FOUR STORIES by AILEEN O’DOWD
What I’m about to say sounds false
this I understand to be true. And yet, the truth is very real and very clear: the boy who cried wolf did not lie. The boy who cried wolf was a visionary. And by visionary, I mean he had visions. And by visions, I mean he was psychic. The boy who cried wolf cried wolf because he saw it. He saw the wolf kill the sheep, so he cried. But sheep don’t believe in psychics. Sheep only care about fashion. They ignored the premonitions of the boy who cried. They called him a liar, and his tears fell into their wool, and then they got mad. (Sheep do not like to get wet). They charged at the boy and he ran into town and the villagers got anxious and the villagers got wet. Not from the tears, from the rain. The boy cried wolf in the dark, cold, rain—“God save the sheep!” said the boy in a panic, and the villagers? They said it too. They ran to the field, but when they arrived, the sheep were asleep, counting sheep, wearing pink patent raincoats and yellow little boots. “I’m not a liar,” said the boy between tears, and the sheep between sleep said, “not again.” The villagers still villagers—not heroes or hunters, just ordinary people in the rain—went home. And the boy once again saw the wolf. “Wolf!” cried the boy to a sheet of pink sheep and none of them moved in reply. He looked at them sleeping in their ghastly plastic coats, with their snooty little faces, eyes closed and unbothered. He walked home in the rain, took a long hot bath. Tucked himself in to his warm fluffy bed—he slept soundly through the night and late into morning.
This is a story about a camel
not true. It’s about an elephant. I don’t want to write about camels. I’m afraid of their humps. I saw a documentary once: a team of scientists dissected the hump of a deceased camel. There was no surgery, they just lifted a small flap on top of the hump. Six thousand crows flew out of it. Followed by a spritz of strawberry perfume. And then a strawberry. No one wanted to eat the strawberry, so they cut it open with a butter knife. Inside of the strawberry there was a cave. The scientists hired a speleologist to examine it. The speleologist said it was a common cave. He refused to appear on camera. He wanted to maintain his reputation as a speleologist of prestigious caves. The scientists threw kumquats into the cave. A speleologist of common caves walked out. He was the color of marmalade and two inches tall. He spoke on camera, under a magnifying glass, but nobody heard him. The microphone was too big. It couldn’t catch the pitch. Lorem ipsum. Those were the only words the sound engineers could identify. The last words of the documentary that played inside of my brain, when I died for eighty-three seconds—after a rogue elephant escaped from the zoo and attacked me in the driveway of my bungalow—before I was resuscitated.
I found meaning
in the trash. It was a blanket. Warm and soft and fluffy, so I knew it wasn’t mine. I gave it to the dog. He ripped it into shreds and then ate it. He threw it up in the yard. I watched him from the tree that I climbed to find meaning. I found a bird with broken wings and a beak that wouldn’t sing, so I knew it wasn’t mine. I gave it to my husband. He nursed it back to health with sugar water, worms, and a special kind of vet. I saw the post he wrote on LinkedIn—that all great leaders love birds. It got 7000 likes. I read it from the phone that I hacked to find meaning. I found an online community seeking polyester sheep—sheep that grow polyester. Their yarn triggers eczema, but the color’s neon pink and the smell is Chanel No. 5. There are two in existence, but their whereabouts are vague (last spotted in Bali). They eat marzipan and raisins, do not baa when you call, and u/littlemisslamby is selling ‼HOT PINK CROP TOPS‼ *from the source* PURE and AUTHENTIC !Going fa$t! DM for more info.
The world lost its meaning
is a lie. The world did not lose its meaning. I know this because I stole it. I found it on the moon. It was a man. He was tiny. He fit in the center of my hand. He was sleeping on a pile of moon dust. I know this because I sneezed, and my only allergy is dust, specifically from the moon. “Bless you,” said the man in my pocket, where I put him, when I took him and made him mine. “Shh,” I said. Because—you know—I stole him. I did not want the world to know. I did not want to give him back. I wanted all of that meaning for myself. Then the polar bears got Lyme. The bunnies boycotted carrots (the horses did not). The bees stuck their stingers into honey. Birds flew south, yet went north. Mice attacked cats. Dolly threw her hair in the river. Dolly Parton, the queen of country music. The queen of blond ambition threw her hair in the river. I saw the bleached, spiked strands tumbling downstream, about to pass me by, and the man in my pocket yelled “jump!” I did. I lunged into the river, into the icy mouth of the earth, and I swam. I swam with everything I had into the sun.
Aileen O’Dowd (she/her) lives in Toronto. Her writing has appeared in HAD, Okay Donkey, X-R-A-Y, Peach Mag, and elsewhere.