Howls of Derisive Laughter (from Unbegun Stories)

Copyright (C) 2020, Robert B. Reeder
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.