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February 7, 2019 Fiction

Now is Not The Time To Be Different

Judyth Emanuel

Now is Not The Time To Be Different photo

What I pack. Sarongs, sandals, sunhat blew off and. A razor. Bring one pair of old underpants any what. There experience a heavenly bliss of emancipation from. Any old. Here sharpen your dull. Polish the self. Whet your sing of. Thoughts raging mine. Thinking of a million ways to die.

A bronze woman wound with a silk sari edged in gold. Her golden skin, tiny sag of love handles and a belly exposed like a ginger pudding. She purrs.

Welcome Madam.

She hands me a carved pineapple. Big and heavy.

wooden I am asking her.

What’s this?

Your room key Madam.

The room built by forever of white stucco and timeless timber bedhead hung with netting and a view of the reef at a biteable distance. She holds up two smooth stones.


Can I have both.

She gives me her disapproval. She blinks her healthy glow. Of lowering eyes-always-smile. Guess what? Tell her.

I have a horrible rash. Itches. Wishes and musts for a cure. Shave under my arms. Battle my pubes. A disgrace, nod, yes. 

A religious leader claims true fabrication fabricates the mind. The look: his look, mine, how it looks: unhappy. What else can a rash be. Symbolizes golly gosh gee Me. And the sun like sex comes up-up-up into the open of every pretty. Go on. Throw the world a tongue lash. Hells bells. Do not indulge in this frivolous talk. Grunt-grit stamping queer whistle chump chomping Rage. Rings a bell.

Silence please.

Finger to her lips as. Every flower blooms without a sound. Pomegranates float quiet in the pool. A greed crow perches on the carcass of an elephant drifting down a river.

The sign in the dining hall. We love our animals but let’s refrain from inviting them to the bedroom.


The day she takes me by the hand.

Come Madam.

We walk past the pond. Life. Water lilies crowd the koi slipping orange fins and silver scales. Fish mouths bob and nip mosquitos from the air like puff the fucking magic. Dying for a fag. Why do I fall into a frightful one hundred and forty-five hells? Invite suffering like a frog transfixed by a walking stick? Somebody tell me all the. Why away beyond where. Just so long and long enough. The end of a piece of thing what a wonderful silent string. I mean. Spring here careful monsoon soon.

Here Madam.

Oily massages melt me. Smelly poultices infiltrate the. Steamings ring my layers of moisture. Herbal baths submerge and. Fine needles insert into skin, scalp, wrist, stomach. Where most must needs jabbing. I am a body of meat basted, marinated, roasted, steamed, skewered. Anything bright greater alive.

The rash redder creeps over my nipples. Over my I am. I am. I haven’t any why. Mangos and blossoms fall with the why not.

Drink this Madam.

Ten swallows of thick oil and bitter herbs from a glass cup.

Walk for an hour Madam. Rest every ten minutes Madam. Go to your room and wait Madam.

What for.

Your inside will be cleaned Madam.

I sweat an ocean. I wretch living creatures. She brings me a bowl of broth.

Did you go Madame?


The book informs me: keep your virtue as pure as moonbeams, protect it like the yak its tail. Win the. Bliss of Release. But. I think. You give yourself a variety of dancing and prancing. Going about in a putrid body until ferocious death comes to snatch you away. Instead. Express adoration worshipful devotion for the incomparable tamer of the untameable. Okay. Here goes.

image: Battle Creek Sanitorium