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.)
Tag: mystery
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.
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.”
Never see you again
You said you never wanted to see me again.
So, I went down into my basement workshop and invented an invisibility cloak.
Which didn’t work out so great. It’s just a sheet you couldn’t see.
I mean, yeah, that’s kinda cool, but doesn’t really get the job done.
I thought about bringing you down into the workshop with me and then turning off the lights so you couldn’t see me, but I still wanted to see you.
That’s when I decided to go with a third option:
Keep that blindfold on, Janey, or I’ll have to tear your eyes out.
She paints the future
She paints the pain, wide slashes at the canvas, red paint drips like blood.
Wrapping bandages, applying pressure.
The canvas still bleeds; what isn’t covered with red turns grey and sallow.
The red turns dark and black, she can do nothing but watch the canvas die.
Into the dumpster it goes with all the other failures.
You cannot kill art twice.
She casts the spell again, sips another sip of bourbon, and sprays it on a fresh canvas.
Waiting… waiting… feeling…
A pulse!
Dipping the dagger into the red paint, another chant: life… life… life…
The canvas trembles with fear.
The Road Not Taken
I remember when I was little, my Papa Robert lived with us.
When it snowed, he’d wander down the road into the yellow woods.
“Go find Papa Robert,” said my father.
We’d suit up and look for him.
Sometimes, he’d take the road to the city and he’d be in the Derry coffee shop in his long johns, warming up, writing poetry.
Other times, he’d be on a side road, wandering in the undergrowth.
He lost a few toes that way.
His glasses all frosty, snow in his hair.
Today, I stand here, trying to decide.
Before my grandkids come.