Never Any Doubt


It was a great day for mankind when a true doubter arrived, but of course we killed
him. Electrical energy, rubber truncheons and forks were just some of the things this man
could not understand using the contemporary logic and political principals we had offered
him. A large quantity of Seneca oil was rubbed into the man’s burns before he died and
the young balding masseur they arrested was heard screaming, “You want a piece of
me?” all the way to the fountain in the playa of failed revolutionary ideals, where he
succumbed quickly, but the crows refused to pluck out his eyes, and some said it meant
we had captured the wrong criminal.
The saliva of a suspiciously uninvolved crone was analyzed and the results
remained ambiguous. Next the questioning authorities devised a new test. A pebble and a
boulder were employed as measurements of the relative gravity of the situation by
dropping them simultaneously from the top of the shortened retirement home, which
grew to only a single story because, let’s face it, no one wanted to climb the stairs, and
since no one was arriving any faster at any conclusions because of this experiment, the
result was an equal portion of unease for every participant.
Because everyone remained at this point unaware that anyone might be arriving at
any conclusions prematurely, Tiffany, the doubter’s estranged niece, rushed outside with
her new double-barreled water gun in search of an intergalactic transmission code, a lurid
pink catalog of doll museums, and a 76-acre Daughters of the Revolution amusement
park in which to exercise her prerogatives and draw attention to her budding. She was
approached by a young intellectual with a fawning and irresolute manner. She said No
and it made him smile. He couldn’t wait to get there. He had known that her refusal
would be exquisite. Tiffany’s software company hit the stock market big despite the
revelation that she had never really intended to communicate with extra-terrestrials.
Meanwhile Tiffany’s overlooked zipper mechanic gripped his wrench tightly.
Being one of the most of us, he was prepared to attempt a generous dispersal of his
dispersible potential. Something was certainly revealing itself, but it didn’t know what it
was. Of that there could be no doubt.

Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.