The Most Regressive Story Ever Told
Chapter 1: The Faeries
Sterling Macy, at the age of twenty-five, was going nowhere. Well, really he was going home, but his life was going nowhere. He had graduated from college and held a number of jobs in different “industries”… the music industry, the advertising industry, the publishing industry. The industries were united in their opinion that Sterling wasn’t industrious enough, at least for their industry, and so Mr. Macy found himself washing pots, which, even to him, seemed to be a bad use of a college degree.
He was concerned, but not that concerned, as he made his way up Ninth Avenue on his way out of work. He was, as we have said, going nowhere. He didn’t want to go home and had not yet decided where or with whom he should hang out. He therefore found himself walking uptown, aimlessly uptown, to nowhere in particular, when suddenly he found himself walking behind the world’s most remarkable ass.
This was not the first time he had been behind the world’s most remarkable ass. He had followed this ass all over the city. He had switched subway cars, picked sets of stairs, and chosen elevators based on that ass, but now, as he walked up Ninth Avenue, he was certain that all of the others asses were imposters… weak contenders to the throne clearly held by this, the most perfect posterior, the assiest of asses, the perfection of the ass form, which he now followed. The ass was a godsend, a bundle of beauty magically placed before him, like a great jewel or omen, a sign that now shifted and walked into a Blarney Stone restaurant… causing Sterling himself to abandon the sidewalk in favor of the beer and corned beef tinged air of the city’s most ubiquitous saloon.
Then, in the modest light and cigarette smoke of the bar, he could see more clearly, for now the ass was hidden in the crush of afternoon drinkers, thus freeing his attention to fall on the head and torso of the woman who tended that ass, the mother ship to which the world’s most remarkable ass was tethered. It wasn’t hard to figure out to whom the ass belonged. There was one beautiful face partially shrouded by long chestnut hair with whom the ass was unmistakably affiliated, and upon taking in the visage of this startlingly beautiful woman, Sterling forgot the ass entirely. It was completely and utterly driven from his mind, crushed in an instant and replaced with adoration of a face, for the face that he gazed upon was the most beautiful face he had ever seen.
Far be it for me to describe the face of one so fair, for Sterling was gazing upon one of the immortals. Hers was a face of healthy handsomeness, full and fair with no hint of artifice. Her shoulder length hair was of the deepest brown, a natural brown, the brown of leather and dried leaves, the brown of deep earth, the deepest umber, the uber umber, if you will. Her eyes were wide, her lips full, her smile large and full of healthy teeth. Around her the air seemed to glow, and she exuded a brightness, a happiness, a joy that enveloped the atmosphere around her, transforming the stale smoke and dim light of the bar into a place of freshness and enchantment.
Sterling moved closer. Closer to the end of the bar where the beautiful lady had taken her place. She was standing in a group at the far end of the saloon. Sterling took a seat at the bar hoping to dip his toe into the shallow end of their social pool. As he sat with his back to them he could feel their warmth and laughter through the thin fabric of his tee shirt, and it filled his insides with joy. He dared not turn around at first, content to just stare at a beer and try to make out the conversation amid their laughter. In time he grew more bold, and turned on his stool to look at the assembled group now drinking and laughing at six or seven tables behind him. To his astonishment he realized that she was not alone. All the folk now assembled before him were as beautiful as the woman with the chestnut hair. The men all seemed strong and gentle, well dressed, and kind. The women were variations on the theme of beauty… some brown or olive skinned, others so fair that their skin seemed unable to contain the light within them.
Sterling found himself unashamedly listening to their conversation and laughing at their jokes and teasing. Some of them began to sing, and he joined in their songs, the words of which he seemed to know even though he had never heard the tunes before. Time slipped by. Hours, days, or years may have passed, until at last one tall, muscular man wearing a dark blue sports shirt with a yellow symbol on it that Sterling had never seen before, wrapped one arm around the woman with the chestnut hair and began to sing a song that nobody else joined.
He had a great, sad voice, and the song he sang began as a whisper but grew in strength and melody until it filled the whole room. It went out from there, spilling out of the bar and into the street and city beyond. It was a song that spoke of loss… the loss of country, of money, of privilege, power and love and then, when it seemed that nothing in the world could be sadder, that the heart of the moon itself would explode if it had to listen to just one verse of this great sad song, the man began to sing about the loss of a child. A young child. The only son of a young couple. A boy named Charles, who grew sick with a fever that his mother and father could not cure. The boy slowly grew weaker and weaker until one night, while lying in his mother’s arms, he said “let me sleep forever, but don’t let me die.” But he did die, and his mother and father buried him beneath a statue, a portrait statue, of Charles sleeping with his head resting on the back of a lamb.
When the great sad song had finished, all of the beautiful people were full of tears and stared blankly at their glasses, sniffling and sobbing quietly. Only Sterling bawled like a drunk man, unable to control the horrible grief that the song had evoked in him. Finally, after a long pause, the singer looked up and said “It’s time to go,” and then, looking directly at Sterling, said, “Come along if you like.”
With that everyone got up from their chairs and headed out a back door. Sterling didn’t hesitate to follow. He went out with them immediately. Out into the sunshine and the green, green hills beyond the bar.
The next chapter will be published on Friday, November 4th
Author’s Cut | Added Features | Medium Edition Extras
When you watch a highly promoted television show nowadays, they don’t wait for it to be a hit before loading up on the “behind the scenes” and “how the crap was made” extras. I intend to do the same here. This long dreck may suck, but that’s not going to stop my from some self-aggrandizing bloviating about my creation.
In this space I will give you the “inside look” at something you had no intention of gutting. You’re being forced to watch an autopsy you didn’t request. Here it is. There is a word for such innards. They are called “offal”. This is the literary offal section.
Today I would like to talk about the genre of the above piece of… literature. It is a “prose-comic”. Let me explain. You know what a “graphic novel” is, right? A graphic novel is a comic book with the literary aspirations of a novel.
A “prose-comic” is just the opposite. It’s a long prose piece with the emotional maturity and intellectual sophistication of a comic book. You may wonder why I didn’t just write a comic book. The answer should be obvious. I can’t draw, and nobody was interested in drawing this crap for me.
Technically, what you are reading is an adaptation. In my mind, as originally conceived, this story is a comic book. I have to translate it into words. I failed Latin twice in school and came close to failing Spanish. Translation is not my bag. Sorry you had to read it here.
When I say “comic book”, I’m not talking about some modern day “quality” comic… like a Chris Ware book or Ta Nehisi Coates’s Black Panther. I’m talking about a prose-comic where the “comic” part is like a Richie Rich or Sad Sack comic. I’m talking crap you read while eating a Suzy-Q and sitting on a curbside next to your bicycle with a banana seat.
So that’s what you are reading. If you decide to read the next installment, I suggest you stock up on Suzy-Qs.
Next Chapter: The Bear