Copyright (C) 2020, Robert B. Reeder
Slow Hedgehog Publishing
Slow Hedgehog Publishing
CHAPTER 20:
Howls of Derisive Laughter
Defiant, he cries out into the
night.
Defianter, even, she shrieks, “Hey, give it a
rest, will ya? The kids are trying to
sleep, and it’s a school night!” She, of
course, had no kids. It was a ruse.
Less defiant, he skulks back
to his living room to rethink his life.
“Not too bad,” he
decides. “Now, let’s see what’s on TV…”
The next night he turns into
a werewolf, but gets beaten back to human form by an irate housewife with a
broom.
The following night, defiant
once again, he sits down to type out a sternly worded opinion letter of 200
words or less. The next morning, he
signs his name and places it in a stamped envelope. In 4-5 days, it arrives across town to the
office of the local classified ads in the
weekly newspaper. It is rural
Kansas, but they do have the Internet, and rather than publish his rant in the
paper edition, it is placed directly into the archives of the on-line
version. Readership of the paper edition
is less than 600 souls. Perhaps 20 folks
read the on-line version. However, by
chance, another equally defiant young man happens to accidentally run across the
op-ed piece on-line, and he is deeply moved by what was penned.
The writing is so earnest and
moving in its visceral plea for justice and action. The reader rises up in rebellion. He is vocal and impassioned, and thousands
rally to his cause almost overnight. The
course of human history is derailed from its previous course. The original defiant one is forgotten and
trampled in the haste for action and optimistic change. He is consigned to the annals of folklore,
and becomes part of faded memories soon after the uprising is established. The rebellion replaces the status quo and quickly becomes
mainstream and oppressive in its own right.
The defiant man still can’t get the phone company to reverse the mistaken
charges, and he itches like crazy every morning following the fool [sic] moon.
Feral cats dance with
domesticated bears in the land of the moonswept nightscape, and he’s drinking
lukewarm water straight from the faucet, with all that gunk and crust formed
around the little filter screen. He
chokes a bit, and then slips on the spilled water he created through his lazy
drinking habits. The man slams a fist
into the somewhat innocent kitchen cabinetry, bruising his hand. Defiant, he cries out into the lonely
night. And it gets more lonely every
night.
