There were three atoms in a molecule. As you would imagine they were close; good friends, they were best of friends. Two of the atoms were the same and one was different, let’s say there were two boy atoms(carbon) and one girl atom(oxygen). Their friendship was the bond that held them together and together they were electric. Though such an electric bond can be a burden. A bond like that sets the distance you must remain apart, which can be too far away from the one you love or far too close to one you don’t.
Their relationship bubbled with life; they were the sparkle in champagne, the fizz in soda, they were carbon dioxide.
The two boys loved that girl, which is a story that never ends well. She could only chose one love and chose she did. So there they all were, separately entwined in love, forever combined by friendship and with one heart laid bare. And carbon dioxide is toxic to the heart, so one carbon atom breathed a last breath and expired.
The atmosphere within the once joyous atom became heavy with guilt and venomous with recriminations. The lively atom had transformed to poison. Carbon monoxide.
Instalment Fourteen
She had left home three times. Three times she left the country seeking her fortune. Three times. Clearly the first two times were not a success. She had ended up back home, broke. But this time was meant to be different. The third time is meant to be the lucky one. This time she was meant to find her fortune, not necessarily riches but a purpose. One last try. Maybe there was no fortune out there for her, how could you not have a fortune? Perhaps she did have one but it wasn’t a good one, an ill fortune. They say the future isn’t written in stone but hers still seemed to be written down somewhere. Failure. Perhaps it was written in faint pencil or dry erase ink on a white board, not in anyway permanent but still mapped out by someone. That’s how it felt anyway. It might be her kismet to fail. She could be the measurement by which other people judge their success, how depressing is that? “At least I’m not her!” they must think.
“Next,” bellowed the customs officer, “Passport Miss . . .?”
“Hope,” she sighed, handing him her passport.
“Welcome back home!” he replied.
“Next,” bellowed the customs officer, “Passport Miss . . .?”
“Hope,” she sighed, handing him her passport.
“Welcome back home!” he replied.
Instalment Thirteen
Days of Heaven
The God of Abstinence knew she would be found out. Her position was untenable. She couldn’t make anyone exercise restraint from indulgence. Not humans, not the guy at the next desk(1) and most importantly, not herself. Not for any length of time anyway. No matter how you sliced it, even the most fervent believers caved eventually. They reached their goal and had no use for her(2).
She realised if she did her job flawlessly there would be no more people, which was the first step towards The End(3). And she wasn’t going to deal with problems like The End, that was above her pay grade. So she made concessions, both professional and personal, which if she was to be honest with herself, came as a relief. The “no sex” thing was a non-issue(4), who was going to hit on The God of Abstinence after a hard day at work? What a waste of time! It was the diet that was killing her(5), especially when the voluptuous God of Baking(6) kept bringing her work to work.
The God of Absurdity, who sat her to right just laughed and said it was thanks to people like her his job was so easy.
(1) - The God of Absence was forever missing work due to what he called “irritable bowel” but the whole office knew he was hung over. You could almost smell the alcohol on his breath down the phone line. “God of Absence” she thought, more like “God of Absinthe.”
(2) – Those abstaining from sex were only waiting till they were married and then it all went out the window like heating in a single-glazed house. And dieters, 99%of those people yo-yoed like crazy. In fact only one person had ever suck to a diet for over a decade, and that was Madonna, and no one was sure if she was even a human or if she had done a deal with the opposition.
(3) – If the human race all abstained from sex then no more human race and no one to believe in the Gods, and no one believing in Gods meant no more Gods.
(4) – She had fabricated the existence of a boyfriend with whom she was taking it slow, you know, to keep up appearances.
(5) – The first outward sign that The God of Abstinence wasn’t following her own gospel is weight gain. Or wearing yesterday’s outfit, now rumpled and slightly soiled, into work.
(6) – Imagine an even more heavenly Nigella.
The God of Abstinence knew she would be found out. Her position was untenable. She couldn’t make anyone exercise restraint from indulgence. Not humans, not the guy at the next desk(1) and most importantly, not herself. Not for any length of time anyway. No matter how you sliced it, even the most fervent believers caved eventually. They reached their goal and had no use for her(2).
She realised if she did her job flawlessly there would be no more people, which was the first step towards The End(3). And she wasn’t going to deal with problems like The End, that was above her pay grade. So she made concessions, both professional and personal, which if she was to be honest with herself, came as a relief. The “no sex” thing was a non-issue(4), who was going to hit on The God of Abstinence after a hard day at work? What a waste of time! It was the diet that was killing her(5), especially when the voluptuous God of Baking(6) kept bringing her work to work.
The God of Absurdity, who sat her to right just laughed and said it was thanks to people like her his job was so easy.
(1) - The God of Absence was forever missing work due to what he called “irritable bowel” but the whole office knew he was hung over. You could almost smell the alcohol on his breath down the phone line. “God of Absence” she thought, more like “God of Absinthe.”
(2) – Those abstaining from sex were only waiting till they were married and then it all went out the window like heating in a single-glazed house. And dieters, 99%of those people yo-yoed like crazy. In fact only one person had ever suck to a diet for over a decade, and that was Madonna, and no one was sure if she was even a human or if she had done a deal with the opposition.
(3) – If the human race all abstained from sex then no more human race and no one to believe in the Gods, and no one believing in Gods meant no more Gods.
(4) – She had fabricated the existence of a boyfriend with whom she was taking it slow, you know, to keep up appearances.
(5) – The first outward sign that The God of Abstinence wasn’t following her own gospel is weight gain. Or wearing yesterday’s outfit, now rumpled and slightly soiled, into work.
(6) – Imagine an even more heavenly Nigella.
Instalment Twelve
It is difficult to imagine words dying, but they do. They seem vibrant, living things but they are fragile entities. Words become brittle when falling out of the lexicon, aging without use, like a supple leather saddle cracking without due care over time.
If they are lucky they have been written down, saved in text, nether alive or dead but kept in state on the page. This is why books are referred to as tomes. They are monuments to the fallen.
Entire languages are dying without the providence of having been transcribed to paper. Spreading like a virus of the mind, bullying English is killing them. Of 6,900 languages spoken in the world today, 50% to 90% may die by century’s end.
The last person who spoke the Eyak language as her mother-tongue died this year. Imagine the solitude of Marie Smith, 89 of Alaska, in her last moments. Then imagine the words, centuries older than Marie, an entire language, trapped within her head. Knowing their fate, knowing even if they are her last words, their meaning will be lost on those around her.
Merely thinking a word breathes new life throughout its vowels, consonants and meaning. Save a word.
The 200 Word Stories Adopt-a-word Program
It is what it sounds like, so here are two words that could do with your attention.
The Eyak language has a word datas which means, “I am trembling” or “I am shaking (from drunkenness).” That’s a very useful word, which I can and will apply to my own life.
The Yupik Eskimos use the term kunlangeta to describe a man who repeatedly lies, cheats, steals, and takes sexual advantage of women. If you haven’t met someone to whom you want to apply that word to then you have never been to a bar.
If they are lucky they have been written down, saved in text, nether alive or dead but kept in state on the page. This is why books are referred to as tomes. They are monuments to the fallen.
Entire languages are dying without the providence of having been transcribed to paper. Spreading like a virus of the mind, bullying English is killing them. Of 6,900 languages spoken in the world today, 50% to 90% may die by century’s end.
The last person who spoke the Eyak language as her mother-tongue died this year. Imagine the solitude of Marie Smith, 89 of Alaska, in her last moments. Then imagine the words, centuries older than Marie, an entire language, trapped within her head. Knowing their fate, knowing even if they are her last words, their meaning will be lost on those around her.
Merely thinking a word breathes new life throughout its vowels, consonants and meaning. Save a word.
The 200 Word Stories Adopt-a-word Program
It is what it sounds like, so here are two words that could do with your attention.
The Eyak language has a word datas which means, “I am trembling” or “I am shaking (from drunkenness).” That’s a very useful word, which I can and will apply to my own life.
The Yupik Eskimos use the term kunlangeta to describe a man who repeatedly lies, cheats, steals, and takes sexual advantage of women. If you haven’t met someone to whom you want to apply that word to then you have never been to a bar.
Instalment Eleven
When he moved to the city he changed his name, like Bono, and from then on, Zeitgeist as he was now known, led a charmed life. He was always out doing new things, wearing new things, thinking new things. Blonde, German, arrogant, you would hate him if you met him. Only you never will meet him; he was in the clubs you will never be let into, hanging out with people you’ll never meet. Those beautiful people, forever clicking at bartenders and refusing to make eye contact with waiters.
He wasn’t one of the beautiful people. He was the beautiful people’s “beautiful people.” The Beautiful Person. The Inspired Person. They looked to him, though only in the rare moments when they weren’t looking at themselves. They followed him and the world flocked behind.
And he knew it, so he was a dick. He was like the lead singer of a band who doesn’t write the songs or even the lyrics.
And deep down he knew he was a fake. So he started trying to be cool. And that’s when it’s all over, when you try. The world moved on. And he was left as he started, lonely, chubby, little Dieter.
He wasn’t one of the beautiful people. He was the beautiful people’s “beautiful people.” The Beautiful Person. The Inspired Person. They looked to him, though only in the rare moments when they weren’t looking at themselves. They followed him and the world flocked behind.
And he knew it, so he was a dick. He was like the lead singer of a band who doesn’t write the songs or even the lyrics.
And deep down he knew he was a fake. So he started trying to be cool. And that’s when it’s all over, when you try. The world moved on. And he was left as he started, lonely, chubby, little Dieter.
Instalment Ten
Missives from the desk of Dr. Samuel Johnson
Dear Sir,
Thank you dearly for your interest in my yet to be completed magnum opus. It’s only through the contributions of fine and scholarly men I have been able to achieve so much in so few years.
So it’s with a heavy heart I inform you that on this occasion I am unable to including you in my forthcoming “Dictionary: A big book of names.”
Not for your lack of breeding or research of the history of your family name, it is just that, I am afraid to say Mr. Bang, that I have already completed the B section of my work. I have however, included a Hindi fellow named Bhang, who seemed awfully fond of some plant he found in the colonies, so chin up, you may even be related.
If you feel you have a legitimate grievance by your omission from my manuscript, please contact a Miss Touchy, whom is also excluded. She is forming an association of complaint with Lady Fuss, calling for a second issue of my work. I see no point, as I am unable to imagine the use of a second edition of my definitive Dictionary.
Fair thee well,
Sam “The Doctor” Johnson
Authors Note
This piece of writing could only be considered to be of vague amusement if you know that Samuel Johnson's dictionary failed to include words such as bang, budge, fuss, gambler, shabby, touchy and also sausage. If are in any way interested in such things, I was pretty happy to find the whole book online, available to download here.
Dear Sir,
Thank you dearly for your interest in my yet to be completed magnum opus. It’s only through the contributions of fine and scholarly men I have been able to achieve so much in so few years.
So it’s with a heavy heart I inform you that on this occasion I am unable to including you in my forthcoming “Dictionary: A big book of names.”
Not for your lack of breeding or research of the history of your family name, it is just that, I am afraid to say Mr. Bang, that I have already completed the B section of my work. I have however, included a Hindi fellow named Bhang, who seemed awfully fond of some plant he found in the colonies, so chin up, you may even be related.
If you feel you have a legitimate grievance by your omission from my manuscript, please contact a Miss Touchy, whom is also excluded. She is forming an association of complaint with Lady Fuss, calling for a second issue of my work. I see no point, as I am unable to imagine the use of a second edition of my definitive Dictionary.
Fair thee well,
Sam “The Doctor” Johnson
Authors Note
This piece of writing could only be considered to be of vague amusement if you know that Samuel Johnson's dictionary failed to include words such as bang, budge, fuss, gambler, shabby, touchy and also sausage. If are in any way interested in such things, I was pretty happy to find the whole book online, available to download here.
Instalment Nine
(Bigot and Contrary have a coffee.)
They say women cannot make sushi because their hands are too warm.You don’t like Japanese.
I'm saying women can’t make sushi.
Because of their hands?
Yes!
Why?
They are too warm.
Women’s hands are warmer then men’s?
Yes
Are you sure you don’t mean women have warmer personalities than men do?
No, women’s hands are physically warmer.
Suppose that is true, which it isn’t, what difference could one or two degrees possibly make?
All the difference in the world.
How?
Well warmer hands cook the fish while they handle it and sushi needs to be super raw when served.
And women are that much warmer then men?
Yes
What about a woman with poor circulation?
Shut up
Why are they called sushi chefs anyway?
That's what they do.
Chefs cook stuff. You just said they don’t cook anything they just chop it up. Why aren’t they called Sushi butchers or fish butchers or simply fishmongers?
What?
It’s not like when you go to the butcher to buy steaks and burgers you call him a barbeque chef is it?
Women can’t make sushi.
You don’t even like sushi.
I don’t even like Japanese people.
Instalment Eight
There were once three sisters, dirt poor and destitute, upon whom fortune never shone. They were known across the land as The Beggars of Malintip, for that is where they lived. They were neither lazy nor slow of wit; ill luck and bad decisions haunted their days. Fate forever played his hand in the events of their lives and Fate did not play kindly.
Through Malintip three strangers passed.
“We are The Three Princes of Serendip,” the eldest brother announced, “We will clothe, feed and bathe you if you will lay down with us.”
“You have only this moment laid eyes upon us,” chorused the sisters.
“Gold isn’t any less precious for being newly brought from the mine,” replied the youngest brother, for he was prosperous in his manner with women.
The sisters readily agreed, thinking they were to marry the princes.
Leaving town, the fortunate princes concurred that what comes to pass on a quest for knowledge, shall forevermore stay on a quest for knowledge. The sisters, left alone with the bill and each heavy with child, again cursed Fate.
Fate did spare the bastard children, who experienced neither good luck nor bad, such was their mix of parentage.
Authors Note
The preceding story was written purely as a launching device for my newly invented word, the opposite of Serendipity.
Malintipity (Mel–in–tip–i–ty) Noun: 1. Ill fortune, bad luck. 2. A natural gift for making unfortunate discoveries by accident.
Rather than have the adjective form follow ‘serendipitous’, I have decided to run with Malintipic. That way when things don’t go right you may say, “Malintipicaly it all went wrong,” or just “Malintipical!”
Based on the Latin malus, meaning “bad, wicked or evil,” I think it works as a word. Please go out into the world and use it in a sentence today or make up a better version and I will amend the story. I feel it could be a German sounding word if you want to try.
Instalment Seven
Lonely never had much luck in relationships. “Unlucky in love” is how friends would have ruefully described it. Well they would’ve said that, had Lonely any friends to ask.
Lonely invariably had plenty of spare time and, in quieter moments, thought solely of ants. Ants would never live such a life, you never saw just one ant. They must be sociable creatures, all crammed together in their colonies, working hard side-by-side. They could never feel as Lonely did.
One night while picking out a bottle of cheap red, Lonely bumped into Drunk and they instantly hit it off. They were a perfect match, no two were better suited to be together. You would always see them around, Drunk and Lonely, Lonely and Drunk. Though they were not a couple you would want to meet or talk to, sloppy, maudlin and self-absorbed, they provided balance for one another.
Out for pints, while Lonely was in the bathroom, Drunk met Horny. By the time Lonely got back to the bar, you couldn’t have separated Drunk and Horny with a crowbar.
The relationship was over.
Broken-hearted, Lonely sat in a dark room, listened to country music and wished to be an ant.
Lonely invariably had plenty of spare time and, in quieter moments, thought solely of ants. Ants would never live such a life, you never saw just one ant. They must be sociable creatures, all crammed together in their colonies, working hard side-by-side. They could never feel as Lonely did.
One night while picking out a bottle of cheap red, Lonely bumped into Drunk and they instantly hit it off. They were a perfect match, no two were better suited to be together. You would always see them around, Drunk and Lonely, Lonely and Drunk. Though they were not a couple you would want to meet or talk to, sloppy, maudlin and self-absorbed, they provided balance for one another.
Out for pints, while Lonely was in the bathroom, Drunk met Horny. By the time Lonely got back to the bar, you couldn’t have separated Drunk and Horny with a crowbar.
The relationship was over.
Broken-hearted, Lonely sat in a dark room, listened to country music and wished to be an ant.
Instalment Six
There was a place where words were born. A learned place of polished oak hallways, of classrooms and workshops. Populated by craftsmen, artists, the brightest thinkers and sharpest minds. Toiling to create new words, beautiful words, words to express, to think, to declare, words to share.
Requests would appear; someone somewhere had a thought. An idea, a feeling or belief and a word was needed to make it real, to verbalize it, to make it tangible and stop it fleeting. The artisans would toil and tinker, crafting a set of well-formed letters, ready to roll off the tongue. A new word.
This was long ago when people cared to think new things. The work all but dried up, the thinkers and craftspeople passed on, leaving only support staff, who through laziness and neglect became slow and ignorant.
Need a new word for searching? Just make a proper noun a verb. Name a celebrity couple? Mash together two words and make an ugly new one. Portmanteau it is called, not that they cared to know. Political scandal? Stick ‘gate’ on it!
But the day they abbreviated ROFLMAO they could see the error of their ways. They knew the madness must stop.
Requests would appear; someone somewhere had a thought. An idea, a feeling or belief and a word was needed to make it real, to verbalize it, to make it tangible and stop it fleeting. The artisans would toil and tinker, crafting a set of well-formed letters, ready to roll off the tongue. A new word.
This was long ago when people cared to think new things. The work all but dried up, the thinkers and craftspeople passed on, leaving only support staff, who through laziness and neglect became slow and ignorant.
Need a new word for searching? Just make a proper noun a verb. Name a celebrity couple? Mash together two words and make an ugly new one. Portmanteau it is called, not that they cared to know. Political scandal? Stick ‘gate’ on it!
But the day they abbreviated ROFLMAO they could see the error of their ways. They knew the madness must stop.
Instalment Five
Pun was not a funny person. He tried, he tried oh so very hard. All day long he endeavoured to inject humour into his conversations. If he said something he thought was funny he would say, “That joke was intended.” Sometimes he would say something that he only then realised might be funny, so he would say, “That joke was not intended.” Only they were not jokes and they were not funny, they were merely homonyms.
One fateful day, despite pleadings from his friends and co-workers, Pun decided to try out his comic stylings at an open-mic night. There were many other first timers on the bill that evening: Parody, Sarcasm, Impersonation and a prop comic.
Emcee was one of those serviceable, journeymen comics who gets a few laughs and keeps the evening moving. The audience was enthusiastic and drunk, he warmed them up to perfection but there was nothing he could have done to save this night.
One after another, each act bombed. Parody wasn’t topical, Sarcasm was just angry and Impersonation’s act was poorly executed. But Pun, the audience all agreed, had far and away demonstrated the lowest form of humor. Well, apart from the prop-comic.
One fateful day, despite pleadings from his friends and co-workers, Pun decided to try out his comic stylings at an open-mic night. There were many other first timers on the bill that evening: Parody, Sarcasm, Impersonation and a prop comic.
Emcee was one of those serviceable, journeymen comics who gets a few laughs and keeps the evening moving. The audience was enthusiastic and drunk, he warmed them up to perfection but there was nothing he could have done to save this night.
One after another, each act bombed. Parody wasn’t topical, Sarcasm was just angry and Impersonation’s act was poorly executed. But Pun, the audience all agreed, had far and away demonstrated the lowest form of humor. Well, apart from the prop-comic.
Instalment Four
Epiphanies that change the world are very rare indeed. It is the small, everyday, seemingly mundane epiphanies that will change your life. A matter of simple process, someone who does something differently than you. They have the same aim, achieve the same results but the method employed is so much better, making you step back and think, “Wow!”
Personally whenever I change my doona cover, which is quite often as I love clean sheets, I undertake the following convoluted dance: Grab the doona by the corners, climb into the doona cover, stand up with my arms over my head and match the corners of the cover with the doona, fall face down on the bed, wriggle out of the doona cover, shake it out and button it up. That is just how I though it was done.
My roommate saw me wrestling like two pigs under a blanket and said with sadness, “Why don’t you just turn the cover inside out, grab the edges and shake it?” It blew my mind, my own little revelation.
Such was the epiphany when one night at a fashion week cocktail party, Anorexia and Bulimia bumped into each other and started swapping dieting secrets.
Personally whenever I change my doona cover, which is quite often as I love clean sheets, I undertake the following convoluted dance: Grab the doona by the corners, climb into the doona cover, stand up with my arms over my head and match the corners of the cover with the doona, fall face down on the bed, wriggle out of the doona cover, shake it out and button it up. That is just how I though it was done.
My roommate saw me wrestling like two pigs under a blanket and said with sadness, “Why don’t you just turn the cover inside out, grab the edges and shake it?” It blew my mind, my own little revelation.
Such was the epiphany when one night at a fashion week cocktail party, Anorexia and Bulimia bumped into each other and started swapping dieting secrets.
Instalment Three
We could never really tell why Faggot upset Gay so much. Faggot just seemed to persistently niggle at Gay by his very existence. Like those people you loathe instantly when you meet them but you can’t put your finger on why.
Faggot had developed the habit of referring to himself in the third person as well as adding a definite article to his name. He would saunter into a party and announce in that singsong voice of his, “The Faggot is here.” “Everyone turn around and look, The Faggot dancing!”
Gay hated it.
Out one night at a wine bar with his Best Friends Forever, Gay broke down in tears.
“But you used to hate us,” Fairy said.
“Remember when you met Queer, you hated him too. You said he was rude, insulting and just like ants at a picnic.”
“Look at you two now, happy as two children running naked in the woods. You boys are stronger, better people because of your friendship.”
“Don’t let The Faggot upset you?” Queer chimed in, “You should embrace The Faggot. He’s a good guy once you get to know him.”
“I’m not calling him The Faggot though,” Gay grumbled, “What about Fag?”
Faggot had developed the habit of referring to himself in the third person as well as adding a definite article to his name. He would saunter into a party and announce in that singsong voice of his, “The Faggot is here.” “Everyone turn around and look, The Faggot dancing!”
Gay hated it.
Out one night at a wine bar with his Best Friends Forever, Gay broke down in tears.
“But you used to hate us,” Fairy said.
“Remember when you met Queer, you hated him too. You said he was rude, insulting and just like ants at a picnic.”
“Look at you two now, happy as two children running naked in the woods. You boys are stronger, better people because of your friendship.”
“Don’t let The Faggot upset you?” Queer chimed in, “You should embrace The Faggot. He’s a good guy once you get to know him.”
“I’m not calling him The Faggot though,” Gay grumbled, “What about Fag?”
Instalment Two
Days of Heaven
The God of Absence was having a tough time sleeping. He worked too hard granting prayers. “God,” people would say after a big night out on the tiles “there is no way I can make it into work today,” and lo, bosses and co-workers would believe in a fictional sickness(1).
But who believed in him? Who really believed in Absence?(2) His greatest achievements involved remaining unseen(3). It was just too depressing, he could barely face the idea of going into work. And now the office was open-plan seating(4) he was stuck listening to the whinings of the God of Abstinence.
She was a stuck up bitch, Lord give him strength. Always telling him he shouldn’t drink so much or on the phone to her one friend talking about the guy she was dating and how they were taking it slow. And ever since she came up with the whole “promise ring” idea she couldn’t put a foot wrong, the boys down in marketing(5) loved her.
“Fuck it,” The God of Absence thought, “I’m calling in sick.” He phoned Old Pete(6) at the front gate, explained he couldn’t stop shitting, had a slug of scotch and went back to bed.
(1) - The God of Absence was a big fan of irritated bowels, otherwise known as “can’t stop shitting.” It was the one excuse no one wanted to argue with and doesn’t require the use of a “sick voice” on the phone.
(2) – In all fairness, it is tough to believe in someone who by definition is never present when you need him most.
(3) – His greats work was, and still is the absence of God. Theologians and philosophers have long argued what exactly an absence of God signifies. Known as “The Absence Theodicy”, the argument states that if "God" is "goodness", anything not good such as evil and suffering is the absence of God. Therefore, the absence theodicy claims that God is not responsible for evil, merely for good. Well I really don’t understand any of that, but what we all should be able to agree on is that the absence of God must surely prove the existence of the God of Absence.
(4) – For some reason the higher-ups had brought in a management consultant that scrapped personal cubicles and arranged the office in an alphabetical, open-plan lay out. The God of Absence was now working on the same floor as the Gods of Abhorrence, Absolution (who was always very busy), Abstraction and Abbreviation amongst others. There was even some weird, balding, Australian guy called Garry who claimed that he was once a cat and people used to worship at his feet and call him God.
(5) – Marketing had long since been out-sourced to Hell. It makes sense really, they were willing to take on absolutely anyone as a client and were gurus at merchandising. Who do you think can up with wearing the cross as a necklace, it is not as if that is in anyway tasteful when you think about it.
(6) – Old Pete had been in charge of security at the front gates as long as anyone could remember, dear old fellow, a saint really. Not much to look at him, but if you weren’t on his list there was no getting past him. Much like the bouncer of a fashionable nightclub – name not on the clipboard? – “sorry mate, not tonight, private function I am afraid.”
The God of Absence was having a tough time sleeping. He worked too hard granting prayers. “God,” people would say after a big night out on the tiles “there is no way I can make it into work today,” and lo, bosses and co-workers would believe in a fictional sickness(1).
But who believed in him? Who really believed in Absence?(2) His greatest achievements involved remaining unseen(3). It was just too depressing, he could barely face the idea of going into work. And now the office was open-plan seating(4) he was stuck listening to the whinings of the God of Abstinence.
She was a stuck up bitch, Lord give him strength. Always telling him he shouldn’t drink so much or on the phone to her one friend talking about the guy she was dating and how they were taking it slow. And ever since she came up with the whole “promise ring” idea she couldn’t put a foot wrong, the boys down in marketing(5) loved her.
“Fuck it,” The God of Absence thought, “I’m calling in sick.” He phoned Old Pete(6) at the front gate, explained he couldn’t stop shitting, had a slug of scotch and went back to bed.
(1) - The God of Absence was a big fan of irritated bowels, otherwise known as “can’t stop shitting.” It was the one excuse no one wanted to argue with and doesn’t require the use of a “sick voice” on the phone.
(2) – In all fairness, it is tough to believe in someone who by definition is never present when you need him most.
(3) – His greats work was, and still is the absence of God. Theologians and philosophers have long argued what exactly an absence of God signifies. Known as “The Absence Theodicy”, the argument states that if "God" is "goodness", anything not good such as evil and suffering is the absence of God. Therefore, the absence theodicy claims that God is not responsible for evil, merely for good. Well I really don’t understand any of that, but what we all should be able to agree on is that the absence of God must surely prove the existence of the God of Absence.
(4) – For some reason the higher-ups had brought in a management consultant that scrapped personal cubicles and arranged the office in an alphabetical, open-plan lay out. The God of Absence was now working on the same floor as the Gods of Abhorrence, Absolution (who was always very busy), Abstraction and Abbreviation amongst others. There was even some weird, balding, Australian guy called Garry who claimed that he was once a cat and people used to worship at his feet and call him God.
(5) – Marketing had long since been out-sourced to Hell. It makes sense really, they were willing to take on absolutely anyone as a client and were gurus at merchandising. Who do you think can up with wearing the cross as a necklace, it is not as if that is in anyway tasteful when you think about it.
(6) – Old Pete had been in charge of security at the front gates as long as anyone could remember, dear old fellow, a saint really. Not much to look at him, but if you weren’t on his list there was no getting past him. Much like the bouncer of a fashionable nightclub – name not on the clipboard? – “sorry mate, not tonight, private function I am afraid.”
Instalment One
Supposedly remained blissfully unaware of the family secret until his eighteenth birthday. His parents took him aside and spilled forth their hidden shame.
Supposedly had a brother, a fraternal twin. One starved of nutrients and oxygen from a twisted umbilical cord. A gruesome and nauseating parody of a child, its skull misshapen and limbs withered.
As this was in the days before ultrasounds, when women kept on drinking and smoking while pregnant, there was no warning for the thing they were handed in the delivery room. A monster. Supposedly’s mother fainted. His father, deep in shock, fought his way through the formalities and took the unwanted child straight to the orphanage.
“I have a brother,” Supposedly gasped, “What was his name?”
“His name is Supposably.”
Just uttering the name sent a chill through the room, setting teeth on edge, like the sound of nails down a black board.
“But you never speak his name, I don’t want you to even think the word supposably.”
“And if you hear that word, if you hear someone say supposably, you correct them, you correct them as fast as you can.”
“Just as we do with your sister Specifically and her monstrous twin, Pacifically.”
Supposedly had a brother, a fraternal twin. One starved of nutrients and oxygen from a twisted umbilical cord. A gruesome and nauseating parody of a child, its skull misshapen and limbs withered.
As this was in the days before ultrasounds, when women kept on drinking and smoking while pregnant, there was no warning for the thing they were handed in the delivery room. A monster. Supposedly’s mother fainted. His father, deep in shock, fought his way through the formalities and took the unwanted child straight to the orphanage.
“I have a brother,” Supposedly gasped, “What was his name?”
“His name is Supposably.”
Just uttering the name sent a chill through the room, setting teeth on edge, like the sound of nails down a black board.
“But you never speak his name, I don’t want you to even think the word supposably.”
“And if you hear that word, if you hear someone say supposably, you correct them, you correct them as fast as you can.”
“Just as we do with your sister Specifically and her monstrous twin, Pacifically.”
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