by Jay DiNitto
Part God, All Ape
The chimp could give no visual indication that he understood what was said to him, though inside he apprehended most of the words spoken by the nice young man in the white lab coat. Sitting there, quietly excited, the chimp examined the pen tied to his hand and the lined white paper in front of him, tacked securely to the table. The nice young man in the white lab coat left the room and a wave of intense concentration caught up the chimp, and a simple story began to assemble itself, coherent and conclusive, in his mind. The fluorescent light winked without end, eventually slowing in the chimp’s eyes as the story took written form and dragged his perception of time. Its increasing delay was only subconsciously noted – after the story was finished he went back and forth in the narrative’s chronology, changing small bits here and there to his satisfaction. He truly felt like he appeared, as told by the nice man in the white lab coat that left earlier: like a god, traversing measured spans of time at his discretion to alter the course of history and the lives of men.
The Pennyfarthings
Dusk arrived and I stole into the study to tend the fire and perform some perfunctory housekeeping while Emma stalled them in the kitchen. My weekend excursions into the Empyrean had taken their toll: the clutter was an accurate indicator of the depth and intensity of study. The laughter issuing through a few rooms and a few oaken doors was a good sign that she was their master, with her artful housewifely chatter about the perils of domestics and an early offer of provisional teas and biscuits. I finished up and watched the blueness of winter night settle onto the newly-fallen inch of snow.
Inexplicably, perhaps through a mental run off from being waist-deep in Dante for the last month, I had retained the vision of a callow flower in my mind’s eye the entire day at university. It was green but not verdant; exhibiting signs of life without full attainment. The flower did nothing the entire day but remain in its suspended, inanimate, state, despite my imaginings to nudge it otherwise. Its immobility in this regard itched me inside the ear but caused no figurative pain, a phenomenon that sprouted through to another manner of annoyance after taking lunch. I trained myself to dismiss the discomfort thoroughly, but not completely.
Within seconds they poured in (the wife could sniff out a freshly organized room from miles away). Rank and file they were, a respectable parade of herringbone jackets and tobacco patches stuffed in breast pockets. Emma was in tow with the remainder of our after-dinner comestibles.
My guests took their usual places and I followed in fashion after properly reassuring myself of their comfort. Immediately the pipes emerged, spoons clinked sprightly against porcelain, and a week’s worth of classroom anecdotes and mild grievances against the university’ board of directors were lobbied back and forth. Though I was quite noticeably their minor I waited like a tolerant grandfather for the chatter to fade before broaching this week’s informal business.
“Did anyone catch a glimpse–” Henderson said in between sips, “–of the Stations coming out of Westminster today?”
“Mmm!” Radcliffe grunted, leaning forward. His ridiculous drop-step puffed out affirmation. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Hendy. Amazing the way they drudge through the same ol’ game year after year with such diligence.”
“I saw it as well,” Christoph blurted. “I was at the Hare. Abigail was lead soprano this year. The Hare: that’s – how far is that, Jonstone? – not even half a kilometer, sure?”
“Little over, little over.”
Old Jonstone was the eldest of us, and he said very little except when his sagely faculties were called upon by us, his admitted intellectual lessers. He was stooped over more than normal at his traditional seat closest to the fire, cup and saucer in hand and pale bushy eyebrows knitting together in simple pleasure.
“Right, right, that long,” Christoph said. “It was the third stop, where He first falls. Or the second? Not sure. Well, let me tell you this! Poor Abby was so deathly bored of the whole affair it appeared as if she would be taking His place.”
The jab elicited a few hearty chuckles all around, except Jonstone. He merely maintained his gaze on the floor and sipped his tea intermittently. Then, expressionless, he turned his face to the fireplace.
The spectral flower in my mind bent upwards. I tried, perhaps unsuccessfully, to hide my startled reaction. It was fortunate for me that everyone else was still tending to their laughter.
“What say you, Jonstone? Did you catch it this time around?” Henderson asked.
“At long last, yes. I must say I quite enjoyed it.” His voice was smooth and gentle and he did not break from the flames.
“Come now, Harry, sport,” Henderson said. “You must’ve gone through that whole bit for decades. Not doubt took part once or twice. You can’t possibly get anything out of it now, eh?”
“Why is it,” Filbert said, with his toad-like fleshy jowls bouncing with gathering mirth, “That the Archbishop Bidwell still keeps going up Vincent and then to Greycoat? Surely he remembers what happened five years ago. He was presiding then, wasn’t he? Blasted green clergy and their stubbornness.”
“Yes, yes,” Radcliffe said. Puff-puff. “I remember that. He was indeed leading. It was those gabby boys that disrupted–”
“He does it every year,” Jonstone said to everyone. It was not a shout but his words were firm enough to grab attention. “They do it every year, like people everywhere do similar, because it’s something we need to see and hear.”
The fire snapped and crackled while we waited. The flower moved again.
“Thomas,” Radcliffe addressed me. “It appears as if the Missus has over-treacled the good Doctor’s tea.” He turned to Jonstone. “We’re cutting you off, sir! We–!”
“We need to hear it,” Jonstone interrupted again and slowly stood up. “Like this, without fail, because we must hear it one way or another. If not voluntarily, it has a nasty habit of making itself known to us. When it does show up unannounced it’s not nearly as damned pleasant as a procession.” The oath escaped his lips with astounding affection.
Despite Jonstone’s emphatic but unantagonizing speech there was an unsettling silence. After granting a decoded smile, he gingerly sat back down and resumed sipping.
“Well then,” I said. “Shall we begin?”
A few hours of spirited critique and debate ensued. No other mention of the procession was made. After our meeting ran its course Emma and I bade farewell to my colleagues, and she retired for the evening.
As for me, I returned to my window view of the lighted streets and soft white ground. The flower, at some point in the evening, had come full bloom. The outward petals were a deep cobalt blue, the inside bore the visage of flames: orange, red, cathartic. More prominent, however, were the scores of other young flowers surrounding their mature counterpart, waiting for their season in which they’d match its blazing countenance.
American Premonitions
The nightmares began a few nights after Chris murdered his boss and perhaps one or two other people. He would find himself in a large empty room with only one other person. This person was dressed as a police officer, wearing an oversized pince-nez, powdered wig, and a cravat stained with what looked like Thousand Island dressing. Chris couldn’t remember many other details but the nightmares ended all the same: the cop’s face would sprout a fleshy trumpet bell (or was it always there?) and shatter Chris’ ears with an otherworldly blast. It was always at this point that he woke up.
Chris had tickets to a dinner party and opera that he had purchased discounted via his company’s concierge service; a nice parting gift to which he treated himself before jet-setting to Portofino for holiday in the environs. He noticed the tickets disappeared from his nightstand one night after awaking from his usual bad dream. He strongly believed that he ate them in his sleep, but close, uncomfortable examinations in his commode were silent on this issue.
He didn’t attend the opera and he didn’t end up getting arrested when the police c
ame looking for him at the dinner party, right after the salads were served.
Bringing Out the Dead
“So you want to live forever?” she asked at last, handing me one of the small square pamphlets. Then it all fell into place like the click of an unlocking door.
The Halloween party had spilled as a blob out onto the Ellsworth and Negley corner and eventually onto Walnut, with a good ninety percent of us thoroughly buzzed and rapidly approaching blitzed status. We all mingled with the amoeba: I was in my Karate Kid-inspired red shower curtain, mounted on the showerhead overhead like a halo gone awry; John with his Cyclops eye and trident thing; Chris with the gray bodysuit, helmet, and Program’s blue neon strips and modified Frisbee; and finally Jesse, missing the entire point of the party’s theme, in the stock, unimaginative cat suit.
Then the zombies flooded our area like a bodied sunrise alighting the streets. Their initial lurching gait and gore makeup was flawless, I will admit, but my admiration became infested with superstition when they began to corner everyone, man to man, and launch into an animated undead monologue – as if a long-forgotten friendship was rekindled on only one side. Then at last it was my turn to fall prey. She approached me with the guns of her mouth blazing loudly with a fake compliment on my shower curtain, extolling the benefits of
