The Brothel Creeper: Stories of Sexual and Spiritual Tension by Rhys Hughes Page B
Book: The Brothel Creeper: Stories of Sexual and Spiritual Tension by Rhys Hughes
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Authors: Rhys Hughes
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and I hurried home to avoid catching any of the abominable twinkle in my eyes.
I thought about Moona as I lay on my bed. Her attempts at dissolving individuality into the greater mass of the entire world had backfired: it had simply redefined our planet as an individual, solitary, alone in space, and this cosmic loneliness was vaster by far than the loneliness of a single man or woman in society. If ordinary paranoia is the result of isolation then the principles of her movement, the ideals of the revolution that had overthrown Colonel Bones, had accidentally generated a far greater paranoia, a paranoia never possible before the belief that the world was a single organism. The consequences would be terrible.
My food had run out but I waited eight days before leaving my apartment in search of supplies. The shattered innards of my radio had not been swept off the street: I had hurled the device out of the window in contempt after hearing the declaration of Martial Law a week earlier. The city was almost silent. On the first lamppost I noticed something curious hanging from a length of twine. I hurried past. In the park there were similar objects: propped against trees or arranged on benches, many had even been planted in the flowerbeds. They existed apart, separate, removed from their owners by some brutal surgery.
Everywhere I went I encountered more limbs, jawbones, parts of torsos, ears and eyeballs, teeth. I realised they were not on display, they did not serve as warnings of punishment. They were not examples. They were simply the individual units of crowds that had been dispersed, crowds of one. Then I turned a corner and found myself facing a policeman. In his hand he held something much sharper than a truncheon. He cast an eye over my whole body, pointed his weapon and cried:
“Break it up! Break it up immediately!”
I fled. He was in no position to follow. More than two thirds of him was missing, moved on elsewhere, isolated in its own space away from the other parts it had always associated with. Paranoia was heading toward a new extreme, a position where even groupings of cells would be defined as a conspiracy. I kept running and took refuge in a doorway. The door was unlocked and I entered.
It was the bicycle shop. The gears, wheels and chains had been replaced with sinews, bones and organs, the shelves stacked with limbs. My first reaction was horror but then I understood that the new government had already defeated itself. By separating a single person into many parts and giving each one of those parts the status of an individual, the regime had dramatically increased the population of the city and decreased the amount of space in which those parts might exist alone. Gatherings had become more likely, not less. In a crowded world, crowds are always more possible.
I rubbed my hands in glee for I had finally found a worthy role to play. Whether all these body parts had been deliberately stored here by the authorities or whether they had accumulated through an oversight was irrelevant. They formed an illegal gathering, the first blow against the tyrant Moona. I would lead the coming revolution. I addressed my new comrades and urged them to prepare themselves for yet another utopia. The hearts at least took heart, or so I believe. The stink of reality had finally returned. Clearly I was a born leader, for although there must have been a hundred tongues in the shop with me, mine was the only one that did any talking.
Southbound Satin
The boat broke open like a nut. That is a lazy image, but Jason didn’t yawn. He splashed in the water, comparing the blue of the sky with the blue of the ocean. The differences were considerable, but unimportant. Then he realised he was standing on his wife.
He moved his leg and she floated to the surface, gasping, her tanned face gleaming, and for an instant he saw a frantic mermaid made of bronze but hollow and filled with air. Her mouth was close to his ear but
I thought about Moona as I lay on my bed. Her attempts at dissolving individuality into the greater mass of the entire world had backfired: it had simply redefined our planet as an individual, solitary, alone in space, and this cosmic loneliness was vaster by far than the loneliness of a single man or woman in society. If ordinary paranoia is the result of isolation then the principles of her movement, the ideals of the revolution that had overthrown Colonel Bones, had accidentally generated a far greater paranoia, a paranoia never possible before the belief that the world was a single organism. The consequences would be terrible.
My food had run out but I waited eight days before leaving my apartment in search of supplies. The shattered innards of my radio had not been swept off the street: I had hurled the device out of the window in contempt after hearing the declaration of Martial Law a week earlier. The city was almost silent. On the first lamppost I noticed something curious hanging from a length of twine. I hurried past. In the park there were similar objects: propped against trees or arranged on benches, many had even been planted in the flowerbeds. They existed apart, separate, removed from their owners by some brutal surgery.
Everywhere I went I encountered more limbs, jawbones, parts of torsos, ears and eyeballs, teeth. I realised they were not on display, they did not serve as warnings of punishment. They were not examples. They were simply the individual units of crowds that had been dispersed, crowds of one. Then I turned a corner and found myself facing a policeman. In his hand he held something much sharper than a truncheon. He cast an eye over my whole body, pointed his weapon and cried:
“Break it up! Break it up immediately!”
I fled. He was in no position to follow. More than two thirds of him was missing, moved on elsewhere, isolated in its own space away from the other parts it had always associated with. Paranoia was heading toward a new extreme, a position where even groupings of cells would be defined as a conspiracy. I kept running and took refuge in a doorway. The door was unlocked and I entered.
It was the bicycle shop. The gears, wheels and chains had been replaced with sinews, bones and organs, the shelves stacked with limbs. My first reaction was horror but then I understood that the new government had already defeated itself. By separating a single person into many parts and giving each one of those parts the status of an individual, the regime had dramatically increased the population of the city and decreased the amount of space in which those parts might exist alone. Gatherings had become more likely, not less. In a crowded world, crowds are always more possible.
I rubbed my hands in glee for I had finally found a worthy role to play. Whether all these body parts had been deliberately stored here by the authorities or whether they had accumulated through an oversight was irrelevant. They formed an illegal gathering, the first blow against the tyrant Moona. I would lead the coming revolution. I addressed my new comrades and urged them to prepare themselves for yet another utopia. The hearts at least took heart, or so I believe. The stink of reality had finally returned. Clearly I was a born leader, for although there must have been a hundred tongues in the shop with me, mine was the only one that did any talking.
Southbound Satin
The boat broke open like a nut. That is a lazy image, but Jason didn’t yawn. He splashed in the water, comparing the blue of the sky with the blue of the ocean. The differences were considerable, but unimportant. Then he realised he was standing on his wife.
He moved his leg and she floated to the surface, gasping, her tanned face gleaming, and for an instant he saw a frantic mermaid made of bronze but hollow and filled with air. Her mouth was close to his ear but
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