It's No Picnic by Kenneth E. Myers Page B

the room, a certain glee and giggle followed as if a preview of some up and coming comedy act. But who was he to invoke such laughter, and what was he doing here anyway? Perhaps spreading the truth. Maybe preaching it like it is.
    Alex did not flinch, choosing instead to sit still and keep quiet in an openly youthful chair provided specially for him.
    The old man finally made it to the front where a rather colossal chair stretching to the heavens stood waiting. How was he going to climb into that monstrosity?
    The audience exhaled noisily in chorus, suggesting to Alex that he turn and look. As he turned, a rising peace lifted the hall, moving him to revert to a previous pose. It was then he noticed the old man was gone from sight; hearing only a faint voice growing ever more in volume.
    As the voice became ever louder, Alex—eyes following the colossal chair
    —u p p p p p —
     
    at once, saw the old man perching high, as if suspended in mid air. How on earth?
    Then—a voice came from the rear of the room, “This court is now in session, the sincere lord residing.”
    “Lord?” Alex vaguely mumbled. He was old, greatly aged, with a gray beard—at least two vertical feet—extending from the chin, covering the midsection, for all intents and purposes a man quite open to reading. The eyes, they were light; having dark centers. The brows were similar in aspect, expressing what looked like a faith in defiance. He was not sitting in the chair; rather seeming crouched as if about to deliver the Sermon on the Mount, waving a finger in the air perhaps as a jester of scorn or maybe to indicate the audience quiet down.
    “You are so charged,” the lord said.
    “With what?” Alex easily retorted.
    “The accused is so—self represented. How do you plea?”
    “Plea? What are the charges?”
    “That is not my occupation young man. The charges are levied and such is now the task I must now assume.”
    “So what proof…Where’s the evidence?”
    “Proof and evidence are unnecessary, only conviction.”
    “Conviction?”
    “Charges were filed. Hence, it follows conviction. What is the confusion?”
    A massive laughter echoed through the hall, followed by a chorus reciting, “What a fool, who can’t follow the law, always seen, never saw…”
    Then Alex—not touched at all by the mob’s chants—asked, “Aren’t you suppressing evidence sir?”
    “Conviction is all that matters,” the lord said harshly.
    “Okay. Conviction. What conviction am I to have then?”
    “How do I know what you are to believe?”
    Another laugh from the audience.
    “I insist you read the charges,” Alex said, battering the table.
    “If you insist. You have been charged with S NOOPING .”
    “What do you mean? I was just doing a job.”
    Now a vast gloom echoed about the hall, followed by a chorus chanting, “S NOOPING ……S NOOPING…… S NOOPING…… S NOOPING… ”
    “What do I mean? Prying, dear friend. Putting the nose in where it doesn’t belong. Cease and desist. Or DIE .” the lord said flatly.
    The lord struck the mallet down hard
     
    — b a n g i ng—
     
    a loud resounding throughout the hall causing a deep pain to build in Alex. Then—an explosion, glass shattering, woke Alex; at once bringing him back to truth.
     
     
     
    M ISS T. K. S TOOD O UTSIDE T HE W INDOW , an ocean of rain over head; staring inside as Alex came into the kitchen and stepped on a piece of glass, cutting through the thin skin that was the sole of a foot, leaving a trail of blood as he continued toward the door. Finally, he made it to the door, opening it, finding Miss K. standing—wet, soaked like a sponge at sea.
    “Come in, come in,” Alex said.
    Miss K. walked in; bringing a deluge that flooded the bright marble—white kitchen floor.
    Within minutes, it, the deluge that is, mingling with blood on the floor, created a burgundy and rosé issue. Eventually, the mix itself began circulating round the center drain, forming an