Fly On The Wall: Fairy Tales From A Misanthropic Universe, Vol. I (4 page)

All the while a fly fought
for its survival in a nearby soup.

He sat on a bench. What
now? He eyed the brown case which he'd put down on the ground next
to him. He didn't know what the next step would be, all he knew was
anxiety and fear, unsure of who he was, and unsure of what he was
doing. He picked up the case and placed it on his lap, all the
while maintaining a shifty gaze.

He nervously placed his
index finger on one side of the clasp release, and his thumb on the
other. He applied even pressure and lifted up the wider, top part
of the case. It revealed a crowd of emerald green keys inscribed
with ivory letters. On the right, above them, the maker's mark
announced he was using a genuine Smith-Corona. The carriage return
said 'Super', and boy it sure was. The only problem now was what to
write? He decided to write about a universe in which a guy, not
unlike him, wrote. He looked around for inspiration but found
little in the mundanity of life. Being the clever boy he was, he
pondered life instead, its meaning, its purpose, and goals.
Thoroughly uninspired, as usual, he realized there was very little
worth writing about anyway. Very little would remain, all would die
and be forgotten. Inevitably and invariably crushed by the
universe's unknown mass. It didn't matter, anything would alleviate
his wretched thoughts. He fed in his paper, half a sheet, aligned
with the carriage, and he began to type:

“
He sat on the bench, 'What now?' He thought to himself. He
eyed the brown case he'd laid upon the bench, right next to him. He
didn't know what the next step would be, all he knew was anxiety
and fear, unsure of who he was, and of what he was doing. He picked
up the case and placed it on his knees, his eyes shifted back and
forth.

Anxious, he placed his
fingers either side of the clasp release. He applied even pressure
and lifted the top, wider part of the case. It revealed a mob of
grass green keys, on them cream colored letters. In the corner,
branding shouted loudly that he was using a Smith-Corona. The
return said 'Super'. Right...super fake maybe. He raised a
suspicious eyebrow at the lifeless machine. Now what? He decided to
write about a world in which a guy, not unlike him, had a brown
case, not unlike his. He turned his head right and left, hoping to
find an inkling of inspiration. He found none in the plain
boringness of his surroundings. Being a smartass, he pondered life
instead. The big why. Now ironically inspired, as usual, he
realized very few things needed to end, but his story
did:

“
The man with the brown case sighed as he opened it. Inside
gray padding hugged the exotic curves of a shining pistol. He
wrapped his hand around it, enjoying the sensuality of the textured
metal. He closed his eyes and brought it to his skull. The frigid
firearm grazed his ear, sending a chill down his spine, and making
his clammy hands wetter still. Little would remain, all would die
and be forgotten. It didn't matter, anything could alleviate his
wretched thoughts. Click. He brought it back down, all the while
trembling with fear, now knowing the strength that he'd had. He
pulled out the clip,fed lead past the lips, and brought it back up
to his head. He trembled now harder, his lip quaked inconsolably.
Sadness welled up in his throat. He couldn't cry, that was too
much, too melodramatic too melancholy, the frog lodged firmly in
his gullet wouldn't let him. It yearned to jump into the rivers
pouring forth from his eyes So instead he breathed harder, and
harder, and harder still. Weakness slowly started creeping in. He
wasn't sure anymore. He breathed harder still. He didn't know if
what he did was right. Such thoughts were, of course, madness, for
most assuredly it was. Now panting like a beast, he straightened
his back, remembering imagined lessons which he'd lacked. He
clenched his eyes harder as man fought against himself. One's will
against his nature.”

The writer who wrote
finally worked up the courage, emboldened by the length of his
story. He held the gun tight, and his index finger came back. With
a bang, his life was done & he had gained glory. Now the writer
who wrote lay on the ground, next to his typewriter, twitching less
and less. Dead in time for the end of the page.

Every time he thought of
her his chest tightened, his stomach churned, and an idiotic smile
overcame his stylish brooding. He couldn't help it. He couldn't. It
wasn't a choice – she was almost a curse. But he liked it. He
enjoyed thinking about how sweet and kind she was, about how
heartily she laughed, about how lovingly she looked at him. She
felt the same and had said as much earlier. He experienced a
giddiness which he had long not felt. He was beset by ecstasy each
time he looked at his phone's screen. He could move mountains for
her, she needed only ask.

“
Let’s run away" she texted, with a happy smiley at the
end.

"Let's” he typed back,
adding a cheeky wink. Every time they were together others looked
on jealously. Powerful envy, from absolute strangers, was made them
uncomfortable each time they went out. It was clear to all who saw
them that they were meant for one another. Even skeptics, who
insisted that soul mates were but societal hallucinations, created
out of desperation by those who did not understand statistics and
feared being alone, even those people acquiesced and
knew.

They had not known each
other long, only a few days, but even so their situation was clear
to both of them. He lay on his bed, remembering their first
embrace, remembering their first kiss, and remembering the first
time that their eyes had met. It was too early, that was for sure,
but he loved her all the same.

She lay on her bed,
pondering and recalling those same moments. With such timing that
even the world's foremost percussionist would have been impressed,
they reached for their phones. They had to speak. They had to hear
each other. They had to feel the unbridled joy provoked by one
another. They spoke, for hours and hours they spoke. They talked
about music, about politics, about food, and about sex. All the
while blissfully unaware.

In a year, they'd gotten
married, in two they'd replicated, in three they'd even bought a
house. It was in that fateful fourth year that disaster would
strike. Their child, a fragile being, would be forthrightly crushed
by a pane of poorly installed glass. It will happen as they walk
down the street, hand in hand in hand, ever the happy family. As
their child skips, the pane will slip and fall. He won't know what
to do so he'll hold her bloodied body tight against his and whisper
“Be brave”. She won't stop crying though, she will be too pained.
She will clutch the body of her progeny, and then he'll clutch his
chest. His arm will stiffen, and then she'll have to stop crying
all alone.

Why should she care?
Everybody always demanded that she care about every damn little
thing out there. What did it matter to her if people starved? It
didn't concern her in the slightest. She didn't understand why
everyone seemed so enthralled by every morbid story they came
across, why their attentions were easily captured and yet easily
lost too. She simply didn't understand. Even world leaders feigned
caring. In some ways, she thought it funny. Despite the faux
empathy and real pity, people didn't care. The irony of celebrities
speaking about African orphans from cavernous cliffside mansions
struck her. Heartless, cold, uncaring, bitch, an imbecile, an ass,
a social Darwinist. All things which she had been called. She could
not comprehend it. She spent most of her time alone, minding her
own business, as did everyone else, the only difference was that
she was outwardly honest about her views. Money mattered not to
her, so she led a simple life.

All claimed to care, but
what is caring without action? Empty words, empty gestures, and
empty cash-filled wallets, nothing more. As more tricksters built
more houses for their friends, the sick and poor watch another
unaffordable neighborhood appeared. Why should she care? Would it
not be of more benefit to just to live her own life instead? Surely
it would. Then again, wouldn't that make her less human, less kind,
less alive? That was what she had always been told...it must then
be true. To care or not to care, twas that which so often befuddled
her. Would she bow down to the will and demands of society? Would
she feign resistance with great insistence only to soon after
forget her emotion? It was an outrageous fortune which had seen so
many lives belittled, but such was life, and her feigned empathy
would neither fix nor even serve as slightest solace. It would
merely remind the remainder of a painful memory which they strove
to forget. It didn't matter anyway, not in the end.

What drove most to claim
they truly care were selfish interests. They desired to fit in, to
have friends, to feel good without doing anything of value, all the
while basking in mass adulation. For what? For more to come and
view the pale cadaver left behind? For more flowers to be lain on
the grave for longer? For more tears, for more sadness, that those
others might pretend that they too care? She would not go down this
path. The best way to show she cared was not to care at all. Her
burial would not be well attended indeed she would no longer even
be able to afford a richly-grained coffin, not after having given
away so much. Rachel didn't care. This was true, but she was at
least honest. Her stone was spartan, left simple to preserve what
wealth remained for those who lived and struggled still. Her
weathered coins were for the worthy, not her own joy, they always
had been.

Every year on this day the
flower bringer carries with him a single pink lily.

Every year on this day he
lays it by her resting head.

Every year on this day he
sheds tears over an ever smaller mound of dirt.

Every year on this day the
flower bringer sits, alone, and remembers the past.

Every year on this day the
flower bringer begs to feel again; yearning for respite from an
emotionless purgatory.

Every year on this day,
the flower bringer contemplates the passing of the
years.

Every year on this day the
flower bringer sighs at the immutability of everything and
everyone.

Every day the flower
bringer realizes he has not changed.

As years pass by and the
world turns, people predestined to repeat mistakes of yore live and
die.

This year on this day, the
flower bringer wilts, destined to bring flowers no more. Her
resting place is now and will forever more be barren, a sole
sto
ne its only marker. That stone too
shall crack, shall break, and disappear, as will the flower
bringer's too after.

Eventually, they will
perish and be forgotten; nothing more thna typos in the play of the
universe.

Once upon a time, there
was a butterfly. The butterfly was very beautiful, so much so that
wherever she would fly, everyone and everything would turn to point
& stare, stunned by the sight of her. She was a smart butterfly
too, she lived a great many years without being hurt or eaten, no
mean feat for such a fragile fluttering speck.

One day she came across a
large orchard. She had seen many orchards, but none as big or as
beautiful as this one. In it, there were flowers of every size,
shape, and color. There were blue flowers; there were red flowers.
There were big flowers; there were small flowers. There were
flowers that gave off an aroma so soothing, so sweet, and so
enchanting, that highways of bees buzzed to them in furious
columns; then there were those which did not smell, but instead
were among the most beautiful in the orchard. They had thousands
upon thousands of gossamer petals. Each petal was a different
color, each glowed with the iridescence of fish's scales beneath a
scintilla of sun, each beckoning the massing mellifera.

There were some flowers
which were neither intoxicating nor beautiful, but they were
special in their own way. Some had thick stems which could be woven
together so as to build useful things. Others grew pungent healing
buds. Others still were plain, and small, they went unnoticed
easily; they were the most special of flowers; they could talk, and
they could think, indeed they could even feel. The butterfly had
never been happier, she knew she would remain in this orchard
forever. The magical fruit on the trees were rather good too,
supposedly they brought love, though none could fathom how. Some
said that this was the garden of Aphrodite, the others...well, not
many knew about the garden, so most had nothing to say at
all.

The butterfly spent many
happy years in the orchard, learning what each flower was. Learning
how each bug behaved, ever curious, ever thirsting for knowledge
and wisdom. One day a great brown, moth the size of a fist, found
the orchard. Curiously, it flew mainly in the day, something most
unusual. Moths, the butterfly knew, only flew through daylight if
they were depressed. And indeed, so it was.

The moth always worried
for he was nothing more than a moth. He hated that people hated him
because of that, it made him mad. Why could the wretched others
just not let him be? He had no harm in mind for them. Yet each time
they swatted, each time they yelled; they hated him. He surveyed
the great orchard from above, he saw its beauty and flew a few
inches lower, for he knew he could not belong among such elysian
bowers.