Sorry, my brain is paste right now. I think of Scholes, I think of footwear. His discussion of literary theory feels like it’s going in circles. Tired. I shall post a story I wrote inspired by “Story of an Hour.” Always seemed like an anecdotal story for strictly introductory purposes; all fiction is an elaborate joke to get to a drawn-out punchline:
One day, Dan Freeman was abducted by aliens. These aliens were gentle but firm. They promised to cook, clean, and provide entertainment for him until such time as their study of human behavioral patterns came to an end. All he needed to do was be himself.
Though angry, Dan was also rather excited. It seemed like a nice gig, especially in light of his recent employment opportunities—or lack thereof.
“Finally,” he thought, as the little purple man who was his host finished gesticulating with his three arms (which might have been feet). “I’m finally getting what I deserve. All my needs will be taken care of, and all my days will be a breeze.”
“Zorsplatt!” the little purple man exclaimed. Dan nodded and favored him with a blank smile. His Splurbian translator operated on a ten-second delay. In a moment, the stentorian tones of television actor and history channel narrator Edward Herrmann flowed into his ears: “And, in conclusion, we shall select a mate for you, engaging in a worldwide search of your home planet.”
“Wow!” Dan said. “You said all that in just one word?”
“Snarf blug, chesekstan. Snedley sploo. Elta fremon che so la la garfnoddle. Deweda dweda ne ne.”
In ten seconds time, Edward Herrmann’s mellifluous tones translated this statement as “Indeed.”
“Huh. My own space girlfriend. Do I get to choose?”
The little purple man did a back flip, or perhaps he stood up—Dan wasn’t exactly sure what part of his captor was the head—and unleashed a torrent of rapid-fire gibberish. In a few moments, Edward Herrmann assured Dan they were counting on his input.
“Man, you guys thought of everything.”
“Flurble!” said the little purple man.
“I am not a guy,” Edward Herrmann translated. “I am a hermaphrodite.”
“Oh.”
A door slid open and a little purple chef with an ample belly—or perhaps an enormous cranium—waddled in. He was carrying two gourmet dishes on his tentacle-arms and he skittered across the room on his hundreds of little legs (which might have been hair). “Splattle!” he said. Ten seconds later the powerful voice of veteran character actor and history channel narrator Keith David said “I have brought forth your sustenance!” He slapped the dish down and removed the top; inside, hundreds of little bugs wriggled.
“Um,” Dan said.
The little purple chef slapped his fat belly—which, as it turns out, probably was his head—and gibbered for a bit. “Oops,” Keith David translated. “My Bad. This meal is not for you.” He handed it over to the little purple hermaphrodite, who quickly dug in. He placed an alternate plate before Dan, lifting the top to reveal a well-cooked steak, mashed potatoes and asparagus.
“Ah,” Dan said. “Much better. Although, for future reference, I’m not really a fan of asparagus.”
The little purple hermaphrodite choked on a mouthful of grub; hacking it up, he/she let out a piercing scream. Edward Herrmann soon joined in. The little purple chef looked stricken (I think), at least until the little purple hermaphrodite pulled out an object that looked like a pencil and fired an incandescent beam of tightly focused energy through the little purple chef’s belly/head, coating the wall behind him in a gooey splatter of purple guts. The little purple chef screamed and fell down dead. I stared at the corpse for a full ten seconds before Keith David said “Aaargh!”
“Splittle splottle fooby booby splay nog,” screamed the little purple hermaphrodite, his/her arms fluttering above him/her like a deformed, waving balloon at a car dealership.
“We do not take kindly to failure amongst our staff!” Edward Herrmann translated huffily.
“Evidently,” Dan said, looking down at the little purple chef—now the little dead chef. He gulped and turned back to his dinner. How would he be able to eat now? He winced and began picking at the mashed potatoes.
Dan and the little purple hermaphrodite dined in silence for a few minutes, Dan careful not to touch any of the offending vegetables. He wondered idly if his voice was being translated into a mildly famous Splurbian celebrity. Probably so. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought actually pleased him. As he began debating which celebrity would be best suited for his voice—perhaps the Splurbian equivalent of Edward Norton—he cut at his steak with greater enthusiasm. He spared a glance behind him and saw that the little dead chef, as well as the mess made by his passing, had disappeared.
“Wow,” he thought. “What service!”
As the little purple hermaphrodite and Dan went over the criteria for his stay—indefinite, but pleasant—they finished their respective meals. By the end of dinner Dan was almost certain that he’d imagined the little purple chef entirely. After all, he was in an alien spaceship talking to a creature whose anatomy he couldn’t even fathom.
Anything was possible.
An hour later, after a delicious dessert of caramel apple pie for Dan, and roaches for the little purple hermaphrodite, the two were looking through the Victoria’s secret catalogue for a mate. Suddenly, a little purple man in a little purple HAZMAT suit rushed into the room.
“Flibble flobble,” he wailed. Ten seconds later, the dulcet tones of Meryl Streep translated this sentence as “Code Seventeen-B!” and then the little purple man—probably a little purple woman—exploded, splattering the inside of her little purple suit with little purple guts.
The little purple hermaphrodite seemed to sigh—or perhaps fart—and put the catalogue away.
“What happened?” Dan asked.
When he/she answered, the little purple hermaphrodite’s voice had a fatalistic quality to it. Edward Herrmann almost seemed to take longer, as if he were reluctant to translate. But translate he did.
“We made an unforgivable error,” Edward Herrmann said, voice cracking. “It seems your species carries a certain bacterium which ours cannot tolerate for a sustained period of time. We are all exposed. Though it takes a variable amount of time for death to occur; sometimes earlier, as in the case of my dear wife Garfsblaggle,”—he gestured to the little purple pile of goo in the little purple HAZMAT suit—“and sometimes a little longer, death is nevertheless inevitable. Honestly, I could detonate at any moment.”
“Oh my,” Dan said. “Is there anything I can do?”
The little purple hermaphrodite sighed, looking not at Dan but into the eyes of the Fourth Horseman, and gabbled a bit more.
“No,” Edward Herrmann translated. “Our race is telepathically linked via brainwave. Your bacterium will destroy us all, even those on our home planet…Splurbia.”
“No!”
“Yes,” said Edward Herrmann.
“But, what will happen to me?”
“You shall be returned to your home planet immediately. I am sorry we did not get to continue our association much longer, Dan. But, in the short time I’ve known you, I feel safe calling you…friend.” He held out a tentacle-arm, the last act of a doomed hermaphrodite feeling the ephemeral breath of some slouching beast upon his neck (or perhaps upon his ankle). Dan reached out his hand, a single tear rolling down his cheek…and then the little purple hermaphrodite exploded. Dan was coated with purple substance that felt like a mixture of jelly, honey, and Jell-o.
Ten seconds later, Edward Herrmann said “aaaah…”
In a moment, lights appeared before Dan’s eyes, a deep thrum hummed in his ears, and he found himself in the food court where he’d been abducted. He looked at the people milling by, so blissfully unaware of the truth behind the curtain of their own consciousness. So sad. So short-sighted. So small they all were, so oblivious to the presence of life beyond the stars.
And then Dan laughed.
After all, there was nothing to be oblivious about anymore.
-Matt (maybe)