The execution of a demigod
By Daniel Landes
The house was set beneath the navel of the reposed form of
our universe. It was deeply rooted in
bedrock, shale and divine purpose. The
putrid winds that blew from the north buffeted the foundation, and pelted the
shingles and siding in a relentless effort to reduce the house to a granular
form. The house withstood the torment
and continued to shelter the tragic players as they accepted providence. Inside the walls of the house, the elemental
battle for balance played out, again, and again and again.
The blowing leaves of the trees, planted as a windbreak on
the north side of the house generations before, were brittle with draught. The sound was of shattering glass as the
leaves chafed against each other in the morning wind. The precious dew, here and gone, never
settled long enough for the dehydrated cells of the leaves to rejuvenate.
The child was pacing as early morning light shone through
gossamer curtains of her bedroom window.
The torn and crumpled pages from Leaves
of Grass were strewn across the floor, like crumpled love notes filled with
the poetics of unfulfilled promises. From the rafters above her bed hung a mobile
of the nine planets and their moons, made in school from Styrofoam balls. Pints
of spilled paint, red and green, pooled under the windowsill and swirled
together as a random blue creation. The
nightlight flickered, preparing for daybreak.
The child’s mind, red with fury, was empty but for the plan. She thought only of the plan.
The man awoke from his narcotic slumber with a full bladder
and covered in the humid sheen of night sweats.
He arose, relieved himself, and then went to the kitchen to brew a pot
of coffee. As he did every morning, he turned
on the radio and waited for the crop report.
The water filtered through the ground burnt beans and drip, drip, dripped
into the awaiting pot. A detached,
monotone voice, reported the news; the record breaking heat wave continues as
the draught worsens, the daily tally of solider corpses from the Endless Wars
adds up, and the diverting scandals of politicians never ceases. It was the oceans, not the wars, not disease,
that was the new pandemic, killing millions as they claimed higher and higher
ground, wiping out cities like sandcastles. The man, sipping his coffee, waited
for the crop report.
In her room the child stopped pacing and stood as still as a
statue. Her balled fists barely peeked
out from the flared arms of her nightgown, ankle length, made from soft cotton
in a place far away by evil means. She
would soon be free of it, her death shroud.
She stood waiting in the blue grey light of dawn thinking of nothing but
the plan.
The man, a moneyman, a farmer of sorts, owned fertile land
above the encroaching seas on which he grew corn. Acres and acres of Holy Corn.
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