green grasshopper found its way into her sanctuary and she immediately wished it to be a turtle, but it did not become so, and it rubbed its hind legs together, and she winced at the resulting screech. Screech!
The pages and pages of the score for Mr. Sweet’s fugue were so heavy they caused Mrs. Sweet to bend over under their weight. What to do? What should she do? Mrs. Sweet scoured the surrounding area of villages and hamlets, looking inside their churches and synagogues and homeless shelters, and then sought advice from heads of households and homeless wanderers until, after years and years, she gathered together one hundred distinguished musicians who specialized in playing the lyre. They assembled and made a crowd on the small green area that was just off the house in which Shirley Jackson had lived for a time. But then Mr. Sweet came down with a cold and also his shoulders froze and his throat was red and sore and his feet fell flat and a great fear of open spaces overcame him.
The shy Myrmidons were lined up side by side, their plastic yellow hair flowing in the same direction as their plastic green tunics, away from their bodies, giving them a look of never-ending and prompt motion. Across from them were the legions of plastic men wearing turtle shells and bearing swords ready to strike the shy Myrmidons. Heracles had gotten the legions of plastic men who wore turtle shells and carried swords as a bonus with his Happy Meals too and again he never ate the meals themselves, only he so liked the things that came with them: shy Myrmidons, men wearing turtle shells, or sometimes a cape draped over their shoulders, horses with wings, birds with men’s feet. The shy Myrmidons now attacked the legions of men wearing the turtle shell and there was blood everywhere mixed up with bones and shell and other kinds of bodily matter, and amid all the imaginary cries and shrieks of imaginary suffering, there was the sound of Mr. Sweet revising and rewriting parts of his fugue, the sweet notes becoming bitter, the bitter notes becoming more so. Standing high above the blood, the bones, and the other kinds of bodily matter (for he was so tall, the young Heracles), the young Heracles spun around on the ball of one foot, the other foot perfectly crooked in midair to lend him balance, and he laughed a big and loud laugh that rippled all across the valley and came to a stop on the side of the mountain that rose above this same valley and came back toward Heracles and his home in the old Shirley Jackson house but not before touching down lightly on the Jewish graveyard where his ancient ancestors were buried and the golf course and Powers Market and the Paper Mill Bridge.
Heracles, Heracles, said Mrs. Sweet to herself, but though no one else could hear this, to her the sound of his name then was as if she were in a small room with all sensation shut out, only the name, Heracles, filling up that time then and that space now. Often, the name of her son left her with such a sensation, his name and so he himself, took up, filled up everything, time or space, space or time, one or the other. For Mrs. Sweet, his name then caused the shallow furrow in her brow to deepen but this deepening could only be seen with the help of a microscope. And Mr. Sweet, on hearing this big and loud laugh, wished his son a safe passage to the edge of the universe in a faulty space capsule; how he would like to see the look on Heracles’ face after an event like that.
But then: one hundred lyres, one hundred musicians to play them, thought Mrs. Sweet and she went about her duties, making the instruments and the musicians. Her concentration was unwavering, her devotion was without question, her love had no limits. How the dear Mrs. Sweet loved Mr. Sweet and so too she loved all that he produced, fugues, concertos, choral pieces, suites, and variations. But the one million lyres and musicians to play them! Mrs. Sweet set about her task. She planted field upon
The pages and pages of the score for Mr. Sweet’s fugue were so heavy they caused Mrs. Sweet to bend over under their weight. What to do? What should she do? Mrs. Sweet scoured the surrounding area of villages and hamlets, looking inside their churches and synagogues and homeless shelters, and then sought advice from heads of households and homeless wanderers until, after years and years, she gathered together one hundred distinguished musicians who specialized in playing the lyre. They assembled and made a crowd on the small green area that was just off the house in which Shirley Jackson had lived for a time. But then Mr. Sweet came down with a cold and also his shoulders froze and his throat was red and sore and his feet fell flat and a great fear of open spaces overcame him.
The shy Myrmidons were lined up side by side, their plastic yellow hair flowing in the same direction as their plastic green tunics, away from their bodies, giving them a look of never-ending and prompt motion. Across from them were the legions of plastic men wearing turtle shells and bearing swords ready to strike the shy Myrmidons. Heracles had gotten the legions of plastic men who wore turtle shells and carried swords as a bonus with his Happy Meals too and again he never ate the meals themselves, only he so liked the things that came with them: shy Myrmidons, men wearing turtle shells, or sometimes a cape draped over their shoulders, horses with wings, birds with men’s feet. The shy Myrmidons now attacked the legions of men wearing the turtle shell and there was blood everywhere mixed up with bones and shell and other kinds of bodily matter, and amid all the imaginary cries and shrieks of imaginary suffering, there was the sound of Mr. Sweet revising and rewriting parts of his fugue, the sweet notes becoming bitter, the bitter notes becoming more so. Standing high above the blood, the bones, and the other kinds of bodily matter (for he was so tall, the young Heracles), the young Heracles spun around on the ball of one foot, the other foot perfectly crooked in midair to lend him balance, and he laughed a big and loud laugh that rippled all across the valley and came to a stop on the side of the mountain that rose above this same valley and came back toward Heracles and his home in the old Shirley Jackson house but not before touching down lightly on the Jewish graveyard where his ancient ancestors were buried and the golf course and Powers Market and the Paper Mill Bridge.
Heracles, Heracles, said Mrs. Sweet to herself, but though no one else could hear this, to her the sound of his name then was as if she were in a small room with all sensation shut out, only the name, Heracles, filling up that time then and that space now. Often, the name of her son left her with such a sensation, his name and so he himself, took up, filled up everything, time or space, space or time, one or the other. For Mrs. Sweet, his name then caused the shallow furrow in her brow to deepen but this deepening could only be seen with the help of a microscope. And Mr. Sweet, on hearing this big and loud laugh, wished his son a safe passage to the edge of the universe in a faulty space capsule; how he would like to see the look on Heracles’ face after an event like that.
But then: one hundred lyres, one hundred musicians to play them, thought Mrs. Sweet and she went about her duties, making the instruments and the musicians. Her concentration was unwavering, her devotion was without question, her love had no limits. How the dear Mrs. Sweet loved Mr. Sweet and so too she loved all that he produced, fugues, concertos, choral pieces, suites, and variations. But the one million lyres and musicians to play them! Mrs. Sweet set about her task. She planted field upon
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