By Thad Fowler.
Not long after World News for the Worldly World heralded the arrival of the prosthetic tongue, skeletons began appearing on the streets, hellbent on speaking out. Earl came across one while on his way to a dentist’s appointment. “Ask me a question, any question, I dare you,” said the skeleton. “Alright, alright, you got me. The answer is one. Ha!”
Earl’s lower left molar throbbed with dull pain and a root canal awaited him. He had never seen a skeleton walking around before. The skeleton allowed its tongue to drape over its teeth. A tremor traveled like a reflex down the pale pink organ. Earl thought, “That’s a long tongue.”
“But seriously,” continued the skeleton. “I think we could both use a cuddle, and I’ve got this handy pair of arms here. How about it?”
Earl considered the bone arms extending towards him, the wiggling phalanges. A shower had fallen the night before, and his nose became alive to the scent of wet asphalt and muggy car exhaust. “No need for alarm,” Earl thought. He had been reading up on transincindental meditation, a method of interpersonal healing developed by Jacques Clavel, and in an ongoing and earnest effort at improving his life he aimed to apply—across all aspects of his experience and to the best of his understanding—the tenet of courage diplomatique: “Aspire to a gentle wind, and intervene where power and discretion converge.”
Earl closed his eyes and walked blindly to the intersection ahead, at V Street. When his feet came upon a dip in the concrete, he opened his eyes again: no more skeleton. He crossed V Street and began to whistle, letting his mind wander over alternative, constructive scenarios he might be able to advance in any future encounters with a garrulous skeleton.
The opportunity to apply those plans came soon. Two blocks down, reflective film coated the windows of an office building. A shock of red swooped in and smacked the surface. The cardinal regrouped in a batting of wings and charged forth for another hit. In the glass curtain wall’s reflection, a skeleton looked on, rubbing its cheek. Earl felt a mild salve on his tooth as he rubbed—not a cure but better than nothing. The urge to speak stirred, and the cardinal let loose a trill.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thad Fowler‘s work has appeared in publications such as Tarpaulin Sky, New San Francisco Writing, and Anemone Sidecar. His novel The Taste of Fruit Not Eaten is forthcoming from Running Wild Press. He received an MFA from San Francisco State University and currently resides in the Washington, D.C. area.
