Cameron Pierce - Abortion Arcade

He grabs the severed end of his string and encounters an other dilemma. He cannot hold the string in place and also tape the string with only his right hand, and no matter how he strains his neck, his mouth is too far away from his left hand to perform either task.

Simon feels doomed. Today’s events have distorted his mind. In his sadness and confusion, he feels bad about wasting electrical tape. He does not want the seven pieces of electrical tape to go to waste, so he tapes his left arm to his side. At least then he can pretend that he is not using his left arm by choice. It is much better to choose what you do, even if you hate doing it.

Simon sits down on the rug, still indifferent to the elephant shit. Celia will never live here again. Her organs will be passed on to other people. Her body will be donated to science. Should I move out of the apartment or keep on by myself, he wonders. The news of her death will destroy everyone.

On the morning of the funeral, Simon wakes up and puts on a pot of coffee. He lays two slices of whole wheat bread in the toaster oven.

He dresses in his grandfather’s grey suit. He would wear something black, but he doesn’t own anything black, nor any other suits. The left arm of the suit jacket hangs limp and hollow at his side.

In the bathroom, he brushes his teeth and combs his hair. He stares into the mirror above the sink while he does these things. He does not really see himself in the mirror. He only sees his strings.

The toast is burning. He can smell it. Celia’s funeral is in three hours, but at the moment, burnt toast is his reality. I am expected to cry, he thinks.

In the kitchen, he turns off the toaster oven. He slides the charred toast onto a green plate, careful not to scorch his fingers. He pours a cup of coffee and sits down at the table with his black toast.

The toast crumbles like ashen logs in his mouth.

The coffee burns his tongue.

Company might be nice. He’d even welcome the tiny elephants, but the tiny elephants are gone. They sleep in the walls in the day.

He shuffles around the apartment, terrified that he will fail to occupy the hours remaining before the funeral. He wipes crumbs from the corners of his mouth and stares at the books on the shelves, anything to avoid looking at his strings.

He takes down Keats’ Complete Poems .

Keats was Celia’s favorite poet.

He sits down again and opens the book to a page marked by a coupon for dog food. The coupon must have been there since before Ferdinand and Fernando died.

That was what? Three, four years ago?

The dogs were born of the same litter, and they died by the same rifle, fired by the same neighbor on the same day. Said the dogs threatened his goats. Simon and Celia loved their tent cabin, tucked away in the forest on the coast north of the city, but they decided to move after the death of Ferdinand and Fernando. Maybe they would have stayed on if only one of the dogs had died, or even both, if a mountain lion or bear killed them instead. Maybe, if they stayed, Simon would have never seen the strings. He folds the dog food coupon into his breast pocket and tells himself to forget the maybes.

The pages are blank because this is a talking book. In order to be read, the book must be wound like a music box. After he winds the book, the pages melt, then rise and fold together in the shape of a human head. The visage is that of the dead poet. The paper Keats opens his mouth and begins reading from Part Two of Hyperion. Simon is not surprised that Celia kept this page marked for so long.

Hyperion was her favorite poem. Face to face with the talking paper head, Simon has to turn away. Keats’ breath smells of mildew and rust, probably due to water damage.

The poet’s croaking voice emanates from trembling, yellowed lips:

The book spits up blood. A major problem with talking books is that as they get older, they assume the infirmities their human creators possessed in life. Celia’s copy of Keats’ Complete Poems has grown tubercular. Simon wipes the blood off the lips. It feels like blood, but when he looks at his fingers, he sees liquid words. He rubs his fingers together, smearing the words together into a blob.

He shakes the book. It sputters and fast-forwards through a few lines before continuing in its normal mechanical voice:

The book spits up blood again.

Simon rips Keats’ paper head out of the book. He tears the head apart in his right hand. He wanted nothing more than to hear these words that filled Celia’s heart and mind and spirit like balloon animals, but the book is a malfunctioning piece of shit.

As the words leak out of the destroyed paper head, tiny blue strings, so nearly

invisible that he failed to notice them before, blacken and fall away from the book.

Simon prepares to leave the apartment for the funeral. He does not care that he will arrive early. He cannot remain where he is. He simply cannot stand his own company in this space of so many memories. He cannot stand knowing that the book was alive. It was Celia’s favorite and he killed it. He loosens his tie. Maybe he’s just anxious about the funeral.

On his way out, he slams the door on a hideous noise.

He spins around.

A tiny elephant’s trunk has been crushed in the door.

He was not prepared for that.

Hands shaking, he fumbles with the door key. He finally manages to turn the key in the bottom lock. He opens the door.

The tiny elephant’s trunk has been severed completely.

The tiny elephant lies on its side, bleeding to death, choking. Simon takes off his suit jacket and wraps the tiny elephant in it. He failed to notice the creature on his way out.

It must have tried to follow or squeeze out behind him.

He sits on the floor in the doorway, cradling the elephant in his right arm.

The elephant dies. Its strings dissolve, floating off in wispy flakes. Simon holds his breath so as not to breathe them in.

He shakes the elephant out of the jacket, onto the floor. Blood has seeped through the jacket. Blood stains his pants and shirt.

He moves the elephant’s severed trunk with his foot until the elephant and the severed trunk lie side by side.

They look like two sleeping creatures. If not for all the blood, they would look peaceful.

Feeling disgraceful, Simon puts on his jacket and leaves the apartment, careful not to smash any elephants on his way out.

He is concerned about riding a bicycle with only one arm. Even if he removes the electrical tape, his left arm will not function, so he leaves the arm taped, the left sleeve of the grey and bloody jacket unfilled.