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You are all women to me; that, as I understand it, is the nature of marriage. You tolerate me with grace, as all women do, more or less, so wear the pink pants for me, if you don’t mind, the pants I’d have all women wear, and all of you please walk up ahead and climb the stairs, but do turn back to look at me with your billion eyes, and make a silhouette of one or two breasts each, and in return I’ll do whatever, whenever you tell me. And lose the shirts, please, if that’s okay. You wanted the vote, I know, you made that clear, you marched for that. And you appear to want to be consulted, not merely informed, on issues that don’t concern you, which puzzles me, but tell me anyway, while you’re in those pants, of course, and I’ll consult you. Anything more complicated than that confuses me. For example, you seem, and by you I mean your plural most delectable selves, you seem to support contradictory viewpoints, when what I’m listening for is a single clear word of unambiguous longing, longing for me. Otherwise I’m paralyzed by doubt. I’ve taken a poll, the only way I know how, by asking you the same questions relentlessly since the day we met. The results, as they say, are in. By a small margin, women agree I’m a reasonable if not an overwhelming candidate for serious coupling, not entirely unattractive, to some degree a provider. And that’s supposed to satisfy me. On balance, if I had my life to live over on that basis, I just, I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t put myself through it. According to the same poll, the countless men I represent approve of me. If my opinion counts for anything.
Original Copyright © February 05, 2007
Revised Copyright © February 04, 2026
Only three directions matter: Above, Deeper, and the slightly curved Goodness that extends forever in two dimensions neither Above nor Deeper. Above is the direction of peril but also of food. Deeper is oblivion and loss. Some have been retrieved from the Deep, but only as food. Goodness is home, the warm thin blanket between two extremes. As you know, our situation is cyclical and currently critical. We’ve let you measure our food stock, heft it, smell it, thump it for edibility. You know how much the group requires, so you know there’s not enough, not nearly. Sacrifices inevitably follow. Most of us will not survive, you yourself may not survive except as food, not even if we fast, find more, swallow slowly, waste none, lose nothing. We delay reproducing in such seasons of course. How would we raise an infant now? On regurgitant, surely, but regurgitated what? You’re too young to understand the seasons, but between Famine and Plenty, this is the time that tests our community. Take heart. We will not all perish, and that’s all the love we need in the Goodness. When forays Above produce too little, our soldiers take their chances pressing against the frontiers of the perilous unfamiliar to skirmish with dangerous prey. They don’t expect to be welcomed back should they present a threat. As much as we prize soldiers, we can’t afford to coddle individuals returning wounded, trailing scent, leading others to our tunnels. You’ve been trained to seal the entrances against such volunteers. Naturally, your body will resonate with their pleas, just as it vibrates in the presence of food, or rain, or a passage toward Above, but they would shake off your vibrations if you were the threat, because sacrifice is love, and because it points toward the Good.
Original Copyright © January 27, 2007
Revised Copyright © January 30, 2026
Very Short Novels 