by Bill Berry
OPENING
Three artists: a poet, a singer, and a painter. They each moved to a village. In the village, the singer sang songs. In the village, the painter painted. In the village, the poet was poetic.
One day, the poet spoke: I hate writing about these things.
One day, the singer spoke: You can’t say that.
One day, the painter spoke: Because of politics.
A coyote came into town the next night. The coyote was hungry. He was looking for food. He thought to himself: When the emperor has no clothes, everyone is none the wiser. Nothing more is anything less.
COYOTE
These were the words of the coyote.
One night, the painter took a walk. He met the coyote. The coyote was eating a dead bird. The coyote was bloody.
What are you doing? The painter asked.
I am eating because I am hungry. The coyote said.
You are beautiful when you eat. The painter said.
I am always beautiful. The coyote said.
One night, the singer took a walk. He met the coyote. The coyote was not a coyote but a beautiful boy. The boy had a large cock. The boy’s cock was erect. The boy was pulling his balls and making his cock bounce. The singer watched the boy. The singer did not know that the boy was a coyote. The coyote saw the singer. The coyote smiled. The singer smiled back. The boy turned into a coyote and the singer shrieked. The coyote was hungry. He was looking for food.
One night, the poet took a walk. He met the singer and they started to talk. The singer told the poet of the magical coyote. The coyote hid in the bushes and listened to the singer and the poet. The coyote turned into the painter. The painter approached the singer and the poet. They stood in silence. The painter turned into the coyote and ate the poet. He stole the singer and took him to a cave. In the cave, the coyote turned into the poet and made the singer write him a song. While the singer was writing, the coyote turned into the boy with the large cock and danced. The coyote danced so hard that he ejaculated all over the cave. He ejaculated so much, that the singer was drowned in the salty abyss of the coyote. Then the coyote swam away. He was never seen in the village again.
AN UGLY WOMAN
An ugly woman bought a mirror. In this mirror she saw the world.
An ugly woman came to a witch one day. The ugly woman wanted a mirror. The witch gave her a chainsaw. The woman took the chainsaw and hung it on her wall. That night, the chainsaw turned into a mirror. In this mirror, the ugly woman saw the world.
The world in the mirror was different. In the mirror, everything was the opposite. In the mirror, the woman was beautiful. In the mirror, the woman was not ugly.
An ugly woman came to a witch one day. The witch told the ugly woman that she was ugly. The ugly woman said she wanted to be beautiful. The witch told the woman it was impossible. The witch sold the woman a chainsaw. The ugly woman left the witch and went home.
The next day the ugly woman spoke: The liberty of first person. I can speak my mind. I can be free. How can I express myself if I cannot say that it is I who am expressing myself? I know when I look in the mirror that what I see is a lie. I know that what I see in the mirror is only a reflection of my desire. The polished metal of liberty cannot express what I feel. This is what I feel: I am not free. I am tortured by what I want and what I am capable of being. I think I am more than I am. I think the things I’m not allowed to say. I say the things I’m not allowed to think. Language is a regulator. Thought is the control pattern of language. The rest is static.
The next day the ugly woman took the chainsaw back to the witch.
An ugly woman came to a witch with a chainsaw. The witch saw the chainsaw and turned it into a mirror. In the mirror the witch saw the ugly woman. The witch was horrified. The witch turned the mirror into a painting and the ugly woman was trapped. The witch turned back into the coyote and ate the painting. He was hungry. He was looking for food.
MAGICIAN
The witch was a magician. The witch would turn into a coyote and search for food. The coyote would turn into desires and aspirations. The witch was the only art.
As a magician, the witch would put on a weekly show. She would take members of her audience on the stage, turn into the coyote, and eat them alive. It looked something like this:
An ugly woman would hold a chainsaw and sing songs that were happy but sounded sad. The witch would sink her fangs into her victim’s neck and suckle its life. The red death would ooze onto the stage. The ugly woman would stop singing and lap at the fallen rose petals. There was no sound. It was beautiful.
POLITICS
Three artists: a poet, a singer, and a painter. They each moved to a village. In the village, the singer sang songs. In the village, the painter painted. In the village, the poet was poetic.
One day, the poet spoke: I hate writing about these things.
One day, the singer spoke: You can’t say that.
One day, the painter spoke: Because of politics.
This story is not about those things. This story is not about politics. This story is not about art. This story never was.
Bill Berry was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. He started writing in the 4th grade, and produced his first novella, which was a haunted house story, at the age of 13. As a young teenager, he wrote mostly horror, but dabbled in science fiction, mystery, play-writing, and erotica. Years later he became entrenched in the “Post-Movements,” and his fiction took on some of the more post-structural aspects of language and story.
Berry has presented his work at Wayne State University in Detroit, The Bowery Poetry Club in New York, Boston University in Boston, AMP (Art Market Provincetown), and other venues. He has been published in several small literary magazines, as well as online through Unlikely Stories, Ignavia Press, and Pulp Bits. His work has also appeared in several anthologies. As a professor, he has given presentations on writing, facilitated discussions and workshops, and published scholarly works on identity and language in writing. His creative work can be found for sale online through Amazon.
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