Allegory Tears

This piece was inspired by a novel conversation Puma and I had recently. Beware - here there be dragons.

***

Chaz found the story sleeping in a wheat field not far from the stables. From end to end, it measured close to an acre - with its wings spread, he guessed it covered almost two. He'd seen bigger in his time, but this one seemed special. Wheelbarrow special.

The story slept soundly, its massive chest ballooning in a slow, even rhythm, music drifting from its mouth and nostrils, its tail sweeping back and forth in time to its breath. When the sun crested the treeline to the east, the story cracked an eyelid and stirred.

"Greetings, boy. What have you come to offer me," said the story. It ruffled its wings. Scales and feathers and dragonfly veins catching the gold of the morning light.

"I brought you breakfast," said Chaz.

The story sniffed the air and smiled a crocodile smile, forked tongue flicking in and out of its mouth.

"Do you like cream and sugar in your coffee?" asked Chaz.

"I take my coffee black, little man. Bring it to me."

The young man unloaded his wheelbarrow and placed a small collection of plates and a pot of coffee on the ground in front of the great beast. For a long while it breathed in the breakfast smells, losing itself in the bacon, egg, toast, and java. Then it scooped the whole meal into its mouth, hardware and all.

It smacked its lips and rubbed its belly with a massive claw.

"Thank you, dirt puppet. That was good and fine."

"Chaz."

"Excuse me?"

"My name is Chaz. Not `dirt puppet` or `boy` or `little man`. Chaz."

"And why should I respect your name, Adam-spawn."

"Because I respect you - even though it's clear I shouldn't. You're rude."

The story rose up and spread its wings, blocking out the newborn sun. All seven of its eyes burned in its skull, a constellation of glowing red dots, focused on the young man. A halo of fire burned above its head, flickering and fluttering in an unseen wind.

"I don't want to hurt you," said Chaz. "But if you keep that up, I will. I have a pen. I know how to use it."

The story folded its wings and bowed its head, leaning down close to the boy - as if to whisper in his ear.

"My apologies...Chaz."

"What kind of story are you?"

"I'm an allegory. I'm the End of the World. The Great Beast. The Seven Seals-"

"Uhmmm-"

"-the Second Coming, and the Anti-Christ. I'm the Great Conflagration and the Heat Death of the Universe."

"Enough. I get it. I think I'll keep you," said Chaz.

"You cannot keep me," said the story. It looked anxious, the luster gone from its scales.

"Of course I can. I was just going to use you for fertilizer. But I think you're better than that. Of course, it'll take a while."

"What will take a while?"

"Nevermind," said Chaz. "I want to ask you a couple of questions, first."

"I will answer if they are good questions," said the story.

"If you could have been any other kind of fiction, what would you have chosen to be?"

"A good question. I would have been a children's story."

Chaz laughed. "You're kidding?"

"I am not kidding. Something with flowers or puppies."

"Would you have eaten me?"

"Yes. It's the way of allegories. But I would have shed no tears."

"I thought as much," said Chaz. "Then I made the right choice."

The story's eyes dimmed and its halo flickered and died. With a great sound like a thunder clap, it collapsed amongst the wheat.

It took two days for Chaz to butcher the story. The poison he'd used was harmless to humans - even writers.

He ate well for years.