"Sufyan kicked away his heavy boots and felt the soft grass wriggle between his toes. He held the fine Byzantine dagger aloft, its blade, still flecked with the dried blood of a forgotten Seljuk administrator from Aleppo, glinting in the failing sunlight. The city below bustled, unaware that the man with the troubled brow who had wandered her streets, begging for the gift of solace, now watched over her, like a boy standing over an anthill delighting in his sudden power over life and death, yet the only death that was his to delegate was the one that now loomed over him, trapped in his shadow like a bottle djinn.
"He gripped the dagger tightly, one hand wrapped around the hilt, the other cradling the pommel, and with a prayer on his lips, drove it deep within his chest. His final breath was taken by the coming night, pulled from those parted lips and the gaping maw of his wound. He lay back on the grass, still. His body slackened, and with it his regret, made pliable in the cooling breeze, to be shaped, molded to something Allah alone can name redemption."
He fell silent behind the rugged maple lectern. A few of the mothers looked up from their circle and clapped half-hearted applause as children ran screaming, weaving in and out of the circle and winding a broken path around the enormous yard checkered with picnic tables and adorned with colorful balloons and streamers. No one else seemed to notice or care, except for the pair that stood attentively at the foot of the dais. One, the father of the boy named Eagle McIntosh, clapped loudly and almost comically, as if attempting to make up for the lack of gratitude from the rest of the party. He wore wire thin glasses and a flattened hairstyle that gave him the look of a man pounded by a barrage of cartoon anvils.
"That was wonderful, Mr. Bruges!"
"Thank you, sir. It was my pleasure, truly."
McIntosh dug into the pockets of his trousers and withdrew a folded, pre-written check for the agreed upon sum of five thousand dollars. He held it tightly against his thigh, smoothing out the fine creases with the tips of his fingers, and then passed it to Oscar, who slipped it into his breast pocket with an appreciative grin.
"My parents used to read your books all the time. Never had the chance, myself, but they sure would be proud to know you were here for our little man's big day."
"That's wonderful to hear. It's always a treat to meet my readers' children, I suppose," Oscar said wryly, accepting an enthusiastic handshake before McIntosh slipped back into the rustling party, where he was heard to shout about charcoal before disappearing in the myriad of bodies.
The other figure waiting at the foot of the dais was dressed in a clown costume, complete with greasy, white face paint broken only by a red painted smile. He leaned against a maypole fettered by a massive banner proclaiming Happy Birthday, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, clapping earnestly. Oscar stared at him strangely, as if seeing a certain familiarity he couldn't place.
"You didn't by chance write for McSweeney's, did you?" Oscar asked, only half joking.
The clown shook his head.
"Nope, but I know good stuff when I hear it. But that was a bit depressing for a party, don't you think?"
"Not at all, young man. I endeavor to entertain only myself. Anyone else who pays attention I consider a casualty of my own whims. Besides, I think that tale sums my current situation up quite nicely, don't you? I'm a being consumed by the shame of entertaining children who've never read anything more than single sentence summaries of television programs."
"Makes sense," said the clown.
"What time do you perform?"
The clown checked his watch, a monstrous piece of black plastic strapped to his wrist.
"About ten minutes."
Oscar nodded.
"Young man, I mean no offense, but I'll be running for my life now. I advise you to do the same the second you finish."
Oscar walked home silently as the night overtook the sky. He stripped away his clothes and clambered into bed, wondering where he might awake in the coming morning.
"He gripped the dagger tightly, one hand wrapped around the hilt, the other cradling the pommel, and with a prayer on his lips, drove it deep within his chest. His final breath was taken by the coming night, pulled from those parted lips and the gaping maw of his wound. He lay back on the grass, still. His body slackened, and with it his regret, made pliable in the cooling breeze, to be shaped, molded to something Allah alone can name redemption."
He fell silent behind the rugged maple lectern. A few of the mothers looked up from their circle and clapped half-hearted applause as children ran screaming, weaving in and out of the circle and winding a broken path around the enormous yard checkered with picnic tables and adorned with colorful balloons and streamers. No one else seemed to notice or care, except for the pair that stood attentively at the foot of the dais. One, the father of the boy named Eagle McIntosh, clapped loudly and almost comically, as if attempting to make up for the lack of gratitude from the rest of the party. He wore wire thin glasses and a flattened hairstyle that gave him the look of a man pounded by a barrage of cartoon anvils.
"That was wonderful, Mr. Bruges!"
"Thank you, sir. It was my pleasure, truly."
McIntosh dug into the pockets of his trousers and withdrew a folded, pre-written check for the agreed upon sum of five thousand dollars. He held it tightly against his thigh, smoothing out the fine creases with the tips of his fingers, and then passed it to Oscar, who slipped it into his breast pocket with an appreciative grin.
"My parents used to read your books all the time. Never had the chance, myself, but they sure would be proud to know you were here for our little man's big day."
"That's wonderful to hear. It's always a treat to meet my readers' children, I suppose," Oscar said wryly, accepting an enthusiastic handshake before McIntosh slipped back into the rustling party, where he was heard to shout about charcoal before disappearing in the myriad of bodies.
The other figure waiting at the foot of the dais was dressed in a clown costume, complete with greasy, white face paint broken only by a red painted smile. He leaned against a maypole fettered by a massive banner proclaiming Happy Birthday, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, clapping earnestly. Oscar stared at him strangely, as if seeing a certain familiarity he couldn't place.
"You didn't by chance write for McSweeney's, did you?" Oscar asked, only half joking.
The clown shook his head.
"Nope, but I know good stuff when I hear it. But that was a bit depressing for a party, don't you think?"
"Not at all, young man. I endeavor to entertain only myself. Anyone else who pays attention I consider a casualty of my own whims. Besides, I think that tale sums my current situation up quite nicely, don't you? I'm a being consumed by the shame of entertaining children who've never read anything more than single sentence summaries of television programs."
"Makes sense," said the clown.
"What time do you perform?"
The clown checked his watch, a monstrous piece of black plastic strapped to his wrist.
"About ten minutes."
Oscar nodded.
"Young man, I mean no offense, but I'll be running for my life now. I advise you to do the same the second you finish."
Oscar walked home silently as the night overtook the sky. He stripped away his clothes and clambered into bed, wondering where he might awake in the coming morning.
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