By Bob Carlton
The narrative has
wandered away from the course of events, each sentence a deletion
from some other story. The nested birds cluck and tweet with delight
at their mother's regurgitations. It is a source of wonder and
strange fascinations that we do not. Truer tales cannot be imagined.
“Who stole all my
books?” asked the Archbishop.
“We have seen the
glory of your worship,” I said, “and do not believe our
sacrifices have been worth the return on investment. Lead us not into
temptation, but deliver us a pizza.”
The wild surmises
of disenfranchised peasants led to uprisings surging with elation and
ignorance. The mark of ten thousand lashes sprang up with a bloody
ardor matched only by longevity. This story cannot be told in words
alone.
“I have
pictures,” she said coldly, ignoring his imploring eyes, the
restless fiddling with a wedding band of flaking platinum.
“Perhaps we
should talk.”
“There is nothing
to talk about.”
“There is always
something not to talk about.”
His failed
experiments, supported by a half century of junk science and slipshod
methodology, gathered about Dr. ----, clutching at his lab coat with
the desperate need for recognition and validation, longings which
even the angels of compassion could not, in good conscience,
entertain.
“Is that a yes or
no question?”
“Is the answer
ever 'no'?”
“No.”
“You
cherry-picked the data, Roger. You cherry-picked the god damned
data!”
With the wreckage
of past expeditions crunching beneath our feet, we came to it at
last. We have come to it finally. The end? Yes, the end. The very
one. That is to say, the forces of entropy have rushed in, trashed
the kitchen, broken into the liquor cabinet, and are passing out on
every stick of furniture in the place.
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