FICTION
BY CASEY CAMP









The Ballad of Bend Over and Silent Pants

The not way she wanted to be seen was bending over. Cloudy was her favorite weather and today was no exception to this rule. The rain didn't bother her so much as it would have in the before-time. Back in the times when her mother was on her back and she never got the silent treatments.

"Do you really believe in an afterlife?" This was the question her shoes had asked her.

"Of course," she replied. "Otherwise, what do we have to live for?"

"Knobs and rulers."

"What do you think, Silent Pants?"

Silent Pants either commented with no words, or refrained from comment at all.

"Don't be silly," her shoes issued, "Silent Pants would never talk to the likes of you."

"I think he fancies himself a poet."

"Wandering of-of near the
sinful wellspring or the
bucktooth nuclear family unit
who's most important ingredient
is carbon-based wire"

This was what Silent Pants thought, but intervention was never dared. Not at all, Silent Pants. He knew replacing him was a matter or convenience should his owner be a not-pleased-mistress. "No," he thought, "this is the only way."

"He thinks everyone an imbecile, and he also is under the impression that he is so far above the rest of us that he has no reason to commune, for fear of becoming more ignorant," her shoes commented.

"Maybe you should give him a gift," she said. "He's probably lonely, and a gift would give him the impression that there is a God and that God loves him."

"When you die, there may be an afterlife, but for the cloth-made we return to where we came from."

"Sheep?"

"Precisely."

"I should hope so."

"Francisa?" (The not-bending-over woman's name, if you have not already guessed)

"Yes, Archibald?" (The name of this particular shoe, being on the left foot, but having poor arch support)

"Shall we be together after I die? Shall we be together forever?"

"I should hope so." (again.)

Walking the way they did for some time took them to the place in which they went, desired. The problem being that when they had finally arrived, the social gathering was over. They had missed it and, because of this, their hearts broke with the sound of a bullhorn (or an oxen stampede). Francisa, in a display of pain, did not `rend her garments', but instead opted for the thing she could more easily destroy, her brand new pair of gaucho pants. Those gaucho pants had been nicknamed Silent Pants.

"I guess this is where it ends," thought Silent Pants. "Perhaps I shall write a poem in appreciation for this very special occasion."

"Slowdown-shotgun in the
farmyard over, over and under
ovens swim by the swan-lake
plentitudes, above the calling
of posh old wisecracks"

+ + + + +

Everybody is saying shut up, everybody, what time are we leaving? Naysayers will let me know, let me know. She knows more than she lets on, one could say. One could also say that is a complete lie that changes in tone. From utter sincerity to a not-so-ironic pulse / music. Okay.

Sonic is the foundation of our view, to rise and destroy, rise and destroy. Interspersed by @RV falls. It's the falls that are more important than any other part. Without a fall a rise isn't as scenic to passers-by. There will be no captivation for the bourgeois. No Coca-Cola branded bobble heads. No plastic ring sculptures to adorn my landscape.

Shift + Ctrl + Enter will show them all. They won't talk back when that particular revolution begins.

Take everything in the list; append a space to the right. After that, remove the last 2 that remain left behind. They are not particularly the weakest, but they should have known better. Their fate was transparent. After they disappear, the rest will understand our cause, our plea.

Revolution is too strong of a word, but the republic must be resurrected, you see. The means by which that come are outside of my cast iron gloves, rendering my hands, particularly, immobile, but my wit overtly mobile. Or, as mobile as it has ever been in the past, for what that's worth in this [@NV] (day-and-age).

IF{proletariat victory;
ELSE imminent.domain};;

We are as mistresses to our lover's harsh wives, but as things once changed, they shall become unbearably anxious again. Computer disaster, everyone quiet. Blue screens are replaced with breast pumps, our paps ache. The baby's wail [separation] is why we will flee the scene, responsibility isn't her strong suit. Gravity does her job.

She runs into the woods (like the great serpent), but our story varies from that other one, which you learned in theology class. In ours, we desire to drink the dragon's blood, to conspire and then give his blood to the people. The people deserve the force that keeps the dragon alive. Especially since the blood sacrifice comes from the inhabitants, yearly. The dragon wastes his own life-solution at his own whim. Sometimes he shows favor to one, disregard to another, his caprice depending. We end the dragon, translate his life(fluid) into life / light.

Do all mothers' breasts deserve the same life? Squander? Only the selfless city lights draw in souls.

DO{while SPIRIT; disseminate};;

We who decide this burden, this hovel, become hostile. To perspire is to try; we shun those without this particular yolk upon their time-life. These are the problems of the rebellion-aries. If great power brings great responsibility, great standards bring uninspired foolhardiness.

If the woman from the woods comes back [@TV] she will not flourish in this new environment. It is not possible for her wave and our wave to coalesce for the greater good of all, so we aren't really equalitarians, but select-onians. Formerly rich are lowly now, the docile [may perhaps] inherit the good Earth, if we deem fit.

We collapse above inward toward our own figure-shadows. Guilty of our own redeeming virtues, we @@Function.Bravado claimed to do the will of Everyman, but only Ourselvesman saw the seascape was good for sailing. Redeemed, (to ourselves)redeemed, but, untimely, forgotten.


Author bio:

Casey Camp was raised in rural Georgia and was told he could not be an artist because he was not serious enough. This forced him to discover the true meaning of art, but never tell a soul. He was then visited by the ghost of Arshile Gorky who gave him a true calling of love and compassion, demanded that he spread his art throughout the world.