paperless hat

seuss reading freud

popsicle

Oh, how I have a secret. A wonderful riddle, deep inside me, to be exposed as I drift into eternity, to leave a legacy, and what can you say for yourself? My former devotee abandoned my secret and me, allotting you to gawk upon my demise in your travels. I was wonderful, quite, though I lay here melting away, they were once enamored with me more so than you are now. You would like to know my secret, but you’ll leave at the force of traffic, forget me in two steps, though you’ll rattle my riddle in your head beyond the corner and onto the train. There will be others. I fade away slowly. The sun is hot but I am well constructed, and here comes another.
Corpulent lady, in a plaid jumpsuit, horrible straw hat hiding your faded dye job, sunglasses too large, and too old to be a hipster, don’t look upon me in disgust. I only tantalize you with what you can’t have. Diabetes, remember? They said your leg would be amputated. What a wonderful way to drop twenty pounds? Forgive me for my callousness, I only lash out because it’s beginning to hurt. You have no need for my riddle anyway. You don’t smile anymore. You live in a fictitious world, fabricated because life wouldn’t permit you your desires, so you’ve cast off the shackles of reality and carved your own pseudo-reality. I applaud you for your ambition, for your gumption. But how sad are you? Why do you cling? The boys never came running. They were stupid and hollow anyway. They never had taste, and slandered you because you got the better marks. Mother said not to be a lesbian even though you never wanted to be one, and when you tried it, your stomach quivered and your back sweat and you had to flush the repulsion away with strawberry shakes and cheesecake. Then your mother told you not to get fat. So when you joined the gym, you made sure it was a 24-hour gym, that way the boys couldn’t laugh at you. You trained hard and exhausted muscles you never knew existed. There was pride in your reflection. The pounds fell off the scale one by one then ten at a time. There was a figure under the green sweat suit. You could see it, it was magnificent. He must have thought so too. That’s why he followed you home from the gym. That’s why when you ran to your door he forced his way in. That’s why he ripped your green sweat pants off and made his way with you. That’s why he found pleasure in your pleas. That’s why he left you bloody at the doorstep and ran away. He was ashamed for hurting your magnificence. But when he left you he didn’t realize that your magnificence was broken, shattered into slivers, oh what a mess he made. And you were left to clean it up, without his help, and mother told you to move back home. Alas, you retaliated against her words and fled from the scene with scorn for her myopia.
You sit in your chair, circled by them, weeping miserably, sometimes with them, coaching them through. They appreciate you. The tenderness you bring. The insight you attain is encouraging. You’re dear to them, like his children are to him. Cherished undisputedly, as his bride is, the mother of his children, who happens to be fifteen years his minor. How you would love to piss on her candied look, even if she was ignorant of your earned malice. So demure, so absent from your world, it grinds you. She remains in the clutches of those men, that man. She has not had to endure what you and your disciples have lived through. They are your disciples are they not? That’s what you call them. Preaching a newfound way through man’s oblique canard. They need you like his children need him. You help them mend the pieces that never were your own. Wait. Have you confused their pain with yours? Their stories come from their mouths, from the police reports, from your volunteer’s notes. Where are yours from my plaid clad lady? It’s easy to get lost when we try to forget so much, no? I’m revealing more than you ever wanted to allow yourself to know. But carry on; you have a movie to catch. Sanctuary awaits, hide amid the turned eyes and mundane story; huddle away from your own memory banks, deep within the artificial butter and cherry cola. Then scurry home, chin on chest, to your solitude with diet television dinners and languished serial plots and rest assured work comes a few hours away. Only a few hours away, my dear.
Oh, how I would love to reach to her, but my demise is eminent and hers is well, placed grain by grain. Time is all I have. No time, but what a wonderful riddle I have. She wasn’t concerned with figuring it out. It was beneath her. Maybe if she took a moment to ponder, her dam would break and misery would flood. Best thing she didn’t then. Although you will! You there, behind the man with the bullet belt and studded leather vest. Yes, yes, your magazine featured artwork looks better than his faded jailhouse tats. The weak barbwire band with the name “Cindy” doesn’t garner your approval, so push by him, scoff his lack of insight and his Pantera t-shirt. It’s three years late and seven years early of being ironic or retro. Yes, come close. Here. Remember me? You’ll take a moment to mourn for me or stare at the least. You’re curious to my riddle, eh? Nostalgia. You love it, read it; go ahead read with your lips, that’s okay, nobody is looking. Or are they? Of course they are, what am I saying, look at you, so put together, in a good way of course, hot, very, those clothes don’t wear you one bit. Those taunting girls were but of ill mood, flocking in with SoCo breathe via the Lincoln Tunnel. Stupid soro-stitutes, how dare they mock your show! Your drummer was M.I.A. and you had to fill his spot with your neighbor who is minus the soul your songs deserve. They’re oblivious, those rancid cats, it was beyond them, they wanted to shred you because they couldn’t comprehend you and your lyrics. You can’t pour deep into chalices shallow. And pour you do, your heart, your soul, right, your soul too? Pour them right into each molded lyric. “Pavement Jungle Tramp” was written in blood, from your flesh! The wound may have been self-inflicted and no more than a paper cut, but it was blood nonetheless!
And how they dismissed you so aggressively without understanding the intricacies of a live act, of a live show, of an artist on display, only implicated them on their vindictive tendentiousness. Did they realize your sound guy was heavily intoxicated and stepped away for the duration of the set to have oral relations with the bartender in the bathroom? No surprise your guitar sounded limp. Such a frustration with others lack of accountability. But what does it matter? You’ve always said all you need is your guitar and a voice, that’s why you’re working on a solo album. It will be out to the masses as soon as you finish your studio that will be completed when you pay off your credit card debts. Hey, soon. That’s what you tell them. Soon.
There are those who appreciate your efforts nonetheless. The fans. The reason you press on despite the critics and naysayers. Those girls from the pizza parlor, the Goth girls with Hot Topic style, they said you were “relevant” and that you spoke the “truth”. One of the girls said you kind of look like the lead singer of HIM, and you blushed, and asserted “with talent.” They giggled and left you behind in the green florescence with your white pizza and root beer. You gave them a show. You’re a showman. That’s why they the adore you. Did I mention how good you look today? The frays of midnight black hairs that hang premeditated, without revealing so, over your left eye, leaves you the poster child of the arcane. The pinstriped Diesels go well with that altered Boy Scout’s uniform ripped at the sleeves, which still adorn Samaritan badges. Image is all encompassing. It can’t be just about the lyrics and the melody, something needs to tie them together and that’s you. With flare you communicate your soul. Nobody makes it without image; it’s the formidable truth, but you understand the reality. You’re a promoter, a salesman, and if anyone has any doubt they can check out your My Space with 15,000 friends who all say they love your music. Oh and how they love you, so intimately, so fervently, how they would love to attend your funeral. What? Too morbid? Too presumptuous? Okay then maybe they don’t understand you, but she does. That’s why all those long emails. That’s why she wears your t-shirt proudly. She paid cash for it out of her own pocket. And that’s where you’re in such a hurry to be. You’d be there hadn’t you stopped at my riddle. Or maybe my sapid flavors melting onto the pavement reminded you of your adolescence and your first kiss with Tabitha Anne on her back porch at fourteen. Do you foresee another first kiss on this afternoon as well? Not yours silly, you already had yours with Tabitha Anne twelve years ago, I’m speaking of… Oh, never mind, what am I saying, judging by those naughty emails she sent you she’s far beyond the experience of a first kiss. Did I find the line of your rationalization? I agree, you’re not stealing anything from her, she’s given it away countless times, and corruption was on set prior to this afternoon. You’re not taking advantage of something that hasn’t been taken advantage of already. I apologize, I retract, not advantage, use, I meant use.
I don’t mean to be flippant. I’m not one of a higher moral standard. Look upon me; I’m loosing it! Really. Nevertheless, all aside, have you figured out my riddle? Not yet, huh? It’s simple. Think about it, why did the pony cough? Yes, such an insightful question. Why did the pony cough? You’ve given up. You have to go. Perhaps the little one can answer it for you. She might know. Children say the damndest things! Oh, there he goes, I’ve only offended. Coming close to the end one loses all manners. There is no time for decorum. I am almost gone. Then answer begins to burn out of me.
Why did the pony cough? Yes, that is my riddle and the secret will shortly reveal itself from my flesh. It’s so exciting I can barely contain myself. I’m slipping into eternity and who my legacy will be left on I can barely wait to see. It’s coming close, I can see part of the etched answer hitting the open air. There isn’t much left of me. Or you. Where did you come from? Oh, that brutal hollow face, concaved after being shunned for decades, you are carved out of old hickory that was saved from the kindling. Have you stopped for a smile, a moment of joy with what I’m about to bestow upon you? Or are you here to watch me perish, to take pleasure in my inescapable outcome? Well, if you have come to watch me compromise my fatality sir, you have come all too late for I have accepted my end. There is no show of that nature here I assure you. Or are you here in envy, wishing it were you deteriorating at an expeditious pace, instead of lost in your limbo, falling apart one cell at a time. The stagnation is insoluble and you feel it clutching your bones. But I can see your bones through your translucent wax paper thin skin. The meat insulating your bone has not been nourished in quite sometime, it’s obvious to me, and to the others, why you have fallen into such a state of decline. Wait, you didn’t choose this? Oh, you say that now, but what of those restless nights on your single mattress, stained with soiled un-pressed sheets, months unwashed, with the lingering aroma of cigarette butts in coffee cans and self released fluids, what do you say then? What do you say in your insomniac realization of your stale existence?
Posh, come off it, I only chide you for hopes of a rebuttal. Has the inferno been smothered? Think back to your youth, not too far (we don’t want to rekindle the memories of your absent mother and ailing father, those misfortunes were NOT of your control) and remember how the folks begrudged you for your passion. Yes, you haven’t brought that up in some time. They said you were over zealous in your ambitions. Your Aunt Marla was one to try to keep you grounded in your desires, but even her suppression proved futile. You couldn’t contain yourself, so how could they? You left them, with their family business, with their acres of land, with your ailing father, all for something you couldn’t explain. And when you arrived here forty years ago the streets were not safe, and the people were not fashionable, and the only artists you knew were your former homeroom teacher and his wife, who lived in the town over from where you were raised and who you would spend time with reading Dickenson and Auden and Wordsworth and smoking grass. They died so long ago, not long ago as your father, though we shall not discuss that further.
You had one suitcase and a couple hundred, to which you ran into the nearest Pawn Shop and purchased an Underwood Universal just like Faulkner had used, and lugged it two blocks to your rented room above the tile wholesaler. There were so many ideas then, you could type for hours, undisturbed by life, free to let your soul flutter about the room until it tired its wings, although they would never tire, not then. You had years to ponder and experiment and drift with the currents, capturing each crucial second onto paper and masquerading it as your own creation. But those times ran by like a colt unbridled and the purest moments, the moments you tried to harness for yourself were intangible in your coherent states. So you had to pawn that wonderful typewriter and turn to paper and pencil, although it didn’t have the same inspiration as the click of the keys. The irritation of lead upon pad was not to the affect of the thundering pounce of finger upon letter. It only made sense to pawn those items as well and you took a vacation from it all and got a job behind the bar. A drink for them, a nip for you, a shot for them, then you go two— a yes wasn’t that your rhyme? The talent pissed out, you often proclaimed. You would regale them with stories of the country, melancholy always was the end, but they would be splitting at the seams until that point. Then one of those ungrateful barflies said you should write it down, “write it down”, he said, "you should be a writer", “a natural genius” he called you, as if there were any other kind, and you saw red. What an ignorant provocation, so you grabbed the bottle of Beam you had been serving and cracked it along his face because he was speaking reason.
You were institutionalized for your stance against reason. And when you were released because the state had to cut funding in order to give its workers a raise you were back on the street a free man. Oh how you would get it together, you got a job as a dishwasher, hard work, thankless work, but your soul was clean as the dishes. In your room after work you would let it out of its cage, and it would hop along the floor, too timid to fly in its age, picking at the crumbs by your feet then back into its home for a nap. Then your aunt called you and told you that she was sick (see how I didn’t mention your father again, woops!) and she asked if you could come home for a while, and that she didn’t care about the years of separation. She would even send the bus ticket. Come home she pleaded. You contemplated it I know. You even began packing, you decided on going. What stopped you? I see. When you opened the cage before leaving for the bus station, to give one last play, perhaps one lucky flight there was nothing. It lay motionless on the cage floor among piles of feces for which you never bothered cleaning, they were mountains high you know, and there it lay stretched in rigor mortis. Then there was nothing, and you sat in your room to the incessant ringing of the telephone, ignoring the sound until it became as natural to you as the curling wall paper. It ceased after a couple months. It only took a few months.
And now your phone never rings. Though do you really want that inconvenience? Why am I asking you? Why am I asking you what you want, your indifference frightens me. I’m sinking into eternity and am wasting my time with you! Leave me please, sir, I do not wish you to be the first and perhaps last to see my secret. My secret is for someone who can feel. You’ve only come to my final moments to wish it were you. I will not allow you to waste me! Please, I implore you to carry on with your suffering elsewhere! My body is numb. There is no more pain. Wait, what are you doing? You’re… You’re grinning. You see it! My secret is upon you. Say it! Say it, damn you!
“Because he was a little horse. Why did the pony cough? Because he was a little horse.”
Yes, you get it? You’re laughing, oh my God you’re laughing. Because he was a little horse, yes! Such a wonderful riddle, complex in its subtlety, I’ve held that secret for too long. I feel free, ah the bliss! Are you crying? Why are you crying? I’ve shared my secret with you, you felt it, I saw you feel it, why the regression? Your tears are for me, sir? Your hollow eyes flood the deep cracks along your leather cheeks. They dykes of flesh are submerged in your tidal waves. Your streams are for me? No, they are for you, my friend; those tears are for you. Please. You’ve let me witness you in return for me. Yes pick me up and place me in your pocket. I will accept my eternal rest there. Do not be concerned. I trust your judgment. You will find me of better use dead than alive. Good sir, thank you, thank you so very much, my secret is yours now, it is for you to share as you find fit. I bid you the best possible outcome. That’s all I wanted for any of them. Adieu kind man, adieu, may the days move quicker in the direction you choose.

A Sincere Tear

The monster broke loose and escaped from my labratory. I tailed him to the alley. When I encroached upon him with my flashlight he began to weep. I dropped the light and came closer. He continued to sob. Then I swiftly kicked him in the balls giving him a real reason to cry.

Benjamin Cricket

Benjamin could no longer look in the mirror. His round black face and shapeless body only brought a sour twitch to his innards, forcing him to rattle, “what a waste, what a miserable waste,” over and over in his hollowed mind. The past months had come to secure this fear and what he accepted as the essence of his existence. He had spent hours daily in the bathroom over the months, even to the upbraiding of his father from the other side of the door, or to his sister’s incessant nagging, or to his mother’s overbearing concern, it had become a compulsive itch noxiously cultured within the solitude of the those four walls. He would remain in front of the mirror, staring, waiting and hoping for a change. A molecular miracle that would transform him into anything else but the reoccurring image he woke up to every day. But today he realized (it had been three hours straight and he could take no more) that nothing would change. Not now, or ever. He was only left to exit the bathroom and join his family downstairs.

They were already on dessert, enjoying his mother's homemade fungi and carrion flan, Benjamin's particular favorite, but for which he had no appetite.
"Look at you chewing, mouths full and bloated!"
His family looked up as he stood at the breach of the dining room.
"Why don't you join us dear?" said his mother. "I kept your food warm in the oven. Are you feeling ill? Would you like some green mold tea?"
"I'm fine mother."
"What are you doing in that bathroom? You've been in there since I got home from school," snarled his sister.
"Reflecting."
"Ha ha! What does my son have to reflect upon at his age," huffed his father.
"Well, sit down, sit down," said his mother.
Benjamin took his mother’s seat at the far end of the table. She placed a hot dinner in front of him. He inspected the meal and turned to his mother.
“Buellia Nigra.” His mother was at the sink washing her plate.
“How is it, dear? Not cold I hope.”
Benjamin stuttered, his eyes twitching back and bottom jaw quivering, the way he always had when overly excited. “B-B-Buellia Nigra?”
“How is it?” asked his mother again.
“Buellia Nigra! Buellia Nigra! You’re serving Buellia Nigra for dinner! Black Disc Lichen. One of the top endangered Lichen today! You’re serving this!”
“Is it cold honey?”
“No, no, it’s nearly extinct!”
“No, I bought it fresh today from Mr. Hammonds Market.”
“Agghhh!” screamed Benjamin and threw his head on to the table.
“If you don’t like it dear, I can fix something else.”
“That won’t be necessary mother,” Benjamin puled.
“This is hogwash,” rebuked his father as he rose from his chair, “this childish temper tantrum ends here!”
Benjamin lifted his head to his father’s arched position over the table. His father’s face extended wide, only miniaturized by his monolithic shoulders. His voice was solid and intimidating.
“You refuse your meal?”
Benjamin knew his father to be a brute with words, orating as he would with his hands had he been less civilized, but though he felt his shell quiver under his shirt he knew he had to leave his voice.
“You ungrateful twerp, how dare you disrespect your mother’s time at that stove,” continued his father.
“I have no disrespect for Mother. I have not encroached upon this dinner with ill will, but only a relevant acceptance of who we are. And as much as it aches me to say so, as much as I never wanted to believe, I’ve realized that we are as trivial as that plate, or that footstool, or that embossed monogram over the sink.”
“This is nonsense!” huffed his father. “Mother, our child has gone sick!”
“I’ll put a pot of tea on.”
“I have not gone sick. I have only identified and swallowed the truth. How selfish we are in our ideals.”
“You better not let Mr. Crankworthy hear you speaking like this! If I know the old man, he will not put up with this contempt.”
“Mr. Crankworthy has heard enough. I resigned from my position this morning.”
“You’ve done what!”
“Benjamin, how could you?” asked his mother.
“Selfishness, huh?” His father approached him from around the table, his steps were menacing on the old floor. Benjamin’s sister removed herself from the table and hid behind his mother. “You talk of selfishness. My ideals are askew. My values warped. You just quit your job and left your family to falter because of your selfishness! You will retract you resignation from Crankworthy and hope, and hope that his patience for this jibber jabber is more tolerant than mine. Because if he doesn’t, if he doesn’t allot you forgiveness and penance for your stupidity I will toss you out to take the earth with those filthy grasshoppers!”
“Harold!” gasped his mother.
“Their filth is no more soiling than what I am already.”
His father raised his arms over his head with objective of destruction. “Leave this dining room!” Harold’s arms remained above his head.
Benjamin turned to his mother upon his exit, “Thank you for preparing dinner.”

The knock on the door opened Benjamin’s eyes. He already knew who it was without coming to full consiousness. His father got to the phone as soon as Benjamin exited the dining room and placed a call the Crankworthy. Eadbhard Randalsmith Crankworthy the Third. A mastodon of the business world, who Benjamin had taken an internship with during his college years and employment after, who was a distant cousin of his mother’s, Beatrice, and whose families distinction was perpetuated solely from now archaic innovations.
His aging, gluttonous body disallowed him the luxury of moving independently, so his long time assistant, Reginald, who curiously was older than he, aided him to full capacity night and day. Reginald was a shell of a being and had accepted his status without resentment many years ago, beaten down over time into a reliable lap dog. Reginald led Crankworthy to Benjamin’s father’s chair, which expanded under Crankworthy’s girth, as his mother brought out a pot of tea.
“Beatrice, my dear Beatrice, thank you,” said Crankworthy as Benjamin’s mother poured his cup, his vocal chords crushed under his mass distorting his voice into an effeminate wine, “I don’t understand the preposterous account. He came into my office, snarling like a bull, without appointment, Reginald can lay witness, and berated my company for being nearsighted and lacking of compassion. He stumbled on about how there is no good from what we do and we provide no service to our fellow creatures and benefit only in reaping a profit from their ignorance. Now, me being a figure of my stature, I usually procure tolerance to such arbitrary insubordination, but I could not allow him to cascade the companies good name into derision, so I told him to reconsider his words or to hand me his resignation. That’s when he pulled out his typed and ready resignation, the ink days dried on the signature, and placed it upon my desk.”
“We absolutely appreciate your time to let him explain himself, Mr. Crankworthy,” said Harold.
“I know you do,” replied Crankworthy.
“When he returned home he just felt so awful. He wanted to implore you but the embarrassment he caused besieged him from coming to you with his regret. Right, mother?” Benjamin’s mother nodded. “He came home and locked himself in the bathroom for hours and when he finally joined us for dinner he could only lash out at us as a result of his blunder.” Crankworthy nodded.
“As he should. As he sincerely should,” added Crankworthy.
“Mr. Crankworthy has done a lot for Benjamin,” added Reginald, “he’s taken him in like his own son.”
“Reginald, they already know my favors. There’s no need to for them to be mentioned.”
“Well, let me get the boy then. I know he would like to explain himself,” said Harold.
“Please,” nodded Crankworthy as he sipped his tea.
Harold went to fetch Benjamin who was already waiting and listening in the dark hallway adjacent to the living room.
“I’m not regretful for my actions,” said Benjamin.
His father grabbed his chest startled by he son’s direct statement. “Ahhh… Benjamin. How long have you been standing there?”
“It’s one thing you called him to the house, I expected that, but to tell him I regret my actions? Did you think I would forget my reason?”
“Dammit, Benjamin, you idiot. Your stubbornness is foolhardy. That is your boss in there. To disrespect him in my house is to disrespect me. But that’s your ploy, isn’t it? You ungrateful brat!”
“I-I have not done anything to you.”
Harold moved close to his son. His four hands corralled around his sons face. He winced as if it hurt him not to do Benjamin harm. “That silly pursed face of yours! You go in there and ask for your job back or you’ll find a new place to sleep tonight.”
Benjamin entered the waiting room with his father’s clutch on his neck. The party smiled amiably through the obvious tension.
“Well there lad,” proclaimed Crankworthy, in an awkward presentation of glee, “you look rather rested from this morning.”
“Some time off this afternoon must have done him well,” said Reginald snidely.
Benjamin stood before his former mentors. “Sirs.”
“Gentlemen, I believe Benjamin has something to speak. Go ahead Benjamin, just like you told me.” Harold eased into a seat with confident comfort. Benjamin shook his head to his father’s smirk. His mother was stirring her tea in anticipation. The silver spoon clinked against the porcelain nervously.
“Come on there lad. Speak up. I came all this way. My time is valuable. Speak up,” said Crankworthy.
“There now, the good sir has come this way to let you a second chance,” filled in Reginald, “I would not leave him waiting.”
“Um,” started Benjamin. His eagerness to break out fell back to his stomach.
“No shame there, lad. Your naïve youth led you to misjudgment. We’ve been there. The foil of impetuousness. I guess I can forgive the haste of your ill-conceived passion. But you shall learn from your mistake. As I am a fair cricket, I am a correspondingly stern one as well. I must see that you are justly punished for your disobedience. You agree? Reginald, the terms.
Reginald removed a document from his coat pocket. “Benjamin Black, upon this notice, Crankworthy and Foster and Associates, waive the conditions of your resignation and reinsert you to your previous upheld position of junior assistant bookkeeper. In doing so, Crankworthy and Foster and Associates, take liberty in suspending your wages by half for the quarter during which time you will be scheduled for review. Upon a satisfactory assessment your wages will be brought to the entry-level standard for one year of which you will serve under disciplinary probation. The completion of the stated conditions will leave the fore mentioned under good standing with Crankworthy and Foster and Associates.
“Is this agreed my boy? If so, Reginald, the signature.”
Reginald approached Benjamin with the contract and pen.
“No, sir. I will not sign. My actions were not in temerity. I will not abdicate my prior statements. The words I had with you this morning were thoughtful and true”
Crankworthy stirred in his chair without moving his face, which perched on one hand. Reginald, Harold, and Beatrice waited for a reaction from the old cricket. But he said nothing and let Benjamin continue.
“Where is the virtue in our occupations? You, the head, the mistro leading an orchestra of robotized workers day in and night out, demanding quota, expecting quality, pumping functionless product out to the masses. And for me, for me to sit and count the profits of our meaningless contribution to our society is no less absurd.”
Crankworthy remained without response and looked at Harold whose face was forlorn to the floor.
“You feel we serve no purpose. You feel our product is superfluous? My boy if there is a demand…”
“There is a pa-pa-proprietor! Is that your answer? We produce novelty pinbacks! Tin buttons! Tin buttons with nonsense printed on them. It’s all I see when I close my eyes. For what use?” Benjamin ran to the drawer beside his mother and pulled out a dozen pinback buttons, “For what use I ask? To say ‘I’M WITH STUPID’, how humiliating is that? Or ‘DRAFT BEER NOT CRICKETS’, our military is strictly voluntary and hasn’t seen action if 85 years! Or ‘LIFE IS A BEACH’, what the hell does that even mean? Crickets hate the beach yet they still buy these ridiculous accessories. This is only per-per-perpetuating the decay of our renaissance. Stupid slogan buttons! Agghhh! How I hate them!” Benjamin tossed the buttons to the floor recklessly.
“The youth of today,” grumbled Crankworthy, unaffected by Benjamin’s demonstration. “You are no more a cricket than your lack of spine. I have nothing else to say to the, boy. Reginald my cane.”
Reginald steadied his boss upon his carved cane. There were no other words besides parting cordials as Beatrice led them out to the street. When she returned to the living room, both her crickets were still in their fixed positions. Benjamin turned to his mother’s resigned face. His proud chest, which moments ago distended over the living room, sank back to his stomach.
“Forgive that scene mother,” he stepped towards her, “I could no longer work under such wretched conditions. And father, do understand I did this for you.” Harold refused to look up. “You are an artisan. You make and repair clocks. Your lively hood has worth and is concerned with your fellow cricket. You have a craft that is more than just collecting the ill spent wages of our neighbors and their neighbors. You’re a clockmaker. I did this out of my respect for you.”
Beatrice moved to her husband’s idle position.
“Respect for me?” whispered his father. “Respect. I know what I am.” Harold gained to his feet, “I am a clockmaker yes, but I am also a father and husband. I can’t raise a family on craft. I don’t repair clocks for intrinsic worth! I repair clocks to put food on the table and if that horrible farce that just occurred here is what you call respect then I have only accomplished in raising moron!"
Benjamin shuddered in reaction to his father’s words.
“I only speak sincerely. You have no right to disparage me in this way.”
“Hah.” Harold smiled to his wife and kissed her on the forehead. He moved out to the hall and spoke without turning back. “I told you the consequences if Crankworthy did not accept your apology. I guess there was no apology to be accepted. But the consequence remains the same. Leave tonight. I don’t want to see you until you come to your senses.”
“Harold,” cried Beatrice.
“I am disgraced by his behavior, Beatrice. But I can only blame myself. He has been coddled too long. He leaves tonight.”

Benjamin wasted no time getting his things together. His mother watched him from the doorway of his bedroom as he packed up an old suitcase that once belonged to his grandfather. He found it suiting for his journey. She would have spoke out if she had anything to congeal the rift set forth, but she had nothing. She moved to his side and helped him fold the last of the blankets from the bed and placed them into the closet. He couldn’t blame her for her silence, but his arrogance wouldn’t allow him to offer her solace.
She followed him to the foyer. The white street lamps exposed the supernatural mist outside as the wind hissed at the door.
“Dear, you should wear a scarf,” said his mother.
Benjamin put on his hat and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Goodbye, mother.” He exited the house into the looming fog down the alley in which he played when he was a child and out to the streets of the neighborhood.
His street wore a sheath of white gloss fortified by the falling mist. It was a tepid autumn night with random currents of wind transecting and curling about. Debris bounced around Benjamin’s head as he turned onto Falbus Road where he caught a cab into the city.
He could see the lights of his new beginning as the cab pulled down Eastern Ave. Like so many other vagabonds, the cruelties of life had unearthed him from his nestled slumber and thrown him to the mercy of its judges. His father’s tyrannical escapade only validated his eager excursion from what he always blindly believed to be good and fair and uncompromising. But that unhappiness that he tried to squeeze off like a blister so many nights, finally had vindication for being present, his assumptions and hypothesis true. He was meant to seek out his fellow compassionate brothers, his progressive sisters, and find the bond to bring them full circle. He had the driver drop on the corner of Fante Ave., four long blocks from Furlong Street, and his proper destination. He wanted to make his way into the heart of the city by foot.
There was a friend from college who had mentioned a place to go. That was years ago though, and whether or not that same migrant motel existed was purely up to chance. The streets were still busy, quite the contrast to his suburban community. Benjamin took it in as he stepped onto Furlong Street. He had only ventured to the city during the daytime hours, always on business, seldom for pleasure, and not frequently by any means. Furlong Street contained many pubs along it stretch and the exact address of the motel Benjamin was seeking was absent from him, so a drink felt appropriate. It had been a long day.
He picked the second bar on the corner. It seemed quieter than the rest on the block and he wasn’t keen on bars anyway. He entered the small box where only a few patrons and a bartender hung around. A stout pill bug pulled drinks off the tap. He was coughing and wheezing into the glasses as he poured, but nobody cared. Around the bar was an old gray cricket with only one eye who sat under the pill bug’s tap, and two young ants, obviously under aged and perhaps illegal in other ways too, sitting in the far corner. They noticed him, even if they didn’t turn to Benjamin as he stepped into the bar, and Benjamin was aware that they noticed him. He slid a stool near the entrance.
“Good evening, sir,” said Benjamin passively. The pill bug wobbled towards Benjamin.
“What do you want?”
“I’ll have a beer, please.”
“One generic beer coming up.” There was a quiet hum of a jukebox in the corner not loud enough for anyone to enjoy. The stools were sticky as was the bar at which point Benjamin cleaning both with a napkin caught a sneer from the pill bug. He placed the beer in front of Benjamin.
“$2.50,” said the bartender.
Benjamin put out three bills. “Keep it,” said Benjamin.
“Gee thanks,” said the bartender who took the three dollars and threw it into the till without removing the change.
Benjamin to the cold reply extricated the stool and found a table near the jukebox. The beer was flat and gritty. The ants were getting drunk and loud, starting to push each other from their stools. Neither the cricket nor pill bug gave any attention. Benjamin couldn’t help looking up to their ruckus. One of them caught eyes with him and gave him an unfriendly stare. What did he do? He was in their radar now. Benjamin became nervous and focused on finishing his horrible beer and finding the address of the motel elsewhere. There was nobody here he wanted to interact with long enough to attain that information. And now the ants were getting louder and he feared it was for his own notice. The one he caught eyes with spoke loudly with his stool turned towards Benjamin’s table. Benjamin was not familiar with many ants, they were mostly further out in the country and in the city, fact was aside from crickets, Benjamin had not experienced most of the other insects in the world. His schools had been strictly crickets only, and in the offices of his job there were only crickets to deal. And all his friends were crickets. The neighborhood he had grown up in, all crickets. Come to retrospect he had never seen a pill bug up close, let alone spoke to one. A smile broke on his face.
“What are you smiling about,” called out one of the ants, “You think it’s funny?”
Benjamin quickly dismantled his smile and continued at his beer. He had no idea what that ant was talking about and he refused to find out. He swallowed the flat grit to the halfway point. He left the glass to his mouth even though he couldn’t swallow anymore.
“Hey cricket, buy me a beer,” shouted the ant.
“He’s a real big spender,” chimed the pill bug from across the bar.
“What you got in that suitcase, cricket?” continued the ant.
Benjamin closed his eyes and finished the glass. He slammed it to the table and began to rise as the waitress cut off his escape.
“You need another,” she asked in a caramel sweet voice. She was a lean young grasshopper, “or are you trying to make your getaway,” she continued. Benjamin nodded in awe. She was breathtaking and exotic.
“You on the run too?” She gently kicked his luggage with her foot.
He finally caught his senses, “No run, just in a rush, but thank you kindly.”
“You’re not letting those losers scare you off are you? You got right to be here just as much as they do.”
“I’m obliged. But I really got to get going?”
“Hey money pants stop hogging the dame and buy me a drink.”
“I wouldn’t want to be responsible for his tab either,” said the waitress.
“Tsk, I don’t begrudge him. I do got to run, maybe some other time.”
“Where you headed?”
“I got to get to my motel?”
“Which one?”
“I believe it’s on West Furlong.”
“The Transtand?”
“Yes, you’ve heard of it.”
“Heard of it exactly, that place burnt down three years ago.”
“Oh.”
“So you need a place to stay? Everyplace in this city is going to gouge you.”
“I know, that’s why…”
“Hmmm. I know of a place but it’s just outside the city on the pond.”
“The Pond?”
“Yeah, The Pond. A good suburban boy like you has never been out to The Pond?”
“Well, no,” Benjamin checked himself realizing her face becoming long to his aghast reaction, “I mean I never had the chance.”
“I’m out of here in ten, so if you hold tight I’ll take you to the place. Trust me you’ll thank me later.” She leaned onto Benjamin’s shoulder, “And a word of advice, never let Sully give you a generic beer. There’s a reason it tastes like that and a reason he looks like that.”
The bartender grinned back with a yellow smile.

Camilla was the waitress’s name. She had a long story of why she moved from her rural upbringing to the city, it involved an ex-lover, a promise to her mother, a childhood dream, and crucial run in with a maimed sparrow, all of which fell bland on Benjamin who was more exhilarated and apprehensive about being on a bus to The Pond.
“This is what it’s about. This is what father couldn’t see. This is life.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I said you’ve had some life.”
Camilla continued on with her monologue, leaving no stone unturned in a plethora of ironic events and ill-fated adventures. Benjamin smiled politely with anxious bubbles bursting in his gut.
The bus made its last stop on the sleepy corner of The Pond. Benjamin was officially farther than he had ever traveled in his life. The sky fell black overhead suffocating out the stars’ shine and the moon’s luminescence. As Camilla led confidently north, small houses, crooked on their foundation began to appear. The grass curled over twice as high as it did in the city and three times than that of the suburbs. Technically The Pond was still the city, but to many crickets it was recognized as Hopper Pond, a degenerated part of the city that was left in the calamitous discretion of the grasshoppers. Benjamin was certain before that three steps into the area would lead him to harms way, but he had already strayed those three blocks in without incident. He felt a rise in his chest. He strides long and arrogant.
“This is nice. Really nice,” said Benjamin to himself. “I don’t get all the fuss.”
“Do you want a drink before I take you to the motel,” turned Camilla.
Benjamin felt the grin over his face. He was no hypocrite. He was a pioneer, an adventurer; both rectifier of brotherhoods past and of forward thought. “Yes,” he said, “yes I would.”
At a clearing six blocks deeper from where they started sat decrepit shanties huddled along the perimeter of the pond. One of the shanties was a flicker of orange light with shadows moving to the rhythm of jovial cries and incandescent laughter. “There it is. It’s my favorite. Isn’t it grand?” commented Camilla. He didn’t acknowledge her. There wasn’t a sign on the façade of the tilted structure, nothing in décor to distinguish it from the tired and apathetic look of its neighbors. Trying to conceal its conspicuous festivities from erupting out onto the street, which were poor in effort, for there was no question to the whereabouts of everyone who lived in the vicinity. It would be masochism not to participate.
As they got closer the stench of acrid booze caught on to Benjamin’s olfactory. It was homemade. His uncle used to distill his own until he lost all four of his arms and sight.
The bar was loud and rowdy. He sunk in his shoulders as they entered. Grasshoppers everywhere. He had never seen such a massive congregation. None seemed to notice him. They were tall and intoxicated. Three or four were passed out on scattered tables, as animate as the furniture they lay drunk on; couples dancing about would careen into the languished knocking over forgotten pints, with as much concern for them as for the floor they danced upon. The bartenders argued back, throwing back more shots and insults than patron drinks. When one became frustrated with the service they would laugh and have another shot. By the time Camilla and Benjamin got to the bar, the bartenders were denying anything but whisky. “Whisky, whisky, whisky,” they began chanting. Camilla knew the bartenders so they allowed her a pint. To Benjamin they were less accommodating.
“Okay, okay mate, if you’re going to drink here you do a shot of whisky first, then I’ll serve you. If you don’t do a shot you get the hell on your way!” He handed Benjamin a double of whisky, warm in a crusty glass. His eyes were scornful and distrusting. “Is you going to do it or ain’t ya’?” Benjamin held his breath and sank the drink. When he put the glass down the bartender’s expression had not yielded a change. “You want another drink then?” Benjamin nodded.
“A beer please.” His stomach was sour and his mouth bitter.
“What’s that? A beer? I told you only whisky!” The bartender poured another double shot.
Three doubles into the night Benjamin felt the dullness of his soul. The brown sap continuously poured into his glass upon every relief. Camilla’s eyes tapered off into the dim orange glow behind her. Where was the glow coming from? Nobody replied to Benjamin’s drunken slur. He stumbled away from Camilla, pass the swinging couples, and out the front door into a patch of brush where he could detoxify in peace. He grunted with every heave. His soul was drowning from this make shift poison. The malevolence of the spirit crept over his body. A couple exited the bar in drunken embrace. Benjamin looked up and wiped his face.
“Ha ha, what’s the little fella’ doin’ down there,” laughed the female.
“It’s a filthy cricket, Maggie,” said her beau.
“He looks sick. We should take care of him.”
“You’ll probably catch a disease!” He leaned to Benjamin’s level. “You out of your element there, huh boy? Shouldn’t you be home drinking Toddy and holding your mother’s crochet yarn?” Off in the distance, over the placid pond and dog howled. The grasshopper stood erect. “Hey boy, see, she’s a calling you home right now!”
“Leave him alone,” said the female, tugging at her beau’s arms.
“Sweet dreams there, cricket!”
Benjamin crawled to the wall and lifted himself to his feet. He went back into the bar. Inside Camilla was off towards the back at a table with a few of the musicians of the evening. One of the bartenders, who they referred to as Crater, was seated with them as well, pouring whisky into their glasses.
Camilla smiled and presented the open chair beside her.
“So it was you who brought this stranger,” bellowed one of the musicians. Benjamin had a seat. There was an empty glass in front of him. Crater smirked and filled it to the brim.
“She has a soft spot for tramps,” said Crater. “This one only looks a few days old.”
“Benjamin ain’t no tramp,” defended Camilla.
“Drink your whisky there, tramp,” said Crater. He had a large head and bigger eyes. He wasn’t the biggest grasshopper in the joint but spoke like he was.
“Now, now,” interjected the older musician at the table and bandleader, “let the boy be, if he drinks with Camilla he drinks with us.” The bandleader raised his glass. “May we experience 30 seconds of heaven before the Devil realizes we’re dead!”
“Aye, aye,” cheered everyone.
Benjamin was only able to force his whisky down by luck. His head became heavy.
“So Camilla’s friend,” said the bandleader, “what are you doing here amongst us filthy grasshoppers?”
The table turned to Benjamin.
“I- I didn’t realize you were all grasshoppers. He pointed with thumb to Crater, “I thought this one here was a dung beetle.”
The table turned, held a moment and broke into laughter. All except Crater who grabbed Benjamin by his collar.
“Easy,” ordered the bandleader. “We’re just having fun here, no harm.”
“Yes, Crater, my jab is intended purely in jest,” slurred Benjamin.
Camilla pried off Crater’s hand from Benjamin’s neck. “Yes, Crater, it is only in lighthearted fun.” Crater eased back into his seat and poured another round of whisky. Benjamin put his back before Crater had finished the rotation.
“I think you forgot one there, Crater.”
“It looks like someone came to drink,” said the bandleader. Crater poured another drink into Benjamin’s glass.
“So what’s your angle here cricket? You some demented cricket with a death wish or you just experimenting with some grasshopper tail?”
“Crater!” shouted Camilla.
“You see here cricket, that’s my sister, and I ain’t having no slimy black bug thinking he’s getting lucky.”
“It would seem to me that is a decision of the lady to get with whatever black bug she chooses,” said Benjamin.
“Nah, nah, that’s not the way it works here!”
“And what is here?”
“Obviously you’ve strayed from your front porch there, blackie, this is The Pond, and it don’t take to kindly to suburban trespassers.”
Benjamin scoffed tumbling his empting glass on the table.
“We don’t need an affray here boys,” pleaded the bandleader.
“I am you!” cried Benjamin as he managed to muster an essence of composure and affix himself upright in his chair. His neck served as a tether to his floating head, “That’s the continuing ignorance of you grasshoppers!” An eerie alert spread over the table. The music dimmed at that point. “For all the da-da-degredation, for all the malapropisms, for all the silly epithets and for all the slanderous stereotypes, you have standardized one habit, one ridiculous and frivolous characteristic--- you’re uncanny ignorance!” Benjamin rose from the table and poured another drink. The music had ceased and the floor was Benjamin’s alone. “You want to hate me, you loath my shell, for what, why? Because of what I am, for what I had no choice of? My clan is generations worth of building and innovation and perseverance. Your clan? Well, isn’t it obvious? Look where we sit now, betwixt an ailing city and a formidable pond, segregated from towns of lustrous promise. Have you been over the home of an ant? Have you stepped onto the floor of a wood beetle? These are clans that have fought. They’ve seared the skin; they have carved a hope out of oppression. And don’t let me deny you the truth; we can proclaim the fact in unison. Who is the oppressor? The ants and the construction companies? The wood beetles and their strangle hold on health care? No. Then it must be the crickets and their incestuous conglomerates perpetuating mundane and ludicrous muck on brain dead consumers? No again! These are but the soulless obstructionists but the real oppressor are you! You! Me! Our demise is gathered only in our acceptance. And as these money, power hungry bastards build walls around you and suffocate your latter generations you have nobody to blame but yourselves!” Benjamin staggered on top of the table and lifted the bottle. He took a long swig.
“My fate has brought me to you. My own have discarded me in the same manner they have betrayed the necessary order for economic, social, and intellectual evolution. They are the self-gratifiers without loyalty to the herd. You are the future! The rest have followed my clan into the grave. We can build monuments high on their corpses and broken ideals. Who shall follow me! I ask you who? You in the corner, young grasshopper with the bowler, come forth. You have something to say!”
“I do chappy!” said the young grasshopper as he stepped to Benjamin.
“Speak.”
“I hear you playing a song but this is a party here. So you want to play a better hind leg jingle jangle there cricket? I work six days a week and tomorrow is my only day off and this is my only night to tie one on!”
“Six days! For what? This is what I mean! The cricket’s workday is four.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that. But I ain’t no cricket and you’re ruining my BUZZ!” And with a crack the young grasshopper’s shoe clocked Benjamin against the chin knocking him to the broken dusty floor.

The mighty stars, timid in their glow, hovered centuries above when his eyes opened again. Camilla crouched over him, nursing him back to consciousness. There was an angry swarm of grasshoppers at the pub door, scowling his way, arguing and grunting, then whispering ominously.
“That was quite a lump,” said Camilla, “can you stand up?”
Benjamin dusted himself off and got to his feet. His head pounded fiercely. The mob noticed him and began to grumble louder. Crater passed from the center of the huddle. They watched with vigilance as he approached Benjamin.
“You’ve made quite a scene here, cricket.”
“So you see my reasoning?”
“Nobody sees a bird’s turd of your reasoning, cricket. They want to tie you up from that willow over there. My best advice is that you leave this moment and hope that they’re too drunk to catch you.”
“But I don’t understand… “
“Listen numbskull---“
“Benjamin,” interjected Camilla, “maybe it is best if you leave. It was my mistake to bring you here in the first place. I’ll take you to the bus station.”
“No, I can’t leave. I have a right to be here as much as they,” argued Benjamin. “I am here for a reason. I’ve drank in your bar, I’ve listened to your stories, I’ve felt your music,” Benjamin reached for Crater who swatted his hand away.
“What the hell is wrong with you? They want to murder you and I’m about to let them have their way if you don’t come to your senses.”
“Benjamin, this is ridiculous,” said Camilla, “we’re leaving now!” Camilla grabbed Benjamin by the arm. Crater anchored behind them leaving the mob to their grumbling.
“Crater, where you taking that cricket? Where are you going with that cricket?” they called until their voices evaporated into the foggy night.

All this way, such progress, smothered into uncertainty by skepticism and prejudice. He hung back from Crater and Camilla who led the path back to the bus station. The small cottages and their window eyes taunted him relentlessly on the deflating journey.
“Keep up,” called Crater, “I don’t got all night for this.” Benjamin jogged forth. “You got some mouth on you. Seems you never learned the lesson of the meek!”
“I only preach on my morals. My candor wasn’t in vain. You believe my diatribe as a product of my conceit, but… If you misunderstood they would have also,” Benjamin stopped. “My efforts are not lost. My efforts were in miscalculation but the heart is there. They reacted from confusion, not from my information. They heard m-m-e! They did!”
“That’s it,” huffed Crater. He moved deliberately towards Benjamin.
“Crater!” shouted Camilla.
Benjamin braced himself for Crater’s shot, but he did not swing. His hands were in rampart position. “Crater, I know you’re tired. I appreciate you bearing with me. But physical violence here will only hinder our production,” negotiated Benjamin. Crater stood forward of him with an ease not yet demonstrated in their relationship.
“No, I get it! I think your revelation could have merit. Such profound thought I could barely grasp it before, but wait…” Crater put an arm to his head; “I think I almost, yes, almost can put it into a remedial understanding.” Benjamin beamed. “I heard a same philosophy before, but again then, as at the present, I could barely grasp the magnitude of its brilliance.”
“B-b-but you see the tip?”
“Of the iceberg? Yes, my friend, I do!”
“Halleluiah!” Benjamin and Crater hooked arms and swung each other around.
“It seems so simple. Us grasshoppers just needed a guide. Finally someone to break it down. You need to speak to the Great Elder!”
“Who?”
“The Great Elder, The Great Elder! He’s the oldest and wisest of the grasshoppers he lives just beyond those reeds north southwest of the pond under a what looks like a natural steeple.”
“Crater!” scolded Camilla.
“He never sleeps.”
“Never?”
“Never. He meditates in substitution.”
“Crater, stop this nonsense. I hear somebody coming,” shouted Camilla.
“Your words. Your theories, Benjamin, my oh my, they sounded just like The Great Elder. But when I heard his words years ago I wasn’t ready. None of us were ready. We passed on his philosophies as comical absurdities. Our parents and parent’s parents shunned him into seclusion. But he comes to speak to the next generations once every many years and when I heard him years ago, I didn’t understand. I understand him now, because of you. Because of you, Benjamin!”
“Crater, I insist you stop with this tall tale! I hear somebody! Let’s get to the bus station. We need to get out of here,” pleaded Camilla.
“I need to find this elder,” said Benjamin, “I need to seek him and brainstorm these ideas.”
“Yes, you do. He lives alone to the west of those reeds…”
Camilla grabbed Benjamin by his shirt, “He is planting nonsense in your head. There is no Great Elder! You need to get to the bus station. You are not safe here.” Camilla turned to her brother, “Somebody is following us. I’ve sensed it for a while. We need to get him out of here!”
“I need to meet this elder,” forced Benjamin, “this is why I came. This is my fate.”
“You heard him,” said Crater.
“You both are sick! There is no elder!” She turned to Benjamin, “if you listen to my brother you are delusional. There is nothing out that way but disaster. You need to get on that bus and get out of here. Please, I brought you here and I need to get you out. Please.”
“Why did you bring me if you are so concerned for my well being?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. There is something grander than either of us. It’s called destiny.”
Camilla’s mouth trembled, trying to find her words, “you’re deranged. I cannot believe I’m trying to appease your insanity. You need to get on that bus and get away from your psycho complex of saving my race! You know nothing of us! And I’m telling you somebody is out there and we have to hurry…”
The white beams hit them before she could complete her thought, exposing them in a glowing sphere of helplessness. Benjamin stumbled forward, blind in the light. There was an omniscient voice from outside the bubble.
“Get on your knees.”
“Who’s out there!” shouted Crater. “Show yourselves you coward sons of bitches!”
Benjamin could feel the sphere enclosing upon them.
“Crater!” cried Camilla. “Leave us alone!”
“Get on your knees,” commanded the voice.
“Show yourself!” shouted Crater. They complied with Crater’s request and held down their lanterns. Six grasshoppers surrounded them, stepping forth from the sedentary circle of lanterns, bearing rudimentary weapons, and holding them in threat. There was malice over their faces. “Well friends I see we have a caravan of perpetrators here. I see two grasshoppers escorting a cricket after curfew on Deacon’s Pass.”
“Violation of Sec. 112-13!” relayed a voice the mob.
“Which states?”
“Which states no cricket shall travel through Deacon’s Pass escorted or non-escorted during anytime of natural hours for result of penalty determined by the head of acting council. Furthermore, any individual or individuals caught escorting the subject shall be held to the equal or lesser penalty determined by the head of acting council!”
A stout grasshopper with a slight limp approached from behind the circling mob. His face showed evidence of being crushed with a bolder and taped together haphazardly creating a mosaic of deep cracks and scars. There was a perverse fascination in his eyes. “This is Deacon’s Pass,” he said in a dreadfully low voice. “You’re in violation…”
“In violation of nothing,” fought Crater, “My sister and I are just traveling through, this damn cricket followed us.”
Benjamin weakened at the knees.
“No, the cricket is with me!” confessed Camilla. “I brought him here. Please let us pass. I’m taking him to the bus station to get him the hell out of here. I promise he’ll never comeback. It was a mistake I know it! Please!”
A deep grumble came from within the stout grasshopper.
“Don’t listen to her,” screamed Crater. “She’s drunk and feels sympathy for this luckless vagrant. But we have no part of it. Let us pass and do what you will!”
“String them up!” cried the mob.
Crater spun shielding his sister behind him. Benjamin tripped and scurried on his belly. The head of the council shrunk back behind his minions as they enveloped over their prey. Two of the grasshopper lunged for Benjamin, grabbing his hind legs. He kicked out of their grasp and into a lantern. He picked it up from his position and heaved it toward his pursuers, shattering it into a ball of flame that quickly extinguished into the night. Only three lanterns provided visuals. Crater played the offense and seized one of the lynchers, wrestling away a long pipe that he used to incapacitate two others.
Camilla dove for another lantern and broke it upon the ground. “Grab the lanterns,” she shouted to Benjamin. He ran for one when the head of the mob wrangled him by the throat.
“Crickets shall not pass,” he grunted.
“Please sir,” cried Benjamin, as he tried to claw himself free.
Camilla seized the head of the mob from behind, forcing him to release Benjamin.
“Camilla, run!” shouted Crater as two grasshoppers descended upon her.
“Grab the lanterns!” cried Camilla. Benjamin eluded the clutches of the oncoming grasshoppers and snatched the two remaining lanterns, sprinting hard, away from Camilla, away from Crater, away from the mob. He ran swiftly with two grasshoppers tailing behind and gaining. “Stop, stop!” he pleaded never looking back. He could feel their steps landing quicker then his. He flung the lantern in his right hand back behind him. He heard a grasshopper anguish with the shatter of glass. Then he threw the lantern in his left away from his body into the brush and cut right toward the pond, through the high grass and slick moss, down into a lightless ravine. There was no footing, the ground gave no traction, and he slid helplessly down into a soft patch of earth. It was cool and wet and silent. He remained motionless, trying not to breath although his lungs where raging infernos, and there was only so much control to ease the jackhammer thuds of his heart. Where was the other grasshopper? Was he on his trail? Would he be coming soon? He could only listen and wait. But what about Camilla? What about Crater? It was mandatory he go back. No, that would be suicidal. Would it be homicidal to leave them? Where is the logic? It isn’t abandonment; he played his role by dismantling the lanterns. Besides, they wanted him, Benjamin the cricket, it was only a reaction to him. Without him there would be no catalyst and no reason to harm Crater and Camilla. The mob would have to let them go. There must be an ordinance. Section 223-66, statute of limitations, without a cricket to charge with trespassing there shall be no charge of accomplice! Camilla and Crater must be set on their own recognizance. It would be suicidal and homicidal to set out now. To remain here, captured in the earth, is the dutiful decision, the only way to make things right.
Twenty minutes must have passed when Benjamin climbed out of the invisible hole that served his escape, by now all was a slumber and the pass he raced down for safety was nothing but a black void, empty and absent of life. The brawl was a memory, evaporated into the stillness of the twilight, nature had pulled its plug and all was at rest. The sun was still an hour away. Benjamin put his hand to the abyss. It disappeared in front of his face. The sun would rise, that was certain, and at that point he would make down the pass to search for his friends. Their fate was out of his control. He turned west from the void. Shelter was a necessity. The tall reeds beckoned at the pond’s breech. The Great Elder would offer solution. Benjamin, journeyed by the rustling reeds, entered the thick marsh, over the cumbersome moss and oblique ground.
He continued west, keeping the water on his right, drudging deeper into the uncertain murk. There was an opening where the water massaged the earth, pulling futilely on a hollowed log that fastened itself deep into the soil. Above it crest two reeds that wrapped upwards into an unorthodox steeple marking Crater’s description. They clung lonely and forgotten.
“Great Elder,” called Benjamin. “Great Elder, please, my name is Benjamin Black. My friends have suffered in my trek and I have suffered equally. I am here to seek your wisdom and perhaps share in your shelter. I have only heard of your words, and though never from your mouth, I think we share a common desire. Please if you are out there let me see you.” There was no response. Benjamin neared the log. There was no hint of life inside. The water cut along the black shore. “Great Elder?”
An awaking grumble spurted from the tree’s skeleton. “Great Elder?” pressed Benjamin. Then a deafening yawn from within escaped the flimsy log in a heave of air that pushed the tall grass at the perimeter. The ground quaked in response to Benjamin’s summon. He cowered behind a large rock peering over in wait of the Elder’s presentation. But the Elder did not exit his home and only demanded to know who beckoned him at the early hour.
“Who is rattling on out there?” bellowed the exhausted voice.
“Benjamin.”
“Who?”
“Me, sir, Benjamin Black.” Benjamin revealed himself from the rock. “I have come to you, sir. But I assure you it is not in flippancy. I have tangible reason to belief my journey is aligned with destiny, a destiny that has brought me to your doorstep.”
“Put yourself into the light.”
There was a narrow sliver of moonlight along the shore. Benjamin placed himself under its glow, “please do not judge me for who I am, I have come very far to see you.”
“You’re a cricket.”
“Yes, sir, I am. But please, hear me out before you send me on my way. There is a great divide amongst our races but I come not as a cricket but a fellow insect.”
“Ahhh…continue then,” allowed the Elder.
Benjamin moved closer. “I’ve ascertained, over months of meditation, that ones progression in life shall only be achieved through the devout perpetuation of it. My race promotes a nearsighted satisfaction that has onset our culture into an advanced state of atrophy. The mighty dollar runs supreme, with sacrifice to all that does not yield an immediate profit. By this we have polarized ourselves from our insect brothers who we fear will stifle our machine!”
“Stifled machines, huh huh,” yawned the Elder.
“But as we forge ahead with our thoughtless agenda, your race withers away into obscurity. For our race, whose nearsightedness is compounded by greed and power, there is your race whose myopia is fueled by gluttony and apathy. The grasshopper has been exiled to the corners of civilization for the belief that he will impede the cricket’s useless vision of progress. And without much as a yelp the grasshopper has allowed his children to believe such a rancorous canard. And while the two races dredge on in disdain of each other, they only succeed in continuing a life of triviality. What they call purpose is a carousel of insanity. Oh, so much we have in common!”
“And you?” asked the Elder.
“I am but a vigilant soul who has taken notice. Our clans have set goals with strict parameters, never meandering from the instructions, but as I can see it, they lead to nowhere. Both carry on different but singular schools of thought, as though they were buckets of water on ones head, and as if to change ones steps would lead to the topple of that water. Alas, the spoil is only spilled water! And those buckets are running close to dry anyway!
“I see the reason of your exasperation, but why have you come to me?”
“Is not my point the same as yours? I was under the impression that was so. I traveled very far, and destiny has brought be to your doorstep.”
There was a pause from within the hollowed log. A breeze kicked up from the pond transecting across Benjamin’s body. Pale blue rose up from the east.
“You are quite sure it is destiny,” came the Elder’s voice again, less authoritative. It sounded younger and a bit eager.
“I believe my bidding is guided by something greater than all of us. I did not make the choice to come. There was something inside, something burrowed in me and grew itself until I felt ill with its heaviness. And when I tried to speak out, I was chastised. I am here because I was led here. How else could I explain it?
“The same way you explained our races needs for change. The paradox is- if you are destined to change the minds of your fellow insects, insects that have followed patterns mended deep into their fabric, how could you dismiss their habits as choice? Would it not be their destiny to carry on in such a ludicrous way?
“No, but… it is my destiny to bring change.”
“How can you be so sure? All I see is a crunchy cricket protesting his fraternity. Maybe you have chosen to believe in a fate so, but in fact your choice is not theirs.
“Why do you convolute my head with doubt? Are you testing my faith to the cause? I am beyond fatigued. My night has been long and merciless, sir, and I am in no mind to be challenged at the present!”
The sun pressed higher into the sky. Benjamin could begin to feel its warmth. “I exhort you,” said Benjamin, “please, may I share in your shelter?”
“I can lend you shelter,” offered the elder with in a sanguinary reply.
Benjamin flinched in askance to the awful voice. “Sir?”
“You see Benjamin you woke me.”
“I apologize, sir.”
“There was a storm days ago and one of my legs was severed leaving me greatly immobile. I would be doomed to predators outside so I’ve hid in my home since. Only that has left me without food for several days. I thought surely I would perish believing my fate was to perish this way. But then you arrived…”
“Yes sir, I would be willing to gather you something to eat. Though I’m afraid I’m too exhausted to seek upon it now.”
“No Benjamin, your choice has saved my life. Or perhaps it was my destiny to lay here miserable, awaiting death, reflecting, until your timely arrival.
Benjamin came closer to the log. “It’s something bigger than both of us. We are but pawns of its control.”
“You will save me, Benjamin. Tasty, Benjamin.”
“Yes I… what?”
The Elder forced himself out of the log, clasping its structure with his corpulent fingers, propping high above Benjamin who quivered below. His eyes were deep and far spread, his skin sleek like placid water.
“Elder?” gasped Benjamin.
“It always comes back to the basics,” said the Elder. “Survival!” He released his lighting quick tongue lashing it upon Benjamin’s body. There was little time for retaliation as he yanked Benjamin back into his mouth. The Elder gave three merciless chomps to Benjamin’s silent body and slid back into his dwelling. He was content. Satiated. Happy. His eyes relaxed with his stomach full. That strange cricket and his silly diatribe had prolonged him. The conversation slowly evaporated from the air as his stomach began digesting his prey. There was quite now. There could be hope. In a few more days the leg would be healed and there would be no more need to cower away. He sighed and began to drift. Content. Satiated. Happy. Grasshoppers and crickets.
Then came a flutter from outside. He listened cautiously. A rumbling approached. It came closer without sign of ceasing. He braced himself. His home rattled in chaos as it was ripped from the earth maliciously and spun out to sea. It crashed onto the surface of the pond, shattering upon impact, water submerging his home from both ends. His injured leg hindered his movement, leaving him vulnerable in the open water. The sun was rising. He could only pray for quick death now. Birds were flocking overhead. Then he heard the voice of the conspirators to his demise, loud and awake at the foot of the pond.
“You see how far I threw that one,” cried the pug face boy from the shore.
“That’s nothing,” said another boy as he tossed more debris from the land into the pond.
“Boys stop, you’ll scare the fish away. Come over here, there’s better fishing on the other end. Let me show you.” The boys followed their father along the shore, skipping and hopping, at ease with the world, their poles in hand about to learn something new.