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Homunculi
By Richard Osgood
Irony entered the barn through open double doors. Anybody here? Someone or something was in the loft among the baled hay and nervous swallows. He climbed the ladder and followed the sounds to a void within stacked bales. There he found Judgment and Passion, each in varying stages of undress, tangled in ecstasy. Judgment looked up, shreds of loose hay clenched to wet flesh. Passion rose to her feet. Fractured light through weathered boards animated her glistening breasts. Do you not like what you see? Passion motioned for Irony to come forward, but he stepped back and Judgment rushed toward him. Irony slipped on a patch of loose hay and fell to the floor below. Passion turned to Judgment——You have to do something.
Judgment dragged Irony to a hatch in the floorboards. In a small room below sat a large wooden box, at one time used to store beef shanks and headless chickens. The temperature within remained constant and cool, no matter the heat from above. He laid Irony in the box and latched the lid, confident that Conscience would come later to dispose of the evidence. Judgement emerged from the chamber to discover that Passion was gone. Folly stood in the open barn doorway, laughing and pointing and flouncing about. You will never wake up from this, he said, never wake up, never wake up, never wake up from this. Judgment covered his ears and shut his eyes. He opened them to find the bedroom curtains drawn and crickets alight the August darkness. Knowledge entered the room, shadowed by light from the hallway, and leaned between the stack of twin beds. You were having a bad dream, he said. It's okay now. Go back to sleep. Knowledge faded into darkness and Folly’s head appeared over the edge of the top bunk. It is not okay now, he taunted, you are still in a dream, from which you will never wake up, never wake up, never wake up, from which you will never wake up.
Judgment leaped from the bed and ran to the barn. He searched for the hidden chamber beneath the floorboards. It was nowhere to be found. Folly danced in the loft with the swallows and baled hay, singing of remorse and condemnation. Judgment returned to the bedroom and found the stacked twin beds consumed by memory, in their place a king-sized bed on which Modesty lay fast asleep. He turned to the dresser where he discovered a ceramic urn with the ashen remains of Knowledge. Judgment searched the room and in a corner near the closet discovered a wooden peg protruding from the floor. He pressed the peg and a hatch popped open revealing a cold, dark chamber below. At the bottom he saw a large wooden box. He entered the darkness and opened the box. In the place where Irony once lay, the betrayed eyes of Conscience stared up at him.
- - -
Richard Osgood lives on a river where the north meets the south. Publication credits include, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Hobart, Dogzplot, LitChaos, Mudluscious, and Writer's Bloc, among others. He continues to mourn the deaths of Steve Marriott and Syd Barrett.
By Richard Osgood
Irony entered the barn through open double doors. Anybody here? Someone or something was in the loft among the baled hay and nervous swallows. He climbed the ladder and followed the sounds to a void within stacked bales. There he found Judgment and Passion, each in varying stages of undress, tangled in ecstasy. Judgment looked up, shreds of loose hay clenched to wet flesh. Passion rose to her feet. Fractured light through weathered boards animated her glistening breasts. Do you not like what you see? Passion motioned for Irony to come forward, but he stepped back and Judgment rushed toward him. Irony slipped on a patch of loose hay and fell to the floor below. Passion turned to Judgment——You have to do something.
Judgment dragged Irony to a hatch in the floorboards. In a small room below sat a large wooden box, at one time used to store beef shanks and headless chickens. The temperature within remained constant and cool, no matter the heat from above. He laid Irony in the box and latched the lid, confident that Conscience would come later to dispose of the evidence. Judgement emerged from the chamber to discover that Passion was gone. Folly stood in the open barn doorway, laughing and pointing and flouncing about. You will never wake up from this, he said, never wake up, never wake up, never wake up from this. Judgment covered his ears and shut his eyes. He opened them to find the bedroom curtains drawn and crickets alight the August darkness. Knowledge entered the room, shadowed by light from the hallway, and leaned between the stack of twin beds. You were having a bad dream, he said. It's okay now. Go back to sleep. Knowledge faded into darkness and Folly’s head appeared over the edge of the top bunk. It is not okay now, he taunted, you are still in a dream, from which you will never wake up, never wake up, never wake up, from which you will never wake up.
Judgment leaped from the bed and ran to the barn. He searched for the hidden chamber beneath the floorboards. It was nowhere to be found. Folly danced in the loft with the swallows and baled hay, singing of remorse and condemnation. Judgment returned to the bedroom and found the stacked twin beds consumed by memory, in their place a king-sized bed on which Modesty lay fast asleep. He turned to the dresser where he discovered a ceramic urn with the ashen remains of Knowledge. Judgment searched the room and in a corner near the closet discovered a wooden peg protruding from the floor. He pressed the peg and a hatch popped open revealing a cold, dark chamber below. At the bottom he saw a large wooden box. He entered the darkness and opened the box. In the place where Irony once lay, the betrayed eyes of Conscience stared up at him.
- - -
Richard Osgood lives on a river where the north meets the south. Publication credits include, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Hobart, Dogzplot, LitChaos, Mudluscious, and Writer's Bloc, among others. He continues to mourn the deaths of Steve Marriott and Syd Barrett.
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