2018-11-18 15:56 fiction flash-fiction Benjamin Brood


I tried, but I keep returning. The first time I threw myself under a bus. It had been a tedious day, I recall, every casual comment was a stab to the soul, every cold glance a territorial insult. I do not consider myself so sensitive, but sometimes retreat is appropriate.

No, this is incorrect. The first time was very long ago. I sat on a stone wall. I watched a wagon full of hay, its wheels churning with loud frustration through muddy village roads. The eyes of the horses were perfect exclamations of an imprisoned struggle, a slavery to conditions. It affected me deeply. I tied a mill stone to myself and walked into the lake.

Was that the first time? No, I don't think it was. However, it doesn't matter. I keep coming back. The process is opaque to me. I approach it with varying degrees of either desperation or creeping resignation. Sometimes I will go an entire lifetime, relaxed, conjoined with the temporary purposes and desires of a human life, and then a sudden, brutal succession of violent demises — as if I were declaring to whatever cruel master keeps us bound to this existential wheel, that I will not be quiet, that I will not accept these circumstances. With a rope. With a knife. With a gun. I know these expressions are relatively obscene. But what is obscenity in the face of an eternal process? It is screaming up at a sky full of stars, imaging resurrection upon each new world, the same profane rules across the entire swath, like a universal tyrant.

I once constructed a large, steam powered machine that dissected my physicality, cataloging each humor and duct, every gland and synapse, vaporizing as it proceeded until I was nothing but a measurable series of operations. And still, I came back.

For every clever method there was another equally, spitefully primitive. Some public, some private. There were periods of attraction to basic elements, Earth, Wind, Fire. Although in that age I was preoccupied with the alchemical principles that I believed anchored my curse. I spent an inordinate amount of time wondering how and why I occupy this position. I wondered how long it would continue. I wondered if any variation were possible. Then, realizing the futility of this woolgathering, I stopped thinking about it entirely for several lifetimes, amazed and disappointed with every return.

My current fascination is this digital era. I began to think that I needed to collect more data, since data is the spiritual currency, that if I record every action, every lifetime, and certainly every demise, I might detect through careful analysis a meaningful pattern. It will take a while, but then I have plenty of time. I am convinced the scientific method is the answer, no more of that archaic mumbo-jumbo. Gone are the literally fuming cucurbit and retort. It's me, I am nothing more than an experiment.

Today I go to that candy factory in the industrial zone. The security is lax. The equipment they use to pull, twist, knead and roll the mountains of candy, I hear, is powerful and deadly.