Conventional methods of hat-removal having failed completely, Philemon opens the task to the county’s finest natural philosophers.
“The die-press leaves plenty of earspace,” drawls the first presenter, “now.”
“No,” says Philemon.
“We lure the hat off with premium peanut butter,” chortles the second. “Never cheese!”
“No,” says Philemon.
“And when we’re done with the circular saw,” says the third, “the masking tape–”
“No no!” says Philemon. “No!”
The day’s last applicant is a small and serious girl.
“Hello,” says Philemon, curious.
“You’re not going to like hearing this,” says Corbin, looking–not without kindness–at his perfectly naked head.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
“The lady,” cackles Reichstag, “or the tiger!”
“Heads, the tiger,” says Marc instantly.
“Wait,” says Reichstag, “I didn’t explain that if–”
“Pick the lady!” shouts Farrah from the stands. “She fights tigers!”
“Which side is she on?” shouts Marc.
“She has a gun!” shouts Farrah.
“I only have Canadian coins,” says Marc, digging in his pocket. “Do they have heads?”
“You’re missing the point,” growls Reichstag. “The whole thing is a thought experiment, intended to present an unsolvable problem and demonstrate that human nature is malleable when confronted by–”
“The left!” shouts Farrah.
Marc opens the door.
“My left!” shrieks Farrah.
Fortune lives under the mansion at Malmaison, which means, at the root, “a house badly.” There are ladies in the house, and a man with dark eyes. There are parties and roses. There is plenty of food in the garbage.
Fortune’s warren is small and dry. To pass the time she’s learned to sew with thorns; she finds silk in the garbage too, and scraps of lace–
Until one day she finds herself with a gown of haute couture, cream with wine slashes. Her size. She wouldn’t pass for a lady. Unless she kept her face in the dark.
Fortune dares.
Late one lonely October night, Willa goes into the bedroom and opens the drawer on the bottom of the dresser, rightmost but one. She pulls out an hour of March.
There were more lamps back then. Willa walks out into a bright room full of the music of which they weren’t yet sick, full of blankets and jokes and dirty spaghetti bowls, full of everyone uncaring. He had his head in Maddy’s lap that night, but at least he was there.
Willa takes off her watch and smiles. Nothing in March is broken. An hour is long enough. Everything is good.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
“Brongbrong! Brongbrong!”
“The clown’s ringing,” shouts Philia, “will somebody get it?”
Nobody does. Philia has to dash into the kitchen to catch it just before the machine picks up.
“Hello?” she says.
“Knock knock!” trills Dooley.
“Banana,” Philia sighs.
“Banana!” says the clown.
Philia waits.
“Knock knock!”
“Look, I know this one,” says Philia. “You say banana, banana, banana, orange I glad you didn’t say banana. Can we skip to the–”
“Banana!”
Pierce ambles in. “Knock-knocks again?”
“Knock knock!”
“Honestly,” says Philia. “Why do we even have a clown?”
Pierce blinks. “What are you, a Luddite?”
“Banana!” says Dooley, masturbating.
Granny’s got a coring knife;
She carves a pretty core.
But kids in Macoun County know
What coring knives are for.
“Taking fruit that’s on the ground,”
They say with flashlit chins,
“Is safe–but pluck it from the tree
And Granny does you in!
She quarters you and peels you raw
And masticates your eyes!
She mashes into kindersauce
Whatever isn’t pies!
Abstinence is safety, friends–
Avoid the deadly cores.
We’ll stay alive if we maintain
A diet of s’mores.”
(Granny knows that all of this
Is simply superstitious.
The only things she’s ever cored
Were bright and red, delicious.)
The phone won’t ring and the phone won’t ring and Quillory can’t stand missing him anymore, so she swallows a fishing barb with a tiny mirror and syrup of ipecac. It comes back up hooked through his gray silhouette, which has the texture of dupioni silk.
Gagging, Quillory hauls it out hand over hand, slams it in the dryer, shoves in quarters. The tumbler kicks and roars; his shadow shrinks and shrivels. She shivers, leaning on the wall. Her pocket starts to tremble.
She wipes her mouth. “Hello?” she tries.
“It’s me,” says his choppy basement voice.
“Who?” she says, confused.
Wednesday, November 8, 2006