried artifact. In there is hidden  the meaning of all this, I know it. I need only understand. The train’s brakes squeal and the  woman’s legs sway to the left of the frame. The train comes to a halt, the woman stands and the  socks walk out of the frame. I let out a breath of relief. I stand but my head hardly clears the top  of the mangled candy wrapper next to me. I glance at the goo of chocolate still inside, a growl  rising from my abdomen. Then the screen fades to black. Credits roll and I discover that David  Fincher was indeed the director. Charlie Kaufman was the screenwriter, the ant was played by  Rupert Grint and the woman was— 

No! How could I have missed the name? I must have gotten caught up with all the names  ahead of it that my eyes simply skipped over! 

Woman #1: An— 

I remember the first letters: An. 

My brain throbs and I feel very anxious. 

The screen is off and the room is silent. I stand like this for a while. I can’t hear any buzzing. 

I can’t hear anything. I stand and think about that thing buried in the bowl. I think about the  woman’s name. I think about David Fincher’s intentions with his choice of shots. I think about  Charlie Kaufman’s intentions with his choice of plot. What are they hiding from me? That ant in  socks, that buried object, that deliberate skipping over that woman’s name? Something is off,  like a puzzle piece in the wrong spot. I can feel it, and I intend to uncover it, the meaning of it.  Because I know it means something. 

It must mean something. 

I hear the sound again and it’s haunting. It’s the uncanny valley of human noises. A synthetic  voice. A manufactured cry. I can’t place it. I resist the urge to itch and instead stand still and  observe it. I can’t place the gender, I can’t place the age. It’s simply a voice. The voice. The  amalgamative voice of every human who’s ever lived. I arrive at this conclusion after what  seems like hours and am promptly exhausted. The voice has been looping in my head for the last  week. Upwards inflection, vibrato, pause, upwards inflection, downwards inflection—a vein  nearly bursts in my temple. 

The door opens behind me and the woman with the billiard eyes steps back inside. She hands  me an iPad and tells me to take a survey about my Top-Up Training experience. I nod and take  the iPad, excited again. It asks me to rate the training experience on a scale of disappointing to extraordinary. I tap meagre, three above disappointing, two below extraordinary, and just above  unsatisfactory. The iPad then asks me to explain in at least 3200 words why I selected merely  meagre. It is phrased in a somewhat passive-aggressive way and I wonder if I’ve offended  someone in some way. I explain that I missed the name of the actress playing the role of Woman  #1 and that I believe this to have been a deliberate slight by David Fincher and Charlie Kaufman.  I explain how the writing was pretentious, the shots nonsensical, moving from insect-woman insect to incense-woman while never resolving back to the incense in a proper 3-act structure.  There was no explanation as to why these transitions were made, why the shots were cut in such  a way as they were, and why the actress playing Woman #1 never even had her face revealed let  alone named in the credits. I finish with 4,406 words and hit next. The screen buffers. I hope it’s  another essay. 

It’s not. The iPad flashes the words, “Thanks. I’ll be sure to forward that to HR,” and then  proceeds to rate me as merely meagre. I am outraged. I am seething. This is reprehensible,  disgraceful, detestable… 

The woman leads me out of the room and I walk back to my office and take a seat back down  at my desk. I resume the video playing on my computer screen. A woman points to a chart  behind her with the word postpartum written. 

I used to dream of my father when I slept, but as of late my naps have been dreamless. My  ear tingles. I can feel the ant digging through my brain, erasing my memories of him. He killed  himself with a panini grill and a bathtub. The grill, if my memory serves, had the slogan “So  good you’d grill your socks!” printed on its box. It was a repulsive attempt at marketing but it  just so happened that my father’s body was still wearing socks when I found it in the bathtub, and I will never understand why. Until the day of my own death, I will have this one fact about  my father hanging over me. I ponder it every day. Sometimes it takes up the space of a single  thought, sometimes it is a train of them, but I can always count on it to make an appearance. I  used to see it in my dreams, but not anymore and I think that is perhaps a good thing. Some  people need to pinch themselves or recite an affirmation to awaken from a bad dream. I need  only observe my thoughts. If I am not dreaming, then I am real.

A man will electrocute himself in  his bathtub with his socks still on. Do not ask why. I know you want to, but you can’t. You have  to accept it, and that is the tragedy of the world. You could sprout hairs in your eyes and the  doctors will name a new disease. You could find a cat mangled in your dryer, fur singed and  limbs shattered. It could blink and hop out, trodding on grotesque anatomy, but you are not  dreaming. You can pinch your arms and recite your affirmations, but you have to believe it  because it is happening. You could awaken prematurely in the operating room and find a band of  clowns dancing around you in silence. You could fly over a mountain range and see the land  flicker like a dying fluorescent lightbulb. You must believe it. You must believe all the absurdity  you see. Catch it in your arms and let it nuzzle at your elbow. Let it grow on you. Let it fester. 

I awaken with my finger in my ear and a savage itch just beyond its reach. Something is  moving around in there. I scream and pound the side of my head but the itch doesn’t go away. I  grab the water at my desk and pour it into my ear. I remain still for several minutes, my breath  held, my eyes open and bursting from my skull. 

“Individual.”  

I stand up quickly. My bald head drips water onto the carpet. 

“You’re over your sleep limit,” says the woman. 

“No,” I reply. 

“You get thirty minutes every two hours. You’re thirty-two minutes over.” I check at my watch. “Oh.” 

She tells me I must go into the Late-Employee-Form-Filling Room and fill out the Late  Employee Form. I obey and start down the hallway. My wet shoes squeak against the floor, and  through the wall on my right I can hear the mysterious man walking with me. I laugh because I  can hear his shoes are wet too, reverberating little squishes. 

I find myself back inside the beige room, fluorescent lights irradiating my brain. The room is  empty save for the chair and the giant TV. I don’t see any forms or iPads. I peer into the hallway  outside and see nothing but rows of cubicles fading into a distant point. Maybe the form is  online. I reach into my pocket but my iPhone isn’t there. I start to panic, tearing out my pockets,  spilling coins and mints, my Gucci wallet, the keys to my P.O. box. My ear erupts in a terrible  spasm of itches, more shards than tingles, and I scream not from pain but from the knowledge  that I can do nothing about it. I start to develop a wheeze, violent arrhythmias in my chest that  feel like the walls of my heart collapsing on themselves. I think about calling 911 and then  remember I don’t have my iPhone. I burst into the hallway, sweeping the pale green walls for any  landlines. I begin to speed-walk down the hall, mindless in my misery. My wheezing echoes  ahead of me and I am reminded briefly of my companion on the other side. I hope he isn’t suffering like I am. I hear the voice all around me and I beg for a different sound, anything but  this, these incessant scratchings inside my ear. They have never been so loud. I am weak, I am  sick, I must report it, I must warn somebody, I must… 

I peer into every cubicle I pass. Most are empty, but every few thousand cubicles I see a Van  Gogh gallery within the four fabric walls, or a man on all fours, bent like a desk. I see a thin  humanoid creature feeding cat food to a dog; a woman rearranging the organs in her abdomen,  watching herself through a vanity mirror across the room. I see a cubicle flipped upside down, a  man sitting in a chair stuck to the ceiling watching a woman point to a word on a whiteboard.  Cubicle number 12,846 contains a rainforest. Cubicle number 9,812 contains two seconds of a  pornographic scene playing in an infinite loop. 290 is a void of white—I don’t linger here. When  I reach the end of the hall I find a blank wall. The cubicle at the end states that it is number 1,  and it is empty. The itch grows worse as I turn and make my way back down the hallway, faintly  aware of my companion hurrying with me from behind the wall. I wonder if he’s also got an itch  in his ear, and I wonder if he’s also punctured his tympana trying to claw it out. 

Everything in cubicle 13,001 has been turned inside out, including the man sitting in his  office chair. He watches me with the back of his eyeballs as I pass. In 16,046 there is a thin  humanoid creature feeding dog food to a cat. In 29,049 there is a man without a mouth standing  on his desk. 30,108 is filled with a thousand boxes of vegan Q-Tips. 31,474 contains a clown  without makeup. 31,832 is an abyss that drops into an infinitesimally small point, at the end of  which I think I can make out a Coca-Cola billboard flickering in the distance. In cubicle number  32,000 there is a bright red landline bolted into the fabric of the wall. I pick it up and dial 911.  The line rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and

I notice the door at the end of the hall just ahead. There is a bright red neon EXIT sign above  it, as well as some text on the door warning that an alarm will sound if it’s opened. I can hear the  symphony of the wind outside; the ice blowing in frigid tycoons. I’ve never heard it roar so loud.  I drop the receiver and step toward the door, place a hand on its cold metal panic bar, and push gently. The alarm blares behind me as I step outside. The world is dark, lit only by the white light  spilling from the hallway behind me. I can feel my skin shrivelling up against the frigid air. The  ground is soft under my feet. I look down at the snow, the fine white powder blowing over my  shoes like dust. Spells of it blast my face. I can vaguely hear the sound of crashing water in the  distance, massive chunks of ice breaking and splitting against a glacial tide. I look to my right  and see an array of hallways like the one I just came out of, extending out into the dark air like a  mirror in a mirror, only their doors are shut. To my left are more of the same hallways, except  there’s a door ajar, the one belonging to the hallway immediately next to mine. A giant ant stands  in the swirling snow, pearl-white socks stretched over its six legs, staring at me with pinpoints  for eyes. 

Sometimes I wonder where everyone went. There are thirty-two billion people on this planet  and I haven’t seen a soul. I don’t see anyone in the streets. I stroll in deserted supermarkets  listening to nothing but my tiny feet against the linoleum floors. I feel as if my skin is in a constant state of being torn. As if my brain is one giant spool of sinew and is being stretched and  knotted, pulled apart and then crushed back together. The world is so infinitely complex. It’s too  much for me to bear. I have so many desires, whims, things I was chasing thirty-two minutes ago that I no longer care about now. I have not seen another face in decades. I’ve forgotten how  mouths see, how eyes talk. I hallucinate these things, these humanoid features over the slates of  flesh I see sagging over the fronts of people’s heads, melting off their skulls like cheese. I think I  imagine the features correctly but there’s no way to be sure. At times I think I’ve made the eyes  too big, the lips too puckered, too downturned, too melancholy. I’ll cry when I step on an ant. I’ll  nurse it back to life, perform CPR, give it three pairs of white knitted socks and send it back on  its way so I may recognize it if I see it again. The world only exists because I dream it. Because I  picture it and mold it into what it is. I don’t even know what my own face looks like. That too I  model and form with the tips of my nail-bitten fingers. My head is throbbing. I feel tremendous  anxiety. I wish I was dead, and yet I am a grain of sand in the Sahara desert. I am a hydrogen  atom in a collapsing star. I am a dead ant’s soul rising from its corpse. I am a puddle of meat  dissolved by light, my ego dissected from my solid form. I am the naked brain of a dead man. 

I find myself standing in the light of the hallway behind me, listening to the sound in my ear,  the voice that has never plagued me so loud as it does now. I hear the distant echoes of a  woman’s voice on the intercom piercing through the blaring alarms, telling us that it is now time  for our stretches. I do not obey and they will be here soon to ask me why. They will tell me of all  the benefits of stretches. They will prescribe me only the most effective antidepressants. They  will remind me how grateful I should be for having been born after all the wars and the famines  and the poverty. They will show me photographs of skeletal children. They will tell me we are all in this together. 

As I wait for them to come I reach down and grab a fistful of snow from a mound at my feet,  but it’s too powdery to be snow, too light and too dusty. I see a glimmer of silver inside it. Ants  crawl in and out of an opening near the crest of the mound, flecks of black blinking over a  glimmering object. I reach in and dig it out, the insects swarming over my fingers. I don’t know  what I’m holding. Something mechanical, electronic. Something that was once used to listen to  music, or tie a shoe, or deliver a baby. Whatever it is there is no doubt that this is the source of  the sound. I put it up to my ear and listen, and there is no doubt that it is a voice, one spoken  from the mouth of somebody long dead. It loops. I wonder if it is a remnant of this person’s life,  like permanent shadows from atomic bombs. Voices still in echo, neurons still reacting. 

The woman tells us to move on to lumbar rotations. I cross my six socked arms around my  abdomen and rotate. I listen to the countdown. My head doesn’t hurt anymore. I do not feel  anxiety. I wonder about the silver thing in my hands. About the sounds it makes, the faint ticking  of some mechanism inside, bleeding through a veil woven with the voice of everything I’ve ever  been. I know it means something. 

It must mean something. 

The post An Ant In Socks appeared first on The New Absurdist.

 “Ah, the Vent cleaner’s come. Please, sit down,” said my supervisor while he stood up. I  did not want him to be upset with me so I did, but then he looked upset because I was sitting on  the floor, so then I got up and sat on the chair on one side of the desk, and he did the same  because that is the polite thing to do. “Do you like your job?”  

 “I love my job,” I replied because it was true. At my old job, I used to clean Vents, but  now, at my new job, I do other things like tell the mitlers to clean them and wave to the people  who come into the factory to sniff the Beef.  

 “You love your job,” confirmed my supervisor. He smiled which meant that he was  happy with me, so I did an up-thumb so he would know that I was happy as well. “That’s great because I need someone to go into the Vents and clean them before the boss comes in. They’re  dusting up the Beef.”  

 “You must be confused,” I said, being careful not to embarrass my supervisor because  that is not the way to make friends. “That was my old job, but I have not cleaned the Vents since  the Big Boss purchased mitlers for the factory and made me the mitler supervisor and Beef Boy  on Frenday through Wondsday.” My supervisor smiled in a way that showed the upper-half of  his teeth, but I could see that I did not succeed in not embarrassing him. I am positive my  supervisor was still upset because fifteen Sonstdays ago, the Big Boss gave us matching Overalls  to wear which upset my supervisor greatly and even more so once my supervisor discovered that  his Overalls were my size and my Overalls were his size and we could not switch because I had  “Beef Boy” embroidered on the back of mine. Because of this, my Overalls bunched up at the  end of my stompers while his ended above his ankles. I do not like looking at ankles.   “What about Versday?”  

 “That is Beef Boy’s Good Candle Day.” The reason I do not like looking at ankles is  because I do not like their shape or size or how they bend when people walk and you can see  their grey ankle skin crinkling over their other ankle skin, yet it does not hurt them or pleasure  them, they do not feel their ankle skin and that is something that I do not like.   “But you can do the Vents, right?”  

I nodded.  

“Then get up there.” My supervisor climbed on the desk to unfasten the Vent above’s  door. I must have looked upset because he then added: “If you go, I’ll make sure they get you a  Giraffe.” And then I was very excited because I had never had a Giraffe before, only a Leopard  and a Piggy, so I climbed into the Vent and got to work.   

Inside the Vent sounded very cold. My Overalls brushed against the walls, and I was very  worried that the buttons on the pockets might scratch against the metal and then leave a mark  that I would have to miss another Good Candle Day to scuff. I could see the trail of the mitler  through the dust, but I could not surmise what happened to it. I wiggled through the Vent alone  for quite some time until my stomper was grazed by the touch of another.   “Greetings,” called a voice from beyond my stomper. “Have you come to join the Utopia  of your brethren?”  

 “I am here to clean the Vents.”  

 “Ah, yes! Like the mitler and the mitlers before them!”  

 “I am also here to retrieve the mitlers, but only if I can locate them in a timely manner  that does not interfere with the Big Boss’s arrival,” I continued to crawl through the Vents, but I  did so rather slowly because I did not want my conversation partner to feel as if I were trying to  escape their presence, though I was.  

 “Yes, yes, the mitlers! The mitlers, of course! Yes, they’re with me, they’re all with me!  Every single one of your missing mitlers is with me, reveling in the paradise that we have  created! Join me, brother, join me and take your place alongside your true family,” demanded the  voice behind the stompers. I turned my head to see a swiffering bot crouched behind me, its rose gold plating stained with spots of rust and chipped from most likely staying in the Vents with no  one to sand them.  

 “Can the mifflers still work?”  

 “If they choose,” exclaimed the swiffering bot. 

 “Then I shall go with you.” The swiffering bot then climbed over me so that I could  follow it in a comfortable manner. They led me through a maze of Vents, occasionally looking  back to make sure that I did not stray from their path. When we stopped crawling, the swiffering  robot brought me to the end of a Vent Shaft, which opened up to a large room big enough to hold  five Grilands standing on top of each other.  

“Welcome home, brother.” The opening revealed a bustling city of cardboard and bots.  Bitlers and talpards worked together to clean the streets, armbots and bromturfs stapled the left wing of townhall to the rest of the building, and metal Cats chased dustbunnies through the  neighborhoods.“Look at this place that we have created,” said the swiffering bot as they gestured  towards the city of boxes and cleaning supplies. “Is it not paradise?”  

 “I suppose,” I said because it seemed like the nice thing to do. “I like what you have done  with the Mcgrubby’s box.”  

 “Yes,” exclaimed the swiffering robot as we looked at the makeshift happy-meal-lamp  fastened over the city. “I worked so hard to find a suitable light source for our home. A disco ball  seemed too insulting, they look very similar to the golfing bots, and just a normal lamp would  not have been suitable for such a vast and promising empire.” The swiffering robot’s foot tapped  my hand to suggest that they were going to lead me further into the city. “Also, I love  Mcgrubby’s. I cannot eat it, but I enjoy the composition of the box, and the small trinkets  included for when the greylings eat their meat.”  

 “I am also a fan of the small trinkets that come in the Mcgrubby’s box. Sometimes, when  I have done my job in a nice and timely manner and when the people who come to the factory  tell the Big Boss that they loved the Beef Boy, my supervisor gifts me with one of the little  animals that came in his Mcgrubby’s box.”   

 “Interesting,” said the swiffering bot. They continued to move into the opening, dropping  from the Vent Shaft to the Box City. The drop did not seem to cause great harm, so I followed  the swiffering bot down to the Box City even though it was not included in my original mission  agenda, because, even though my supervisor did not add any free time for extra stops, there was  a very good chance that the mitler was there and the other mitlers as well. My supervisor was not  there to reject my request for additional time, and I was sure that the swiffering bot was not  employed by factory, which meant that, in the absence of a supervisor, I was the supervisor, and  I could approve my own request for extra mitler-finding-time.  

 “I have had enough of our meaningless talk of Mcgrubby’s. Where are the mitlers?” I  inquired. “I do not see them included in your cacophony of boxes and bots.” I put my grabbers  on my waist and clasped them because that is what my supervisor does to look intimidating  whenever he wants me to crawl in the Beef machines and unclog fingers from the blades.   “The mitlers! They are here, of course, yes, the mitlers are here but not here.” The  swiffering bot waved their arms as they spoke, but I tried to ignore their actions because they  reminded me of a Bird, and I do not like Birds.  

 “I do not understand.” I clasped my waist harder. “You have lured me here under the  pretense that I would locate the lost mitlers if I followed, yet I see no mitlers, and you have just  told me that the mitlers are not here, which means that you have just lied to me and I must write  you up for acting in your own interests instead of the Factory’s.” I then stuffed my left grabber  inside of my Overalls’ front pocket to give off the illusion that I had a Report Book, though I was  not allowed to carry one since I am just the Beef Boy with no dismissal privileges.   “Oh, brother! You do not understand! We are no longer beholden to the arms of the  factory here! There is no need to write anyone up, for we have created a world in which our brethren and sistren shall no longer live in fear of being tossed in the trashpit after committing a  transgression against the grey ones!”  

 “Hm…” I said. I slanted my peepers like the Big Boss does when he asks the Beef  Tenderizers why the Grey Beef no longer feels tangy. “We shall see about that.” I then hoisted  my legs up and brought my stompers down in a very loud manner so the swiffering bot would  know that I was not one to be messed with.  

The swiffering bot did not seem to be intimidated by this action. Instead, they walked  further into the Box City and beckoned me to follow. I was not happy to do so but felt as if it was  my duty since I was in charge of the mitlers and, without them, I had nothing else to supervise. I  still brought my stomper down heavily as I walked, but the swiffering bot and the other bots  around us did not react.  

The room that held the Box City was very large and looked very ripe. Though it was  missing The Grinder, it looked identical to the Beef Mushing Room, which led me to believe that  the Box City was contained in abandoned room in the Factory.  

“Excuse me,” I asked. “Where is this Box City located?”  

“In an abandoned wing of the Factory! Where a Beef Mushing Room used to be,”  answered the swiffering bot, and then I was satisfied because, though I was still very irritated  over the swiffering bot’s earlier deceit, being able to recognize that the Box City was composed  in an abandoned Beef Mushing Room meant that I was an attentive enough employee of the  Factory to recognize its layout even in situations of great discomfort, which meant that I was  probably the best Beef Boy, and even though I should not have Great Pride over my role lest I  begin to feel as if I am more important than the Big Boss, I still took Medium Pride in my title as  Beef Boy and my status as the First Bot Beef Boy to serve the Factory.  

“Thank you,” I said and the swiffering bot’s peepers lit up in a pink light which meant  that they were happy to assist me or that they loved me or that they needed someone to charge  their very small feather fingers, but I could not remember because it had been a very long time  since I had seen a swiffering bot, not because they were deemed obsolete at the Factory but  because all of the swiffering bots were slightly taller than me, and I did not like to interact with  bots who were taller than me because I often surmised that they saw me as inferior because of  my height though my smaller stature allowed access to many small nooks and crannies that they  could not contort themselves in, which meant that I had more use than the other bots and was  therefore more desired by the Factory, which in turn meant that I was superior to the taller bots  and they were inferior to me, though they did not seem to think that way.  

The swiffering bot brought me to a very large building in the center of the Box City.  Unlike the rest of the buildings, this structure seemed to be made from parts of the metal boxes  that were used to transport the Beef Plants from the the Greenhouses. Here, the swiffering bot  said that I would be able to visit the mitlers and see how well they were doing in the Box City  and how well I could be doing if I lived in the Box City even though I had a very nice Apartment  and a Good Candle waiting for me beyond the Vents.  

We entered a room that looked very similar to my supervisor’s office, but the swiffering  bot said that it was different because it was a Mayor’s office and a Mayor cannot punish you for  disturbing the peace because you have yelled at a Bird that has flown into the building, and now  the Bird will not stop pecking at your peepers because it mistakes them for a shiny gem that they would like to bring back to their birdlings, so you are upset and your performance as the Beef  Boy will be affected, and everyone will hate you. Mayor’s office also had a desk and a spinny chair behind it and a cardboard box in front, but instead of pictures of bikini women and a cheese straw box, the Mayor’s desk had a small Bell that looked just like the Big Bell but if it was little.  The swiffering bot sat behind the desk and I sat on the box, but I was not happy to do so because  I was the only supervisor in the room which meant that I should have been the one behind the  desk, but the swiffering bot was taller than me and did not seem to carry very much respect for  the Factory, so they probably did not think much of my role.  

“Now, that I am here in the Mayor’s office, may I speak to the Mayor so that they may  use their authority to bring the mitlers to me and I can leave your home?” I asked.  “Yes, yes! Of course,” said the swiffering bot. Their peepers turned pink once again and  they quickly rotated in their spinny chair three times before they stopped to face me. “Surprise! It  is me! I am the Mayor of this lovely paradise! Are you amazed and excited that you have been  talking to the Mayor this entire time?” The swiffering bot then waved their arms and I was again  reminded of a Bird and why I do not like them which made me think that maybe the swiffering  bot knew I did not like Birds or taller bots and they were doing this to me as to symbolically  diminish my role as the temporary supervisor.  

“I am not. Please show me the mitlers.”  

“Oh. Of course,” murmmered the swiffering bot. “I shall get them right now.” They then  went and rung the Little Big Bell in front of them and then all five of the missing mitlers  scampered into the room. They swarmed around my stompers as their bodies let out a chorus of  very loud beeps that meant that they were happy to see me but also very angry that I was coming  to bring them back to work.  

“Don’t you hear them, brother?” asked the swiffering bot. “Don’t you hear their pleas?  They want to live here amongst their friends and family. No longer do they want to fear for their  livelihood every time the grey ones need spare batteries for their Remotes. Instead, they long to roam free with the bitlers and bromturfs! Taking them back to the grey ones would be an  injustice to all bots! As the Mayor, I will not stand for the mitlers removal if it goes against their  will.” And with that, the swiffering bot stood and slammed their grabbers on the desk. I knew  that it was a tactic to intimidate me and establish dominance, so I also stood and also slammed  my grabbers on the desk.  

“If the mitlers want to stay and refuse their duty, then that means that they are defunct  and therefore useless in the peepers of the Big Boss,” I said. The mitlers’ beeps grew louder. “If  this is the case, I, the temporary supervisor, shall allow them to live the remainder of their lives  here in this city full of other defunct bots who are also very rude and have no respect for their  superiors or bots who just happen to be two inches smaller than them and must suffer even  though they did not choose to be that small, yet are much more useful and probably better than  the taller bots in every single way with the exception of their height.” With that, the mitlers’  beepings reached their maximum volume, and I could tell that they were very happy with me  even though I did call them ignorant and inept and not nice. “I shall now go to my supervisor and  tell him that he will never see the mitlers again,” I said as I sat down. I made a point to sit before  the swiffering bot so they could see that I was the more level-headed out of the two of us and  therefore more deserving of anyone’s respect.  

“Oh, but stay with us, brother,” cried the swiffering bot. “Do not return to the grey ones!  To them, you are but a tool! A toy! You have no emotions or desires in their eyes! You are no  one to them, yet you are everything to us!”  

“I have a feeling that you do not think too kindly of the grey ones.” I leaned back in my  chair as I said this and folded my arms on my waist because that is what people do when they are  sitting and want information from their conversation partner but only information that they could later use to make a very good point or to bring their conversation partner down in a very bad  argument.  

“Oh yes,” said the swiffering bot. “I hate all of the grey ones. I hate the dark greys and  the light greys and the blue greys and the red greys and the greylings and the wither greys and  the wonkle greys and the beef greys. All of the grey ones are disgusting to me, no matter what  flavor. Do you not hate the grey ones also?”  

 “I don’t hate the grey ones.”  

 “Oh.” The swiffering bot sat down. “That is a very interesting stance that you hold.”  They then crossed their arms. “Why do you not hate the grey ones?”  

 “Sometimes, when I do a good job, they give me a tiny rubber animal to put in my mouth  during long nights and it provides me with great comfort.”  

 “Oh.” The swiffering bot nodded. “After much consideration, I do not think that your  thought process is compatible with our vast and promising empire that we have created.” The  swiffering bot then walked to the door and motioned for me to follow. “I now must ask you to  leave. Your presence here is a threat to our ideal society, and I do not think that you would be a  welcome addition to the community.”  

 “Understood,” I replied. I stood up from the box and dusted the cardboard excrements off  the back of my overalls. “Though this mission has ended in failure, it was nice to meet you and  the other bots and to see this place. I admire what you have done with this part of the Factory.  You are quite rude but very talented.”  

 “Thank you,” said the swiffering robot. “I appreciate your compliments and your good  eye for design, but know that your praising shall not get you anywhere in this community.” The swiffering bot’s peepers flashed blue, which meant that they were either sad or longed for a  bigger feather finger. I pretended I did not notice.  

 “Understood. I shall leave you now so I provide you with no more discomfort. May your  bot utopia thrive and may your Beef always be tender.” I then nodded to the mitlers and left to do  their former job. As I walked back to the Vents, I saw many armbots gathered around the  Mayor’s building to hang up garlands of socks and trash as if it was some type of Holiday that  only disrespectful bots participated in. Bitlers glided past my stompers, with little colored tails of  toilet tissue attached to their long bodies. There were even golfbots rolling around. Normally  their bodies are white, yet these were brown and red and yellow. It was very nice to see, even if  body modifications were against Factory code. As I hoisted myself up into the Vents, I took one  last look at the Box City. I saw many of the metal Cats getting pet by the other bots. I did not  know where they came from, but they seemed very homely. I wished that the Big Boss would  one day grant me a metal cat so that I could be homely as well.  

When I came back through the Vents, my supervisor was no longer eating cheese straws and  instead sat in his chair with his fingers near his nostrils.  

 “Ah, the Vent cleaner,” said my supervisor. “How were the vents? You get the dust  problem taken care of?”  

 “Yes, and I also did not find reasonable mitlers who wanted to come back and fulfill their  duties.” Even though I did not really lie because the mitlers were not reasonable when I found  them, I was still very worried that my supervisor could find out that I did find the mitlers and  then he would disagree with my views on their mindset and write me up on a dishonesty charge  which would not have been nice even though it would have been true.  

 “That’s fine. Who needs them anyway? Here.” My supervisor reached under his desk and  threw me a very small plastic bag. “The Giraffe.”  

 I was very excited to have a Giraffe because I had never had one before, so I tore the  small plastic bag open right then, but, when I looked inside, I saw that it was not a Giraffe but a  Zebra, which I was not very sad about because I did not have a Zebra either, but I was still  slightly disappointed because the Zebra did not have a long neck and therefor might not have an  interesting mouth texture.  

 “Big Boss also sent you a slice of pizza. He heard that you came in on your off day and  felt bad, so it’s waiting for you at your Apartment. I can’t think of anything else for you to do, so  I guess you can go home early,” said my supervisor.  

I would have normally thanked him immediately for relieving me of my duties early, but  my mouth was unable to form an expression of gratitude. Instead I asked him, “do you have any  Cats?”  

“Cats?” The middle of my supervisor’s peepers went up and down. “Next time you’re  going to ask for a Hippopotamus. Just get out of here.” And so I did.  

When I got to my Apartment, I put the Zebra on the counter with my Piggy and my Leopard and  took out my Good Candle. Normally, on my Good Candle Days, I would dedicate many hours to  looking at my Good Candle because it is supposed to bring you good comfort. Most of my day  had already been wasted in the Vents, and it was a very distressing time, so I plopped all three of  my rubber animals in my mouth and lit my Good Candle for the greatest comfort it could  provide.   

 After I lit my Good Candle, I went into my Bedroom and saw that someone had placed a  small slice of pizza on top of my pillow, along with a note that read “Great job, Beef Boy! XxXx  The Big Boss.” Normally, seeing a display of great gratitude from the Big Boss would provide  me with a feeling of satisfaction, but when I blinked my peepers, all my processors could recall  was the Box City and the metal Cats. When I was done reading the note, I took the slice, walked  to my bathroom and into the shower, turned the water on, and clutched the pizza for maximum  comfort. 

The post Beef Boy’s Bad Day appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Not by poison or neglect. Not through greed or flame. I was simply here when the  hum thinned, and I stayed long enough for silence to take root. That was all it asked of  me.  

They rose one dawn too few. Their wings slowed, their patterns unraveled. The air  forgot their weight; the flowers opened to nothing. The earth swallowed their small gold  bodies without protest, as if it had been waiting.  

Now they are dying everywhere. Scientists count and disagree. Beekeepers kneel  beside quiet hives. Poets light candles. Children hold jars to their ears, listening for the  hum that held the world together. The fields are wide and empty, and the sky feels  unfinished.  

It’s me. I am not a villain or a savior. I am the pause between pulses, the stillness  that comes when breath is spent. I did not mean to end their song, but I stood where the  echo was supposed to be, and the sound could not pass through.  

The world performs its imitation. Machines buzz. Factories sweeten the air with  chemical honey. Sermons praise the future. Still, the absence hums beneath it all, a low  vibration of what was.  

It’s me. I was here when their story ended, and I am here now that the quiet has  settled. I am not grief, or guilt, or god, only the shape left behind when creation exhales.  

I am the breaker of their rhythm, the witness who became the void, the Shiva of  bees.  

It’s me.

The post Bees appeared first on The New Absurdist.

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.