Sunday, November 6, 2011

Half Astronaut

The ground beneath him was scorched by the fires of the rocket which propelled him upward to the heavens. For years, it was just a dream in his head. It was a dream that permeated his very being. He had floated through life, adrift on his thoughts of being a spaceman. No one could touch him, and their sounds didn’t travel to his ears. He was already there. Then, one day, he awoke.

He was driven by unholy forces. His hands had drawn the plans before he could fully comprehend them. His legs had taken him to places he’d never heard of just to get as high as he wanted to be. He had gathered so much, assorted pipes and materials, but most of it was used in trial combustion, and so he scraped the very bottom to get more. It was all he wanted in the world.

As the earth departed from him, he took no notice. He saw the endlessness of his goal, and he embraced it with open arms. He didn’t care what came after; the mess that he had left. He didn’t care about the people on the ground. His rocketship was like a fiery dragon, soaring through the blinding, deafening sky. He felt nothing but elation.

A study of man

“My god,” the doctor said, stunned at the lab results.

“What is it, what’s wrong with my babies?!”

“No, it isn’t like that. It isn’t something that’s wrong, per say.”

“What are you saying? Damn it, I don’t understand!”

“Mrs. Kelsey, your twins are… anthro kids. They’ll be uncovering bones in your backyard by the time they’re walking.”

“Wha… What?”

“Anthro kids. They’re going to be really into anthropology.”

“Is this a medical condition? What am I supposed to do?”

“Well, I’d buy the season tickets to the museum if I were you. You’re going to be there a lot.”

Wilhelmina turns her gaze away, unable to find joy in the news.

“Here, take this card; it’s a support group. Hopefully, you’ll make some friends who can help guide you through this new world.”

She leaves the clinic, unable to speak. She knows she should call their father, but she can’t muster it. After twenty-five silent minutes weeping in the front seat of her car, she remembers a place where she can go; a place where she finds comfort.

The drive seems to pass in slow motion, while the colors and shapes move passed her with blinding speed. She can’t decipher any of the signs anymore; she’s driving on pure blind intuition. Where she’s going, she’s been before, and she trusts her movements to get her there one more time. There is safety there, but she knows that when she leaves, she’ll feel conflicted and empty. Five minutes later, she’s parked in front of it, staring down the garish nativity scene peeking out from just behind the sign. The Creation Museum: the one place where anthropology doesn’t exist.

She walks through the hall where a video of Satan planting evidence against God plays on a loop, and the process of humans being formed of dirt is thoroughly buried under rhetoric and flashing lights.

“No child of mine, she thinks.”

At the very back, she finds a chapel. The priests there are perfectly styled and clean, but a sinister undercurrent immediately envelops her. She takes a seat and waits for the sermon to be over. An older man begins to rub his hand against her thigh, and she winces.

“I know what you need,” he whispers into her ear.

“Yes,” she says, with a silent tear running down her face. “Give me what I need.”

An hour later, she’s back in the parking lot, this time crying her eyes out. She finally calls him.

“Zach. I can hardly breathe right now. The doctor said… it was a miscarriage. I’m so sorry.”

Saturday, November 5, 2011

The Honeypot

Just one more pull, then we bolted. The bees were out to get us. Normally contending with bears for their sweet honey, they didn’t suppose Jim and I were terribly intimidating targets. Bears have stubby legs when they’re bipedal, but they run fast on the ground. Jim was a strong runner, but by then I had already set into my chubby teenage years, and every second of that afternoon, where I could see nothing more than the back of Jim’s shirt in front of me the sound of angry suicidal pricks to my rear, was sheer terror. It was a pure rush of adrenaline, followed by endorphins to treat the pain. The bears didn’t need to run though; their fur was more than enough to avoid stings. My old Lincoln was our equivalent. It was a steel fortress on wheels.

“We made it. I don’t know if we can keep doing this though. It’s a lot of effort for something we could just buy. In fact, we could probably find lube that was even better for our lovemaking if we just looked.”

“Don’t you start that shit on me again, Jim. You know I like to be slathered in honey, and I need it fresh. Besides, there’s no way I’m going to face the judgmental store clerk who’s ringing up fifteen honey bears every week. I won’t be thought of as a pervert!”

“But…”

“It is much better to be a pervert than to be thought of as one!”

“But they have self checkout now!”

“And what happens when something goes wrong on one of those? You have to wait around until a clerk is there to help you, while the line of angry people in an unreasonable hurry stares you and your honey down. I won’t have it.”

“You’re a wonderfully odd man, you know that?”

“Shut up and fuck me.”