The Brotherhood awakens, goes through their routine of prayers and morning meal, and then they head to the winery.
Grapes are pressed, casks filled and rolled carefully into the cave.
A barrel gets loose. Father Michael is crushed to death.
The brothers carry his body to the yard, dig a hole, and lower his naked body within.
Dirt is piled over him, and they return to work.
The next morning, they awaken, and Father Michael leads them in prayers.
Was he revived by the yard?
Replaced somehow?
Nobody knows. Nobody asks.
“Amen,” he says, and they head to the winery.
Category: My stories
Recordkeeping
The Brotherhood has existed for longer than anyone can remember.
Record-keeping is limited to crops and other essential weather observations.
The brothers themselves are encouraged to not remember their pasts or how they got there.
Just follow the commands within the book, do your chores, and try not to kill each other.
None can remember any new brothers coming to the brotherhood, nor when they arrived themselves.
One lifts up their cowl… then another…
Brother William and Brother Timothy are the same.
“Lower your hoods,” hisses Brother Fredric. “The book commands it.”
(God forbid they realize they have no bellybuttons.)
Outside
Once, there was a hill, and on that hill lived a group of monks.
They called themselves The Brotherhood.
Their camp consisted of a dormitory, winery, prayer hall, and kitchen.
Vineyards surrounded their camp, and there were caves in the hill to store wine.
The weather was always pleasant and warm.
A river ran nearby. They used it for irrigation, but never drinking. They had wells for that.
And every question they had, it was answered by a book.
The book. The only book.
The wine was the best ever made.
But, the brotherhood didn’t drink.
Such a waste, right?
Bubbly
Okay, so, like I came to this school because they have a good fashion and design program, and it’s got five kegs in the party meter, but, man, tuition was expensive and my parents couldn’t afford it all, so I got a work-study thing going with this scientist in a lab and he’s got all kinda of tubes and wires and vats with bubbly green goo in them and she shouts DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING but, like, this place could use a designer’s touch, maybe some more light, and I see this switch on the wall, so I pull it dow-
One Voice
The book commands The People to speak with one voice.
“Does this mean only one of us speaks?” asks Brother Timothy. “Or does the book want us to speak the same way?”
Brother Timothy is from Brookyln.
Brother Eustus is from Waco.
Brother Philip is from Chicago.
None of them have the same accent, although they do of Eustus’ thick Southern drawl from time to time.
The brothers all turn to Brother Maynard.
He is clutching his ventriloquist’s dummy, trembling with fear.
“Brother Woodenhead can take a vow of silence!” he whimpers.
They toss the robed dummy into the fireplace.
The Only Way
Whenever someone tells me that something is the only way to do something, I challenge myself to try to think up another way to do it.
Sometimes, I come up with a much better way, and I propose it to them as a viable alternative.
“It’s easier, less expensive, and is much safer to do,” I say, going through the plans. “Plus, it doesn’t cause any pollution.”
The other person scowls angrily. “You cannot do this because God says not to.”
I do it anyway, because if God doesn’t want me to do things cheaper, safer, and easier, fuck Him.
A Twist Of Lime
“A twist of lime,” says the man in the green suit to the bartender.
“With what?” the bartender asks.
“Nothing. Just the lime.”
The bartender slices up the lime and the man in the green suit lays on the bar, staring up at the glasses and lights hanging over it.
He opens his mouth and says “Go for it.”
The bartender shrugs, squeezes a lime wedge into the man’s mouth.
The man in the green suit sits up with a grumble, wincing with disgust.
“I said twist, not squeeze!” He lays back.
The bartender twists another wedge.
“Oh… so… good.”
Barge
Midnight. Bloodfang Dock.
The tugboat slowly guides the barge to rest.
Captain Grim hobbles across the deck.
“Two thousand for a dozen, vampire,” he croaks.
“All alive?” I ask.
“When I last checked,” he says. “Hungry?”
I give him the money, and he throws open the hold.
“Out!” he yells, pulling a rope, tied-together soot-covered children stumble out in single file.
When the last is on the dock, he laughs, and I order the tugboat to shove the barge away.
I pull out a knife… and cut the rope. “You’re free now, children.”
They run, laughing.
(I’ll hunt them later.)
Unfolding
Lao Tsu is a master of the art of Unorigami.
What is Unorigami?
It is the opposite of Origami, the Japanese art of paper-folding.
He can unfold folded paper in a way that you never see a crease. It’s as if the paper was never folded.
He’s so quick, you can toss a paper airplane past him and the next thing you know, a flat sheet of paper wafts slowly to the ground.
For his birthday, I gave him a sweater.
He puts it on and thanks me.
Then he hands back the gift-wrap, spooled around the cardboard tube again.
Writing Trouble
I’m having trouble writing.
I try to think of things to write, but I just can’t find inspiration.
So, I went out for coffee.
There was a girl there with bandaged hands, and she was barely able to hold her coffee.
“Carpal tunnel,” she says. “Surgery messed up. Six months.”
I got her a frozen coffee with a straw, and we talked.
She’s also a writer. Has lot of ideas, just can’t write them all down.
I offered to transcribe them for her.
“Oh, I’ve got a voice to text program,” she said, getting up. “Thanks for the coffee, though.”