The second edition of a magazine called Blacklisted has just been published. I wrote a column for it!
The first edition's column is here.
The first edition's column is here.
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Limbo
Chicken in a Rut
You are a godsend,
a spirit of goodwill. Your mission is to serve, and you must snuff out every
spawn of evil.
Last year you came
home from a wedding only to find the tag of your underwear protruding full
sail. You wondered if it had begun to show before or after your speech, as no
one was bold enough to enlighten you. But you embraced your humility. You
donned it like a sword, and now you’re loath to see any man’s cheeks reddened
by the hands of shame.
Since then, life
has been easy, and an absence of the enemy has dulled your blade. The café in
which you now find yourself seems harmless enough, though your eyes are wary; the
evil one can be as elusive as a whisper within shadows.
A chance meeting
with an old friend promises to be a fine occasion, but you gasp when he opens
his mouth to speak, for there, betwixt his lower incisors, the darkness festers.
“How do you do?”
he asks, oblivious of the parasite invading his mouth. The simple-minded would
call it a fragment of poultry caught between two teeth, but you know better
than them. If left untended, this ‘fragment’ will become the peak of humility
for your innocent friend. You could strike now – a clean and swift cut – but this
friend isn’t particularly close, and spilt blood might wound skin and pride
both. It isn’t my job to fix this,
you tell yourself, but you know that it is. You don’t carry a sword for nought,
and a blunt sword is still a sword. Rid him of shame now to spare a greater
dose later. But what if he can’t carry on
with his pride all banged up? The tension makes you shudder.
“You okay?” he
asks.
“There’s something
in your teeth.”
If only you’d said
those words. Instead, you turned away and pointed to the waitress approaching
with coffee and tea. You avoided eye contact with your friend as often as you
could, and not once did you mention the affliction. Now, on the car ride home,
your sword sits in its scabbard. The parasite has been allowed to feed, and when
your friend discovers and removes it himself, confidence and trust will too be
severed. Your friend will be scarred and your sword will be blunt, all because
you chose not to act.
