The Artist and the Fairytale

She woke beneath a burnt-toast-sky in mid-October, upon a strange and mossy rooftop littered with trilobite shells, where boxy robots bumped and booped about, and to her great delight the mattress upon which she reposed was in fact an enormous pheasant.

With a bang and a flap she and her mount steered cheering into the upper air! She seemed to be a pleasant sphinx or Da Vinci machine, all magic and mechanics.

She and the pheasant scattered the sunlight into keys made of rainbow metal that clattered to the city streets below. All the shackled humanoids starred dully up at the pheasant-girls passage, all one-eyed and one-toothed stupid. They screamed with jealous fury at her plump-bosomed-freedom, but she and the pheasant only dispensed more glittering keys and Dutch chocolates upon the splenetic hoi polloi.

She realized, of course, that she and the beautiful bird would need to do SOMETHING about the hobgoblin parade on the other side of town. They vaguely understood that the wicked hobgoblins were related to them, perhaps moonshine children, or Irish twins, so they turned chrysanthemum faces fresh with faith in the direction of the humptious dance. How gloried they seemed, as if washed in a cream cascade of Jergens body lotion! And though they sighed with the heavy load of their hope, and the heavens above were the color of a used car salesman’s office, and the sickly vapors caked their fine feathers with mucusy sneezes, still they flapped forward.

Soon the girl and her pheasant had passed beyond the murk to behold the colossal synaptic exchange of the living stars shooting packets of intoxicating texts at each other. It was the best video game ever.

Well, I was there the whole time, floating in my egg-shell crib, stunned by the spectacle. Years afterward, puzzling at a Suduko puzzle in the park, I encountered them wearing many badges and ornaments. By then I had grown a profound tap-root and topaz crown of autumn leaves, so we had a belly laugh and discussed all our babies.


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