Myron michael
WORD ON THE STREET
(B-SIDE EPISTLE)
And so many fell from the sky and took the shape of many, mated with many and gave birth to many. Many called the afterlife home and welcomed the return of the dead; in some parts, many were not as welcoming, and so built treehouses for the underworld, then set the treehouses on fire with the dead curled up inside; in another part, many called it, Jotunheim; but in another, Olympus; and another, heaven. In other parts heaven was a land on fire it had oceans made of lava and treetops made of flame, and when the wind blew, the tops swayed to and from, sharing smoke with neighbors. Some parts called the afterlife hell; another part called it Abaddon; another, Gehenna; another, earth.
It wasn’t long until many outgrew their bodies—and then their earth—once many understood mankind was extraordinary, but not all that it was cracked up to be—and wanted to get back to either the sky or ether, so that many could be closer to the one with a million names: so close that many could uphold a million names, so close that many could take on a million names, or sing in chorus in a million tongues to give back a million names. Many prayed in a million languages to the one with a million names, and asked for more—in some parts, with altars of sugar and fat; in other parts, with vigils of wax and candlelight—starry maps that could lead many back to where many came from. Many overlooked the return of the dead for prophecies, and introverted.
When many prayers weren’t answered, many consulted life coaches, who consulted architects, who designed, and then consulted civil engineers, who recruited construction workers—in some parts, bond servants, in other parts, slaves—to build a stairway to kudenga; but the one with a million names had the ear of the silent one, who had the heart of the intuitive one, who had the eyes of the seer, who had the mouth of the poet, who had the spirit of the oracle, who named the stairway and said that the one at the head in the race for the sky will reach a point and stop breathing; and so the name of it, like a curse, like oxygen sucked from the atmosphere, suffocated many of the multitude; but one, at the pinnacle, like a comet, fell from the cusp and brought the entire structure down.
The oneiric one, the one who—in the minds of the ones who made paint and knives of wood rummaged from the fire pit—shirked his albatross, kept his totem tucked beneath a leaf wrapped snugly around his waist, yet saw the barghest running between huts; in some parts, teepees; in other parts, shacks; in others words, dwellings, so spirited away to inform the autistic one, and then the artistic one. The autistic one, in some parts, the observant one, started chanting to the gathering of thunderclouds. The artistic one, in some parts, the scientific one, began putting two and two together; the artistic one, in some parts, the scientific, drew up a sketch, in some parts a hypothesis, which served as portend for what was to come; but the many were busy brushing dirt from their navels or stargazing. Beware the ides of October, the barghest, in some parts, the soothsayer, said. If the many were idol worshipping, if the many in some parts were idyllic out in the pasture, or beneath trees with streetwalkers, in some parts, concubines, in other words, mistresses, then it would have done well for the artistic one, in some parts the scientific one, to be idle until the one with a million names had again the ear of the silent one.
Until it rained, the one with a pocket full of bones would take them out and cast them at the aeromantic one, in some parts, the philosophical one; some bones would boomerang back, which baffled the fideistic one; but one chalked it up to one with a million names as having a will: a will for bones, a will for stones, a will for woods, a will for metals, a will for chemicals, a will for the anthropomorphic, and afterthoughts.
(B-SIDE EPISTLE)
And so many fell from the sky and took the shape of many, mated with many and gave birth to many. Many called the afterlife home and welcomed the return of the dead; in some parts, many were not as welcoming, and so built treehouses for the underworld, then set the treehouses on fire with the dead curled up inside; in another part, many called it, Jotunheim; but in another, Olympus; and another, heaven. In other parts heaven was a land on fire it had oceans made of lava and treetops made of flame, and when the wind blew, the tops swayed to and from, sharing smoke with neighbors. Some parts called the afterlife hell; another part called it Abaddon; another, Gehenna; another, earth.
It wasn’t long until many outgrew their bodies—and then their earth—once many understood mankind was extraordinary, but not all that it was cracked up to be—and wanted to get back to either the sky or ether, so that many could be closer to the one with a million names: so close that many could uphold a million names, so close that many could take on a million names, or sing in chorus in a million tongues to give back a million names. Many prayed in a million languages to the one with a million names, and asked for more—in some parts, with altars of sugar and fat; in other parts, with vigils of wax and candlelight—starry maps that could lead many back to where many came from. Many overlooked the return of the dead for prophecies, and introverted.
When many prayers weren’t answered, many consulted life coaches, who consulted architects, who designed, and then consulted civil engineers, who recruited construction workers—in some parts, bond servants, in other parts, slaves—to build a stairway to kudenga; but the one with a million names had the ear of the silent one, who had the heart of the intuitive one, who had the eyes of the seer, who had the mouth of the poet, who had the spirit of the oracle, who named the stairway and said that the one at the head in the race for the sky will reach a point and stop breathing; and so the name of it, like a curse, like oxygen sucked from the atmosphere, suffocated many of the multitude; but one, at the pinnacle, like a comet, fell from the cusp and brought the entire structure down.
The oneiric one, the one who—in the minds of the ones who made paint and knives of wood rummaged from the fire pit—shirked his albatross, kept his totem tucked beneath a leaf wrapped snugly around his waist, yet saw the barghest running between huts; in some parts, teepees; in other parts, shacks; in others words, dwellings, so spirited away to inform the autistic one, and then the artistic one. The autistic one, in some parts, the observant one, started chanting to the gathering of thunderclouds. The artistic one, in some parts, the scientific one, began putting two and two together; the artistic one, in some parts, the scientific, drew up a sketch, in some parts a hypothesis, which served as portend for what was to come; but the many were busy brushing dirt from their navels or stargazing. Beware the ides of October, the barghest, in some parts, the soothsayer, said. If the many were idol worshipping, if the many in some parts were idyllic out in the pasture, or beneath trees with streetwalkers, in some parts, concubines, in other words, mistresses, then it would have done well for the artistic one, in some parts the scientific one, to be idle until the one with a million names had again the ear of the silent one.
Until it rained, the one with a pocket full of bones would take them out and cast them at the aeromantic one, in some parts, the philosophical one; some bones would boomerang back, which baffled the fideistic one; but one chalked it up to one with a million names as having a will: a will for bones, a will for stones, a will for woods, a will for metals, a will for chemicals, a will for the anthropomorphic, and afterthoughts.
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Experimental Essay Award Winner (tie)