A Farkspire Against
Castles
By: Lee Thomas Penn
-Son of-
Thomas Lee
Penn
- A Professor Against
Walking -
Professor
Gregory Farkspire walked along a single paved road through the green fields of
Ireland. Wisps condensed into trees, fences, and farmhouses. He directed a
rolling suitcase haphazardly over the ruts and rubble. His khaki pants were
peeling the skin away from his thighs (He knew that he should have worn
swallowed his pride and worn shorts), and his blazer with matching sweater vest
cooked him until he was poached. His skin chafed, and he liked it; he laughed
as the tiny neurons fired messages of revenge, while the nociceptors in his
brain rallied endorphins. He tried to conquer monotony once more by pulling out
a slip of crumbled mess from his back pocket:
New Kid on the Block Threatens Reporter’s Life
By MAURA O’FLANNERY
SIR Smark Drakemore, recently discovered heir of the famous Cahir Castle
of Tipperary County and the Cahir fortune, has just finished the renovations on
his new home. Recent advances in DNA testing and meticulous study of family
archives have revealed a link between the Cahirs and Drakemore, a former
librarian and amateur calligraphist. Ireland’s entire Office of Public Works,
formerly in charge of preserving the castle, is currently picketing outside of
the structure and claiming the right of usu
capere in the law courts.
I
recently sought an interview with Cahir Castle’s new resident who, from atop
the palisade walls, threatened to ‘bludgeon’ my body with his catapult unless I
vacate. After much parley and a digression on the use of illustrations in
literature, Drakemore allowed me to ask three questions. I began by asking him
of his intentions for the castle.
‘My
birthright shall serve as a sanctuary for victims of intellectual
productivity,’ he said. I then asked him to clarify.
‘The world has burdened its
intellectuals for far too long with expectations! No genius should have to
publish articles or grade the monkey drivel that students claim to be essays or
buy groceries or leave his or her home; I am building a Noah’s Ark for the
learned,’ he responded. I then asked him if he knew anything of the missing Mr.
James Campbell, professor at Cambridge University, father of two, and last tracked
to Tipperary County.
‘Nope,
never heard of him,’ he said. ‘I would suggest that you leave now.’ At this
time, I fled off of his land and out of range. One thing is for sure; Sir Smark
Drakemore will certainly add a splash of new color to the vibrant green meadows
of Tipperary County.
Professor
Farkspire received the magazine article in the mail three weeks after his
colleague, James, decided to flee from everything regarded as “dear,” but not
necessarily so. Along with the article came a photograph of Cahir Castle,
clean, solid, and assertive, and a note:
“I’ve found
my new home. No work, quiet, just reading. Sanctuary for scholars. You’d be
welcome. Don’t tell my wife. –James.” He received the article 3051 pages of
research on The Canonization, 223
term papers, 6 semesters, and 1 liver-spotted regret ago.
And now the
time had come.
He stuffed
the article back into his pocket and stared again down the empty road. His
loafers crunched over the gravel like a golem eating cereal.
The world
had nothing left for Farkspire. He dearly missed his time as a student: the
isolation, the tax on his physical health, the moment of satisfaction upon
receiving a good grade. As a professor, he would go to the library and read
bland articles for his research everyday. “Andrew Marvell: A Marxist?” etc.
Following, he would sit in a classroom and humor his students with their canned
interpretations, moronic connections between literature and Stephen King, and a
hornet’s nest of cell phones. “Yes, I suppose that you could compare John Donne
to Tom Cruise,” he once caught himself saying. He vomited afterward. Then, he
would serve a sentence of office hours, flogged by letters of recommendation
and requests for assignment extensions. And finally, if he were lucky enough to
leave without a faculty meeting, he would go home and beat his swarthy
mistress, Student Essays, with red marks and a grammar book… what a student
once deemed, “The Wrath of the Red Pen.” What meaning did this new world have?
He was glad that his little part of it had finally ejected him and that such a
place as Cahir Castle existed.
- A Spouse Against
Runaways -
He heard
squawking before the actual castle came into perspective. A woman appeared to
be banging fruitlessly upon the oaken castle gate. Two little girls stared
lackadaisically at the spectacle.
“James!
James Campbell, I know you’re in there! James!” The woman thrashed at the metal
bars and wailed with her whole body.
“Gloria?”
Farkspire called when he had gotten closer. He recognized her as his
colleague’s wife, but only barely; now she looked like a skeleton in
shrink-wrap. He had gone to their house many times when James was still solid,
and he remembered that she was a Tae-Bo instructor at the university’s gym.
She turned
her skeletal face toward his direction. “Gregory? Gregory Farkspire, is that
you?”
“Yes, I…”
At that
moment, an ancient police cruiser came around the bend, spitting gravel to
either side of the road like a shark’s fin. Mrs. Campbell became frantic.
“James!”
she roared, enraged. “James, come out this minute, or I’ll break through your
little sandcastle and rip your toes off! Do you hear me? Think of what you’re
doing to your daughters!” One of them was attempting a headstand, while the
other chased a grasshopper through the grass. The police cruiser sloshed to a
stop, and the officer stepped out.
“Okay
there, Miss,” said the policeman. “I think that you’ve caused Mr. Drakemore
enough trouble for today.” The conditioned girls strolled lazily toward the
back of the vehicle. Mrs. Campbell wailed and looked at the officer with
despair.
“Oh, good!”
cried a megaphone from atop the 30-foot wall. Farkspire looked up and beheld a
stout man with raven black hair and a black suit. “Thank you ever so much,
Officer Barclay. Do try to hold them for longer this time, would you?”
“Will do.”
He handcuffed the struggling Mrs. Campbell, but not before she tae-boxed him in
the eye. He stuffed her into the backseat.
She shot one last plea out to
Farkspire before the door closed, “Gregory, I know that James is in there! You
have to talk some sense into him!” And the patrol car took off back in the
direction of town. Bugs could now be heard chirruping in solace, and Farkspire
gazed at the imposing structure. It stood defiantly on the green plain – the
only indication of reason for miles, reaching imploringly to the heavens while
dead, black archway eye-sockets stared morosely at the earth. Farkspire guessed
that it was a quarter of a mile wide, but he couldn’t tell how long it was from
his point of view. Rusting cars and medieval wreckage littered the terrain. He
deduced neglect: shaggy vines and bushes, brown stained molars, even evidence
of an explosive discharge. Probably Mrs. Campbell. He turned to source of the
voice.
- An Examination Against
Entry -
“What can I
do for you, my good man?” asked the man atop the wall.
“Is this
Cahir Castle?” asked Farkspire. The man gestured past him and to an erected
gallows not far in front of the gate. Farkspire climbed the stairs and found
his own megaphone. “Is this Cahir Castle?” he repeated.
“Why, yes
it is! I’m Smark Drakemore, and who might you be? You’re not the press, are
you? We’ve got catapults for the likes of you,” he said.
“No, I’m
not with the press,” said Farkspire. “My name is Gregory Farkspire, and I would
like to live in your castle.”
“Ah,
excellent! Then I’ll just ask you a few preliminary questions, if you don’t
mind.” Farkspire’s organs overdosed on C9H13NO3
at the idea of an examination. “Are you a woman?”
“Excuse
me?”
“You know,
are you of the female variety?”
“No, I
don’t believe so.”
“Oh, that’s
a shame. It never hurts to ask. Next question: are you prone to a-harrumpfing?”
“I beg your
pardon?”
“Do you
ever say ‘Harrumpf’ when you disagree with something?”
“No.”
“Excellent!
We have one too many a-harrumpfers as it is. Final question: which degrees do
you currently hold?”
“Well, I
received a Bachelor’s Degree in English and Philosophy from Penn State
University, I received my Master’s in Restoration Literature from Emery, and I
qualified for my Doctorate with Yale. I’ve been teaching at the University of
Cambridge ever since.”
“Is that
everything?”
“Well, I
received a Minor in Chemistry while at Penn State.” Drakemore’s corked nose and
eye caverns sucked in shadows as he stared down in disgruntled thought. He
raised his head back to the light, and Farkspire saw a wide grin.
“Well,
Professor Farkspire, I think that you will fit in just fine here. How
positively delightful! Thomas! Thomas! Open the drawbridge, dear boy! Yes! Yes,
this very instant!” Drakemore’s head submerged below the battlements.
Farkspire
blew out a Red Cross’s worth of relief. He hadn’t taken an examination in seven
years, and it made him feel alive. With suitcase in hand, he walked into the
ever-widening forum.
- An Acolyte Against
Religions -
Drakemore
met Farkspire in the forum of the castle. He was shorter in person: a mere
5’3”. A youth sat in a corner of the somber hallway with a Bible. He was
crossing out verses with a black Sharpie.
“Welcome!
Welcome!” shouted Drakemore. “It is my pleasure to welcome you to Cahir
Castle!”
“Thank you
very much,” said Farkspire, stiff with uncertainty and amazement. “This is the
happiest day of my life.”
“I’m
tickled that you feel that way! Here, meet Thomas Radcliff, our youngest
confederate.” He pointed to the youth and whispered with arched brows, “He
adores me!” The boy threw down his Bible and stood up.
“Pleased to
meet you,” he said.
“Hello, I’m
Gregory Farkspire. May I ask what you were working on?”
“Sure. I’m
a religions scholar, and I’m trying to decide where I stand on Christianity.
I’m still on Genesis, and I’ve crossed out 156 verses. Where does your academic
interest fall?”
“I study
literature, specifically the footnotes in works of the seventeenth century,”
said Farkspire.
“Oh, I
would love to listen to your lectures
sometime! Is there anything I can do for you? Cup of tea? Wash your clothes?
Categorize your research?” Radcliff laced his hands together in a gesture of
genuine plea. Farkspire felt very happy.
“No thank
you,” said Farkspire. “I’m fine.”
“I could
use a cup of tea,” said Drakemore.
“Right
away!” said Radcliff, and he sprinted further into the castle.
“That boy
worships the ground that intellectuals walk on,” said Drakemore with more
teeth.
- An Animal Against
Darwin -
“So, what
brings you to my sanctuary?”
After a
moment of contemplation, Farkspire said, “I just want somewhere peaceful to
read works outside of my specialization. That’s all I ask.” He had waited so
long to say those words that they struggled in his throat.
“Ah, yes!
Then you will fit in here like a walrus to an iceberg. Oh, that was good!
Where’s my little biographer? Anyway, I have refurbished the castle with a
complete library of works from all Romantic languages, all rooms are
soundproof, and servants will provide anything that you need. If you find the
literary selection lacking, then post a request on the board for the servants,
and the work will be here by the morrow. I want to make life as easy as possible
for our kind. All carpets are Tibetan. The dining area is to your right,
although all of my guests here prefer to have their food sent to their rooms.
You should do the same. Now, some rules: only speak in the talking area (which
is part of the East Wing), no sniffling, never throw any papers away, and no
hard science allowed. Any questions?”
Farkspire’s suitcase suddenly
weighed more than the Encyclopedia Britannica. “Yes. Why do you deny Science,
if you don’t mind my asking?”
Drakemore sat himself in a nearby
leather chair and propped his left stubby leg atop the other. His smile was
painfully forced, and he stared past Farkspire. “You may not believe it from my
dashing looks, Gregory, but Darwin has not been kind to me. Something inert and
unknown in my genes seems to repulse others; it’s the only feasible
explanation!” Farkspire wondered from which source Drakemore had acquired this
idea. “Man is defined by lack,” Drakemore clucked on. “No matter how hard you
try, you can never overcome yourself. What scientists call ‘Survival of the
Fittest’ I refer to as the greatest plague of a rationalizing and reasoning
man. I can give gifts in abundance, I can become richer than God, but how can a
proper man like myself attract a mate when there are simpletons running about
with their genitals presented? Don’t misjudge me, Gregory; I think that Science
is fantastic. I took as much from it as I could in order to have what I do
today!” At this, Drakemore flapped his arms at the walls around him. “It just
has no place here. Come, I’ll show you the grand library!” He beckoned
Farkspire through a doorway and into a large room. Farkspire felt naked and was
afraid that Drakemore would notice.
“By the
way, is James Campbell really somewhere around here?” Farkspire asked.
“Oho, of
course he is! Is it any surprise after seeing that woman?”
- A Farkspire Against
Chemistry Professors -
Drakemore
led Farkspire to the grand library where great mahogany bookcases stood as tall
as penthouses, and scholars lay at the base in homage. A grand chandelier
dripped light into every nook and onto every page. An old man coughed and
someone answered with a “Shh!” Using his index finger, Drakemore sealed both of
their lips. Men and a few women sat hunched over reading material at sacrificial
desks and leather armchairs. They regarded Farkspire briefly and returned to
their books. James Campbell sat reading The
Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. As he glanced above the precipice
of his book, his eyes shone with recollection. He threw his book onto a side
table, and gestured amiably toward the next room. Farkspire followed and
Drakemore clasped his hands together, overcome with joy. In this room, scholars
chatted amiably, and Farkspire could faintly pick up quips about African
Literature and Economic Theory.
“So you
finally made it!” shouted Campbell happily. He looked full and wise with a new
bird’s nest beard. They embraced.
“James, I saw Gloria outside.
What’s going on, if you don’t mind my asking?” said Farkspire.
“What do you mean, ‘what’s going
on?’ She’s out there, and I’m in here,” Campbell said.
“Have you divorced?”
“No.”
“Are you on a break?”
“No.”
“Did you even say goodbye?”
“No. I don’t see what the issue is.
She has plenty of money and two beautiful little girls, and I am able to devote
my time to turn-of-the-century novels. It’s a perfect situation!” Farkspire
thought of Mrs. Campbell’s haggard frame and feline moans.
“Well, I’m so pleased to be here
and see you again,” Farkspire said.
“Couldn’t take the university life
anymore, could you?”
“Well
actually,” said Farkspire, “they gave me the boot.”
“Oh, how
come?” His smile faded.
“Eunice
Falwell.”
“The old
Chemistry professor? What about her?”
“Well, we…
That is to say…” Farkspire turned turnip and stared at the floor. Campbell’s
eyes widened.
“What,
Gregory?”
“We…”
“No! You
put your bookmark between her pages, didn’t you? Got an ‘A’ in her class?
Requested a private meeting during her office hours and…” He roared with
laughter.
“That’s
enough, James.”
“I’m sorry,
I’m sorry. But, she’s a married woman, friend, and she could be your great
grandmother!”
“I know,
but she was so intelligent, and she walked with that cute little limp. She was
so different, so mature. It was refreshing,” said Farkspire.
“Well,
that’s no reason for them to kick you out.”
“We did it
in my office, and a grad student strolled in mid-coitus. He attends weekly
therapy sessions now.” Campbell roared with laughter again. “At least Eunice
had tenure and could stay. I, on the other hand, was expendable. It was about
time, too.”
- A Recluse Against
Introductions -
“Well,
that’s neither here nor there,” said Campbell as the tears dried up. “Here,
I’ll play Beatrice until you adjust to the place.” He gestured to the occupied
room with a sweep of his arm. “That there is Ansell Val Decombres. His new
treatise on Ovid’s love poetry from a Sartrean Perspective is all the rage.”
“I’ve never
heard of it,” said Farkspire.
“Well, how
could you? Our work only stays within the walls, where it can be appreciated.”
Campbell smiled. “Yes, Smarky has created a perfect paradise.”
“I think
that he’s created a perfect Hell,” said Decombres after a drag from his
cigarette. A man nearby with a bold black mustache and a gray suit leapt to his
feet. He bore a paintbrush and a bucket of red paint.
“Oh,
wonderful! Another one,” the man shouted and ran from the room.
“Stick a
dissertation in it, Ansell! No one is forcing you to stay here,” said Campbell.
Decombres turned away and slouched moodily in his chair. “That man is never
happy.”
“Who was
that other fellow?” Farkspire asked.
“Oh,
Charlie Jackdaw? Here, come this way.” Campbell led Farkspire to a window and
gestured to the open-air courtyard. Bold red words covered every inch of the
walls, and Farkspire could see a figure painting furiously. “Charlie does his
best to record our quotes for posterity. Come, you should meet some more
people.”
Farkspire
could vaguely make out, “You call that morbid; I call it mankind’s funniest
joke,” on the wall before he followed Campbell.
“This is Rip Freed; he’s studying The Interpretation of Dreams by Freud
firsthand.” An emaciated man lay before Farkspire on a couch.
“Wish-fulfillment,”
the bag muttered.
“Ah, Freed
is studying Freud?” Farkspire asked with a chuckle.
“Yes, that’s
what I said,” responded Campbell seriously.
“Yes, he
did say that,” piped up someone nearby. Farkspire felt uncomfortable.
“Psychical
Determinism,” it wheezed.
“Sometimes
we check him to make sure that he’s still alive,” continued Campbell. “No one ever
sees him eat or go to the bathroom.”
“I saw him
eat a dream once!” shrieked a man curled within himself nearby. “I did! I swear
it!”
“Ah,
Gregory, meet Henry Toulouse. He says the most profound things.”
“Pleased to
meet you,” said Farkspire.
“Your hands
are covered in profanity!” Toulouse sunk further into his chair. Those nearby
sighed in thought.
“Hmm, I’ll
have to contemplate that one for a while, Henry,” said Campbell. He then
whispered to Farkspire, “Drakemore found him in a mental asylum.”
They
continued the survey.
“This man,
Gregory, is Dr. Strangleo Sitwell.” Farkspire perceived a muffin of a man baked
into its chair. “Dr. Sitwell has more degrees and doctorates than anyone else
in the castle. How are you today, Dr. Sitwell?”
“Harrumpf!”
trembled the doughy man. He stared intensely at Campbell.
“Yes, it is
a ghastly day, isn’t it?” said Campbell. Sitwell hummed a low note and fixed
his gaze elsewhere.
- An Old Flame
Against An Old Woman -
“And this,” continued Campbell.
“This is Miss Catherine Montague. I think that you’ll like her,” he said slyly.
An elderly woman lurched out of her chair and stood in the bent shape of a
question mark. She wore a sack over her shoulders that carried an obvious
weight.
Farkspire’s heart began to pound. Montague
was the most beautiful creature that Farkspire had ever seen: her picturesque
snowcap hair, her sagging fruitful skin, her comforting blue eyes, her
experienced teeth. So real! So naturally flawed, and therefore beautiful! He
stared at her and felt like Death had stolen his breath. She sucked in her
cheeks and made dimples, meanwhile batting her eye-awnings.
“I’m trying
to simulate the oppression felt by the lower classes,” she trilled, gesturing
to her backpack. She extended a geographic palm, and Farkspire took it,
returning the introduction. “So, what do you think of the castle so far?”
“It’s quite
a lot to take in,” said Farkspire. “I feel a bit overwhelmed.”
“Yes,” she
said, “but you’ll get used to it. Just don’t forget about that ghastly rule: no
hard science allowed. Simply preposterous! I, for one, think that science is a
blessing and an honorable pursuit. Technology is the only hope for those less
fortunate than us. Especially Biochemical Engineering.”
“Harrumpf!”
barked Sitwell.
Farkspire’s
khakis began to shrink, and he felt an intense urge to escape.
“Thank you,
I feel better already,” he said hurriedly. “Now, I’d like to settle into my
room, but I’d love to speak with you more at a later time.”
“Of
course,” she said. Campbell and Farkspire wandered over to a dark, curving
hallway.
“This is
where I leave you, then,” said Campbell. “I have to get back to my studies.”
They embraced, and Farkspire toted his bag out of sight.
“Transference,”
muttered Freed.
- A New Adam Against
A New Eve -
Farkspire
turned a corner of the elaborately carpeted hallway and halted. His chest felt
heavy, and his eyes burned. He had lied to Campbell; the university hadn’t
fired him. He had left, much like Campbell, without saying goodbye.
They found
Eunice Falwell three days after the scandal had ignited, fried to a crisp in
her bathtub. Her hair looked like an avalanche, and her body had obviously
flipped about like a fish does when thrown out of water. Regardless, she lay
peacefully in her porcelain coffin. Except for her eyes.
A single
note with a single sentence rested upon the toilet: “Oh the shame.” No final
mortal business, no memoir. No mention of Gregory Farkspire, and this lack hurt
Farkspire the most. He had loved her.
Farkspire
sighed and continued walking.
A dark blot
of ink rose from a chair and transcribed into the form of Smark Drakemore. He
caught Farkspire’s arm.
“She’s
beautiful, isn’t she?” Drakemore said, staring in the direction from whence
Farkspire had just come.
“Who?”
Farkspire asked.
“Miss
Catherine Montague, of course! Who else?” Drakemore pulled Farkspire back to
the edge of the corner and peered into the speaking area. “Isn’t she divine?”
“She’s
lovely,” Farkspire agreed.
Drakemore turned away. “Oh, I
cannot stare at her for too long, lest I lose my sight in her glory! And what a
simply wonderful way to go blind! A worthy sacrifice, I should think!”
Farkspire’s heart tried to escape from his own chest; he didn’t want to listen
to a love story after what he had been through. He pulled away, but Drakemore
held him fast. “And yet, she spurns my every advance,” he continued. “I touched
her hand once, you know. It was like holding an infant mouse: so delicate! I
will have her, Gregory, I will! When the world outside destroys itself (and you
know that it will!), then I will be king, and she will be my regal queen.”
Drakemore’s grip softened.
“What do
you mean, ‘when the world outside destroys itself?’”
“Oh, well
surely you have noticed? Fossil fuels, global warming, electronic books,
Scientists in the government: the world is falling apart, my friend! There are
more churches and more adult bookstores then ever before!” Farkspire thought to
himself that there are also more people than ever before, but he didn’t say
anything. “People outside are floundering about, searching for answers before
the imminent fall of culture as we know it! And when the deaf are leading the
deaf, and no one is listening to Reason, the world surely will tear itself
apart! Drat it all! Where is Jackdaw?” This whole time, Drakemore was huffing
and wheezing. He composed himself. “Never fear, my friend. We shall be safe in
here, I promise. I’ve been stock-piling food, pens, and paper; all things
necessary for our way of life.” Farkspire badly wanted to get away, but he
still could not release himself from Drakemore’s grip.
At that
moment, Henry Toulouse came dashing through the hallway, as bare as
Michelangelo’s David.
“I’ve got
to catch the train to Heaven!” Toulouse shrieked.
“Be sure to
write that one down, Henry!” Drakemore called after the bare form. “He says the
more profound things! Oh, by the way, your room is the fourth on the left.”
Drakemore let go of Farkspire’s arm and strolled away, musing to himself.
- A Satire Against
Mankind[1] -
Farkspire found
his room to his liking. It was a simple cube fully equipped with a writing
desk, a fireplace, a leather chair, a bed, a bookcase, and an Ushak carpet to
protect bare feet from the cold brick. Farkspire placed his luggage in a corner
and carefully set his suitcase upon the desk. He caught a passing servant and
requested a copy of The Complete Works of
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester and a cup of blueberry tea. When the servant
returned, Farkspire settled into his chair and did something that he hadn’t done
for years: read a book for pleasure and not for work.
When
nightfall came, Farkspire heard a knock on his heavy oaken door. He placed his
book down and opened up his cave to Miss Catherine Montague.
“Hello,
Miss Montague, how are you tonight?” Farkspire asked.
“Oh, please
call me Catherine,” she answered. “I just wanted to welcome Cahir Castle’s
newest resident. Have you settled in?”
“How kind
of you! Yes, I’m all set here, and I could not be happier. Would you like to
come in?” She stepped inside and sat in his leather chair.
“So, what
is your area of expertise?” she asked.
“British
Literature from the seventeenth century.”
“So writers
like Donne, Rochester, Milton, and Marvell?”
“Yes,
exactly!” Farkspire was quite impressed with his new friend.
“What needst thou have more covering than a man?[2]”
Farkspire dropped his cup of tea.
He wanted to grab her, do horrible things to her not fit for even the writings
of Rochester. He leaned back against the desk. “What about you?”
“Oh, I
specialize in Russian Literature,” she said.
“Ah, so
Gogol, Turgenev, Dostoyevsky, and Tolstoy?”
“Yes! All
such tragic writers, who truly captured the hardships of the working man.” He
could tell that her field truly moved her, and his heart swelled.
“I remember
what you said earlier, Catherine, about the ‘ghastly rule.’”
“Oh yes?”
“Want to
see something?” And Farkspire opened the suitcase on his desk and pulled out
beakers and test tubes, vials, Bunsen Burners, a scale, indicator formula,
stoppers and matches, and all manner and color of grainy compounds. They
clinked onto the desk like glasses of fine champagne. Montague stared at
Farkspire with blazing coals in her eyes.
“Naughty
boy! I knew that you weren’t like those other stuffy men from the moment I saw
you, Gregory. You,” and she leaned over and kissed him ferociously on the lips.
“Miss
Montague, please!” Farkspire shouted.
“You are a
breath of fresh air!” She kissed him. “What I’ve been waiting for!” She kissed
him again. Her breath tasted like Maalox.
“I…” And she was on him. They
rolled. They tumbled. She creaked, and he groaned. They dissolved compounds.
They calculated molarity. They sublimed solids. They titrated acids and bases,
which flashed pink warnings until everything was pink and then red. Red burning,
vibrant red! The lovers leapt out of bed and fled from the room.
- A Mower Against
Gardens[3] -
The castle
was on fire.
The lovers
had left the Bunsen burner on when they moved to the bed, which damned a chance
sheet of formula calculations.
The flaming
spirit chewed along the plush rugs and nibbled at a stanza of poetry here, a
discarded Psychology diagram there. People were screaming. Slowly it sailed
into the central chamber, the grand library, the flame’s New World. In
twenty-five minutes, the fire forced a new creed upon the history of Western
thought in a violent act of Manifest Destiny. The whole room glowed a vibrant
orange and eventually short-circuited the gleaming chandelier. It fell and
sprayed dead ice all over the room.
Ansell Val
Decombres threw Fahrenheit 451 safely
out of the window, laughed triumphantly, and fled to safety.
Philosophers
ran for their lives, and novelists grasped impotently at scraps of paper.
Recluses jumped out of windows. Some thinkers huddled on the ground and sobbed.
Four students lifted Sitwell, a-harrumpfing and banging his chubby fist upon
the arm of his chair, and carried him outside to safety. The mad Henry Toulouse
organized an evacuation route and ushered stragglers outside.
“Come, Sir,
your life is in danger!” Some reportedly heard him saying.
Jackdaw stared one last time at the
writing on the courtyard walls. The words were running in unintelligible
sanguine rivulets as the castle died. He fled content, having played his part
as historian to the best of his abilities.
Thomas Radcliff dashed back into
the castle, intent on saving a distraught philosopher’s manuscript: A Treatise on Nothing. He never emerged
again, yet he probably died happily.
Word got out days later, and every
major university in the Western World began to send letters offering jobs to
the orphaned professors. Upon receiving them, one quarter had heart attacks,
one quarter found their own ways to die, and one half checked into mental
hospitals.
No one could find Rip Freed.
Drakemore stared soberly at his
inheritance. Flames bellowed out of the windows, like a skull thrown into a
campfire.
“What now?”
Campbell asked as he scanned fearfully about for signs of his wife.
Drakemore sighed. “I have plenty of
money left. We can rebuild.” They stood in silence and watched, fascinated.
“I would
write this as a tragedy,” said Campbell.
“I think I
would actually write this as a Comedy,” said Drakemore with a forced chuckle.
“Well,
certainly no mortal man could write it as both.”
- A Tragedy Against
Comedies -
A mob of
charred lawyers approached the pair. They were restraining Farkspire and
Montague, nude as test rats.
“They started the fire!” shouted
one of the instigators. The accused stared at the ground with shame. It was the
second most embarrassing moment of Farkspire’s life, and the fifth of
Montague’s. Campbell glared angrily at Farkspire.
“You just can’t help yourself, can
you, old boy?” Campbell reproached. Farkspire said nothing.
“You know
that science is not allowed in Cahir Castle,” said Drakemore. “Maybe they
tolerate that kind of thing in Dr. Johann Rutherford’s castle down the road,
but not within my walls! You are hereby banned from the premises!” He pointed a
big pudgy finger down the road. “I misjudged you, Gregory. And you, Catherine,”
he sucked in a sob, “I’m disappointed in you.”
Farkspire
and Montague turned about and began to walk. The former residents all glared
vengefully at their naked forms, and the gravel dug into their bare feet.
Farkspire felt alive. He had to help Montague to walk, and she finally felt
like a character from her Russian novels. They were truly wretched.
“Gregory,
why are you laughing?” she asked with an uncertain smile.
“I’m
laughing at us; laugh with me!”
When they
had gone, Drakemore said, “I need to be alone for a while.” Campbell nodded.
Drakemore walked until he found a large oak tree, upon which he tied his belt
and hung himself. One point for Darwin.
Crime scene
investigators later identified Rip Freed by his dental records. He had slept
entirely through the fire.
The End
- A Comedy Against
Tragedies -
“Catherine,
Gregory, I am very disappointed in you!” Drakemore shouted, in a rage. “If I
have my way, then you two will repair my castle stone-by-stone and
book-by-book! I have never felt so betrayed and angry in my entire life! I
could just…”
At that
moment, none other than Rip Freed came dashing around the edge of the castle,
laughing his emaciated head off through his dentals. He wore an ivy wreath
about his head. He pushed two carts of cream pies before him and stopped amidst
the collection of onlookers.
Henry Toulouse, naked of course,
grabbed a pie and shouted, “The world is a gingerbread house!” As everyone
grabbed their chins in thought, Henry Tuloose began to throw pies.
The first one hit Sitwell, who
couldn’t shout “harrumpf” through the whipped cream.
Farkspire and Montague ran laughing
to the carts and joined Toulouse in his game. Eventually, everyone stripped off
their clothes and seized pies, and there was much merriment and many eye
infections to be had by all. Drakemore had never laughed so hard in his entire
life.
“Wonderful! Simply wonderful!”
When they had depleted the pies,
the naked, creamy band elected Toulouse as their king and ran into the nearby
forest, where they sang songs, danced, and eventually developed severe cases of
Hypothermia and malnutrition:
We had a castle, a perfect paradise.
We had a castle with literary works
quite nice.
We had a castle, and filled it with the
learned.
We had a castle, but then it all
burned!
The End
[1] A Poem by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. The work denounces Mankind for
idealizing Reason.
[2] From John Donne’s To His Mistress Going
to Bed.
[3] A Poem by Andrew Marvell. The work prizes the natural order of Nature over the
synthetic substitutions within gardens.
Reviews from the Experts for “A Farkspire Against Castles”
“We vomited
simultaneously.” – The entire staff of The
New York Times.
“After
reading it good and we liked it.” – The
Alligator.
“Finally,
an author that we can understand!” – Sunshine
Hills Mental Hospital.
“We do not
write book reviews.” – Auto Trader Weekly
“The
language is too grandiose and complex for the reader.” – Monica [1]
“What was I thinking?” – L.T.P.
s.o. T.L.P.
“These fake
reviews really sealed the deal for us.” –
Tea Literary Magazine
[1] Monica is a pragmatic and highly intelligent woman from Halvor’s Spring 2010
CRW2100 Intermediate Fiction Workshop.
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