The summer was over… Henry went to Cardiff and I got back to my tasks in the Federal Museum. It’s not a gainful place. De facto, I’m a volunteer. But I really love this work. And, of course, I do get some benefits from my work.
Who am I? I’m a curator of a few departments there, including the department of my own species. It lets me correct the records with some facts and fables about us. People like to hunt for our heads. My corrections help save lives… and to have a little fun. It was I who invented the legend that we like to dance on tiptoe and cannot understand jokes about Stierlitz… Of course, it was just out of my childishness, and I cannot honestly affirm that it’s very useful information. But that shouldn’t make you think that I’m just a foolish young wag at heart… I’m a scientist after all! I’ve made some important corrections as well.
For example, I changed ‘Trypophobia’ to ‘Metrophobia’ in all of our medical records. Oh! Sometimes I can even surprise myself! By the way, it’s of no use trying to convince someone that a fear of subways isn’t ‘Metrophobia’… I personally just prefer taking the shortest routes. I grab such unconvinced ignoramuses by their collars and invite them to take a little ride on the roof of the carriage with me so I can teach them what a TRUE fear of subways is! And I’m glad to have such opportune days. But days when I meet with people who truly know what ‘Metrophobia’ means… I’m not so glad… I’m happy!
What can be better than killing accompanying poetry? It’s an elusive sensitivity… a vivid and exciting feeling! They hope to make me weaker… they are perplexed… they cannot understand why I mock. I have heard plenty of poems… by many poets… in various languages… Some poems I bestow the stubborn ears of know-it-all jackasses, to listen to until the end of the line. Some poems I snub abruptly, cutting them down in the middle of their first lines. Anyway, nothing could change the final act of these little poetic theater performances. But one day, I thought I would have another happy ending’s poetic justice when something unexpected happened.
He was declaiming ‘The Word’ by Gumilev. He had an ill-affecting accent. My wall of defense fell. I wasn’t able to kill it with my fiery brand of poetry… I have burned out his memory. I gave him a fiery brand new name. I created him anew from scratch. My forum of conscience…
My Chilperic. (to be continued)
by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2014
My special thanks to Cyan Ryan
for grammar corrections and improvement this essay!