Two Fictions
Daniel Grandbois

The Last Supper

The last supper was long overdue. First supper had been served hours before. Peter wasn't the only one ready to close his eyes.
Finally, the bread was passed, but there was such talk around it and then the wine that Peter feared this particular last supper might go on forever.
And it did.
Here is how it happened: All were eager to devour the cooked lamb. Yet, his sunken eyes held them off, saying, "Freeze! Yeah, just as you are with your leaning in and facing out, your placating and posturing, and your pointing of tongues. Hold it there, oh my brothers, and such a supping as this one shall last and last."
It was a lot for cooked lamb's eyes to say; yet, the painter wouldn't lift his brush until they said just that.
He washed his hands. Though many colors had been used, only red swirled down the basin.

Excerpt from The Hermaphrodite (An Hallucinated Memoir): Chapter Ten

A marsh named Johnson's Bayou became Nat's home. Presently, his left side lay submerged in the plush carpet of his new living room, while his right took in the sounds and odors of the swamp that it was.
He fell to sleep.
In a dream, he played the licorice stick, as blood seeped into his house. Nat seemed to expect it, like charming a snake from a basket. It washed over his feet and, eventually, his head. It splashed little waves against the ceiling.
Now, the slide of a trombone struck Nat in the head. He couldn't see the instrument or who was playing it, but he recognized the sliding sound, which wrapped itself around the notes from his clarinet, creating a tangled vine that fed on the blood. More vines twisted to life until the room was a flooded jungle. The brass slide struck Nat again, and he woke up.
He set out for the wildlife refuge to the north. There, he picked up a log about two yards long and half a foot thick and carried it back home to Johnson's Bayou.
The following day he did the same. Now he had two logs. When he had six, he said, "I need some rope." So Dennis, who'd been choked to death on the shoulder of Route 82, was resurrected, and Beaumont, Texas visited.
After binding the logs together, Nat loaded what little food and water he had left onto the raft and set himself afloat, intending to ride the Gulf of Mexico southward.
Twenty-seven days at sea. Nat's skin belonged on an apple from a previous century.
The ocean had been sending salty missionaries into Nat's wounds. The conferences ran long, for Nat could not excuse himself, saying, I have some soil to till, or, I need to go invent the earplug. He was going nowhere and the missionaries knew it, so day after day Nat was made to endure their diplomacy. Finally, he could stand it no longer. His wounds burned in messianic silence as the missionaries' saline suggestions bonded to them. Take action!
Face-down, he chewed the rope that bound the raft but only until he'd cut through the one spot.
The ocean should dismantle a man's raft, he thought, not the man himself. The missionaries couldn't argue that.