God Is a Place (Where Everyone Wears Togas)
ONE and ONLY.
Isolde paced back and forth behind the concrete bench at the bus stop. The air was making her nervous. She glanced again at the sky and saw that it was the same alarming shade of silvery chartreuse that it had been all day. Which could only mean one thing - a storm. The storms in Isolde's town were unlike storms anywhere else - they were a mixture of snow, rain, pixie dust, and regular dust. It was an impressive meteorological phenomenon at first, but, like the itchiness of a sweater or the 2 AM barking of a neighbor's dog, it was something you got used to after a while. Even if the pixie dust snuck under the hood of your car and made it explode or turned it into a giant mushroom, you dealt with it. You waited for it to reassemble itself or transform back (which it did - usually), and covered your car next time.
Perhaps the unusual weather occurrences had something to do with the fact that the town was named God. No, it really and honestly was. God, Illinois - Population 14, 257 and 3/4. No one knew who had named the town, or why they had chosen to name it such, but everyone accepted it. Goddians (as they were called) were a very accepting type of people. Of course, the religious fanatics (from out of town) were none too happy about this appellation, but there was comparatively little they could do about it. The worst it came to were occasional picket lines or a few really crazy ones trying to hack into the town radio stations and put subliminal messages in all the music. Despite this, the Goddians remained unchanged and pleasant as ever. Because they were magical like that.
A young woman came along the sidewalk and sat down on the concrete bench. She was not wearing a toga. This fact would have been completely irrelevant if not for the fact that God's official town garment was the toga. Again, no one knew how this had come about (it had most likely been instituted by the same individual who'd named the town God), but again, the Goddians simply chuckled good-naturedly amongst themselves and donned togas as often as they could. (Some people wore them every day, while others preferred to wear them for only a couple of hours once a week.) Every month, a town-wide toga party was held, and everyone went unless their mother had died or they had caught the bubonic plague. But no one really died in God, and certainly no one caught the plague, because, let me reiterate, they were magical. So there was really no excuse for missing a toga party. (Isolde had actually been conceived at one of these toga parties, and while it made a great story outside of God, it really wasn't rare inside the town. In fact, you aimed to conceive at a toga party.)
Anyway, the non-toga-wearing young woman was sitting on the bench when suddenly, she produced an enormous cookie from her purse and started eating it. It really was an awe-inspiring baked good, nearly the size of her face and teeming with chunks of darker chocolate and walnuts. Isolde stared at it lustfully. The young woman went on chewing and swallowing with an air of innocence and charm worthy of a Fragonard painting.
Isolde noticed suddenly how the tip of the young woman's nose was pulled up and down with the movement of her (quite finely constructed, she admitted grudgingly) mandible. Up and down and down and up, like the movement of a mechanical bird drinking from its little plastic birdbath. So transfixed was Isolde by this habit of the human body that her eyes began to water. She felt on the brink of a profound existential moment.
However, she was quickly forced to admit to herself that she hated this. It was stupid and embarrassing and why couldn't that asinine girl take her cookie and eat it in the privacy of her home? There, her nose could bob up and down to its heart's content and no one else would need to be subject to such a sight. But Isolde instantly regretted this thought, for it was spiteful and strange and unfair to everyone (except possibly the cookie, who had no opinion on the matter either way).
But one must understand, Isolde was born into the wrong kind of family. And by this I mean the wrong kind of family for anyone, not just for her. Because her family had fed her hate. Every morning, they had fed her hate for breakfast, packed her hate for lunch, and called hate to her from a car window instead of goodbye. Every night, they had cooked her hate for dinner, read her hate and its adventures at bedtime, and planted hate on her forehead before turning out the lights instead of a kiss. Surprisingly, they had still meant well. Her parents had seen the world and all the ways it could maim you and didn't want that for their child. Thus, they ensured that the said child would face the world with the best armor possible.
They had meant well. They really had. Their only shortcoming was their lack of anything much upstairs, which caused them to commit a terrible, terrible folly. They wanted the best but inflicted the absolute worst.
Weep for them. Weep for her. Etc.
As a consequence of her childhood, Isolde could never think of anything for too long without hating it. She used to wear a special watch that let out an alarm whenever she was about to start hating something so she could change her line of thought. But it had gotten pixie dust in it a while back and hadn't recovered since.
The rest of the Goddians, of course, accepted and sympathized with her but couldn't do much to help her. They smiled encouragingly when she passed. They baked her cookies, though they could only give one at a time lest her thoughts turned to animosity. But secretly, the Goddians knew she was doomed for the rest of her life to hate, and hate more.
And she was.
That is why a literary device called a deus ex machina will be henceforth employed. English teachers don't really like it, but most English teachers don't like cloyingly depressing, meaningless stories either.
The bus came wheezing and clunking up to the stop and Isolde and the non-toga-wearing girl boarded. Once Isolde got home, she opened her door to find hate club membership renewal forms on her doormat, the TV still on, and...a fairy on her ceiling.
"Oh, what providence!" Isolde sighed. "I have come home to find hate club membership renewal forms on my doormat, the TV still on, and a fairy on my ceiling."
"Yes indeed it is providence," the fairy agreed. "For you have come home to - [blah blah blah and et. al. We, the editors, wish to inform you that this is an edited version of the manuscript; and we firmly believe that you, the reader, should not be subject to reading the same thing three times over. It was merely an attempt on the author's part to hopefully allay the fact that she had no idea what the hell was going to happen next. And while, we grudgingly admit, it was rather humorous, it got old after about the second time. Besides, the aforementioned author already took a liberty with that deus ex machina bit, and this is starting to get ridiculous. We shall be sure, then, to give the aforementioned author a thorough spanking.]
- Edit -
We, the actual editors of the manuscript, would like to extend a sincere apology for the preceding bit of tomfoolery. It was deeply uncalled for and really just included for a cheap laugh. We, the actual editors, have a very low tolerance for any material intended to receive cheap laughs. Unfortunately, it appears as though the rest of the original manuscript has been lost. We again would like to sincerely apologize, and assure you that this has never before happened under our command. Well, anyway, the ending was happy, though a bit angsty, and permeated throughout with the author's odd sense of humor. Everything worked out, and there are still monthly toga parties in God, Illinois. So no worries.
Signed,
The Actual Editors, et al.
Perhaps the unusual weather occurrences had something to do with the fact that the town was named God. No, it really and honestly was. God, Illinois - Population 14, 257 and 3/4. No one knew who had named the town, or why they had chosen to name it such, but everyone accepted it. Goddians (as they were called) were a very accepting type of people. Of course, the religious fanatics (from out of town) were none too happy about this appellation, but there was comparatively little they could do about it. The worst it came to were occasional picket lines or a few really crazy ones trying to hack into the town radio stations and put subliminal messages in all the music. Despite this, the Goddians remained unchanged and pleasant as ever. Because they were magical like that.
A young woman came along the sidewalk and sat down on the concrete bench. She was not wearing a toga. This fact would have been completely irrelevant if not for the fact that God's official town garment was the toga. Again, no one knew how this had come about (it had most likely been instituted by the same individual who'd named the town God), but again, the Goddians simply chuckled good-naturedly amongst themselves and donned togas as often as they could. (Some people wore them every day, while others preferred to wear them for only a couple of hours once a week.) Every month, a town-wide toga party was held, and everyone went unless their mother had died or they had caught the bubonic plague. But no one really died in God, and certainly no one caught the plague, because, let me reiterate, they were magical. So there was really no excuse for missing a toga party. (Isolde had actually been conceived at one of these toga parties, and while it made a great story outside of God, it really wasn't rare inside the town. In fact, you aimed to conceive at a toga party.)
Anyway, the non-toga-wearing young woman was sitting on the bench when suddenly, she produced an enormous cookie from her purse and started eating it. It really was an awe-inspiring baked good, nearly the size of her face and teeming with chunks of darker chocolate and walnuts. Isolde stared at it lustfully. The young woman went on chewing and swallowing with an air of innocence and charm worthy of a Fragonard painting.
Isolde noticed suddenly how the tip of the young woman's nose was pulled up and down with the movement of her (quite finely constructed, she admitted grudgingly) mandible. Up and down and down and up, like the movement of a mechanical bird drinking from its little plastic birdbath. So transfixed was Isolde by this habit of the human body that her eyes began to water. She felt on the brink of a profound existential moment.
However, she was quickly forced to admit to herself that she hated this. It was stupid and embarrassing and why couldn't that asinine girl take her cookie and eat it in the privacy of her home? There, her nose could bob up and down to its heart's content and no one else would need to be subject to such a sight. But Isolde instantly regretted this thought, for it was spiteful and strange and unfair to everyone (except possibly the cookie, who had no opinion on the matter either way).
But one must understand, Isolde was born into the wrong kind of family. And by this I mean the wrong kind of family for anyone, not just for her. Because her family had fed her hate. Every morning, they had fed her hate for breakfast, packed her hate for lunch, and called hate to her from a car window instead of goodbye. Every night, they had cooked her hate for dinner, read her hate and its adventures at bedtime, and planted hate on her forehead before turning out the lights instead of a kiss. Surprisingly, they had still meant well. Her parents had seen the world and all the ways it could maim you and didn't want that for their child. Thus, they ensured that the said child would face the world with the best armor possible.
They had meant well. They really had. Their only shortcoming was their lack of anything much upstairs, which caused them to commit a terrible, terrible folly. They wanted the best but inflicted the absolute worst.
Weep for them. Weep for her. Etc.
As a consequence of her childhood, Isolde could never think of anything for too long without hating it. She used to wear a special watch that let out an alarm whenever she was about to start hating something so she could change her line of thought. But it had gotten pixie dust in it a while back and hadn't recovered since.
The rest of the Goddians, of course, accepted and sympathized with her but couldn't do much to help her. They smiled encouragingly when she passed. They baked her cookies, though they could only give one at a time lest her thoughts turned to animosity. But secretly, the Goddians knew she was doomed for the rest of her life to hate, and hate more.
And she was.
That is why a literary device called a deus ex machina will be henceforth employed. English teachers don't really like it, but most English teachers don't like cloyingly depressing, meaningless stories either.
The bus came wheezing and clunking up to the stop and Isolde and the non-toga-wearing girl boarded. Once Isolde got home, she opened her door to find hate club membership renewal forms on her doormat, the TV still on, and...a fairy on her ceiling.
"Oh, what providence!" Isolde sighed. "I have come home to find hate club membership renewal forms on my doormat, the TV still on, and a fairy on my ceiling."
"Yes indeed it is providence," the fairy agreed. "For you have come home to - [blah blah blah and et. al. We, the editors, wish to inform you that this is an edited version of the manuscript; and we firmly believe that you, the reader, should not be subject to reading the same thing three times over. It was merely an attempt on the author's part to hopefully allay the fact that she had no idea what the hell was going to happen next. And while, we grudgingly admit, it was rather humorous, it got old after about the second time. Besides, the aforementioned author already took a liberty with that deus ex machina bit, and this is starting to get ridiculous. We shall be sure, then, to give the aforementioned author a thorough spanking.]
- Edit -
We, the actual editors of the manuscript, would like to extend a sincere apology for the preceding bit of tomfoolery. It was deeply uncalled for and really just included for a cheap laugh. We, the actual editors, have a very low tolerance for any material intended to receive cheap laughs. Unfortunately, it appears as though the rest of the original manuscript has been lost. We again would like to sincerely apologize, and assure you that this has never before happened under our command. Well, anyway, the ending was happy, though a bit angsty, and permeated throughout with the author's odd sense of humor. Everything worked out, and there are still monthly toga parties in God, Illinois. So no worries.
Signed,
The Actual Editors, et al.
♠ ♠ ♠
Yes, it is a one-shot. I am very sad too.