VALUE VILLAGE
It was a glorious day in Value Village, dropped from the heavens like ripe apples from an orchard canopy. Wool-clad children, relieved of their chores on the Lord’s Day, ran to and fro in the cobbled streets, volleying inflated sheep bladders and coaxing wooden hoops along with their sticks. The smell of bread trickled out from flung-open cottage windows, and in the park, a procession of horse-drawn carriages ushered the townsfolk over the greens. The sun shone radiantly across the village, like a shimmering lacquer atop an heirloom armoire, and it was a truly glorious day indeed.
However, for If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned, who trudged so laboriously through the square that it seemed his buckle-shoes were filled with lead, it was a sullen day, as if on the Lord’s day of rest He had forgotten His children like a man who leaves one morning to churn butter, saying, “I’ll be back in an hour!”, only to never be seen again.
The young man was deaf to the lively commotion of the Renaissance fair, where the clothes of recently deceased village elders were being sold at half-price and Fear-God, the town harpsichordist, was tapping out a few spritely tunes on his instrument. He was blind to the Church of Goodwill volunteers planting Thumbelina carrots in the flowerbeds along the roads. He could not even smell the deodorant-deprived townsfolk passing him by. His only sensation was the letter clutched in his hand with chicken-choking force, the whitening of his knuckles around the smiling-at-pedestrians-on-the-crosswalk-white envelope.
Finally, worn like an old sock, If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned arrived at Prudence’s house and rapped on the door.
It was Mr. Scaffolding who answered. “Blessed day. What can I do for you, If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned?” he asked.
“Good morrow, sir. I humbly beseech you for a moment’s conference with your fair and virtuous daughter.”
“Thou who hast given my fair and virtuous daughter seven and a half sorts of gonorrhea?” Mr. Scaffolding bellowed. “Well, I suppose you may very well come in.”
If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned stepped through the threshold, laid his buckle shoes by the door, and made his way to the sunroom, where Prudence, eyes closed in clairvoyance, was embroidering one of her divine visions into an apron. Her eyes snapped open at his entrance.
“What cheer, Prudence?” the gentleman greeted his betrothed.
“Painful urination!”
“Praise be.” If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned approached, laid a kiss upon Prudence’s bonnet, and felt a devilish twitch in his breeches. He stepped back and said, “Prudence, I come bearing news.”
“The turnips are bountiful this day in Value Village! Bulbous as bunions!” Prudence exclaimed, clutching her embroidery to her chest.
“No, not that.” If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned kneeled at the feet of his betrothed, so close that he could have kissed them in supplication, and held up his crumpled letter.
“Test results? Don’t worry, I can already feel that it’s gonorrhea again,” Prudence said, but If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned, hushing her with a finger to her lips, replied, “Prudence, I have been drafted into the Salvation Army.”
The room fell as silent as a Puritan’s wedding night. Tears wobbled in Prudence’s eyes.
“But…but…I thought the war was almost over.”
If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned sighed in defeat. “With Satan on their side, our enemies have put up a formidable fight.”
It had been five years already since Value Village went to war with their godless neighbors, an alliance of heathen factions led by the most barbaric of them all: the Eva Bourgeois, or Eva B for short, whose ruthless hegemon Eva, with the help of her Eva Dilettantes (or Eva D’s for short), plundered Value Village, slaughtering women and children, and auctioned off its treasures to her own people at exorbitant prices. No matter how humble the citizens of Value Village were, they could not stand to see their homes ransacked; thus this peaceful folk declared war on the Eva Bourgeois, a war which had been their God-sent ruin.
“We thought we had them beat,” If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned said, “but then forces from the Marché Underground rose up with a devastating counterattack.”
“Bastard perverts!” Prudence cried.
“Prudence!” yelped If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned. “Dirty idolaters, perhaps you mean. Indecorous hoobastanks. Worshiping their parachute pants and pearl necklaces in lieu of the Lord.”
Prudence settled down and brushed a tear from her cheek.
“I mean to say that the Salvation Army is in need of more troops,” her betrothed explained, “and I have been called up to fight.”
“But—how could they take thee? How did you pass the physical? To embrace you—when Papa is not watching, of course—feels like lying down in a dog crate. You are such a wisp of a thing that you—you could hang glide on a communion wafer!”
“Desperate times call for skinny men, told the apostle Matthew,” the young man sighed. “God is my witness that I, too, do not wish to fight in bin warfare. But for God and country, I must.”
“Oh, if you get binfoot, my beloved!” Prudence wept. “I’ve heard such wretched stories of men gone to fight in the bins, returning with their thousand-rack stare.”
If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned squeezed Prudence’s hand, checking behind his shoulder for Mr. Scaffolding before replying, “Such ruin is always possible when up against these blasphemous Depop Demons. But if you give me your portrait to hold onto, my love, I shall be steady.”
Prudence snatched her hand away and devolved into hysterical sobbing, thrashing her bonneted head back and forth like a dog slobbering on a chew toy. If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned clasped his hands together in her stead and cried, “May God strike down these art students!”
But Prudence, indifferent to his pleas, grasped her sewing kit and shrieked, “I shall kill my-self. I shall gouge my eyes out with these here needles!”
If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned arrested her, and in his breeches the devil stirred once again. He slapped his member in admonishment before returning to his betrothed.
“I must leave you now, Prudence, kitten,” he said. “But first, I shall give you something to remember me by.”
As high noon proclaimed its righteousness in the sky, If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned imparted to his beloved an eighth strain of gonorrhea. Quietly, to preserve humility before the Lord and secrecy from Mr. Scaffolding, they made love to one another in a missionary so tender, so intimate, that the two of them wept.
“Maybe,” Prudence whispered as her delectable servant of God plunged into her like Longinus’ spear into Jesus’ side, “we could try doggystyle, that it be less intimate, less heart-wrenching.”
“Hush, my love,” replied her betrothed, snot dripping from his handsome nostrils. “God hath not blessed thee with such a rump as that.”
He came then went, flinging himself to the streets which could not console him, leaving Prudence in her holy suffering of heartbreak and frequent urination. In a fit of sorrow, the skinny young soldier passed a child and, with the feather from his cap, popped the boy’s sheep bladder balloon then thwacked him with the stick his friend was holding. Father Spendthrift greeted If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned as he walked by, but If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned hurled only insults back in return. Even the dairy cows were not safe from his vitriol, and with wicked delight he tipped over the least suspecting of the bunch before falling to his knees in tears.
Tomorrow was uncertain, bringing the potential of death in a far-off bin, and today was a sullen day in Value Village.
GIF from The Wrath of God (1972)
KAT MULLIGAN:
MAXWELL NORMAN’S ALBUM OF THE WEEK
Arca - Arca (2017)
From the album cover down through every note, Arca speaks of flesh, sweat, and combustion. While many know her for her incredible Kick series, the self-titled album that preceded those records is a master piece of electronic music as gooey and metallic as melted steel. Songs like “Fugaces,” “Desafio,” and “Reverie” emerge like amber-ensconced pop hits, while fans of Arca’s original instrumental albums will find similar joys in “Castration” and “Whip”. You can see her improvisational past and the experimental reggaeton and pop she moved into woven into the album’s DNA. Reminds me of the days I licked honey off of barbed wire. Contradictory, painful, sweet, and utterly singular to one of our finest visionaries.
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McGill Black Student Network Library, a good resource for locating and borrowing books by Black authors. The BSN Library is currently looking for volunteer staffers. Anyone can sign up.
Black Writers Matter, edited by Whitney French, is an incredible collection of works by contemporary Black writers. You can order the E-Book or the paperback via University of Regina Press.
Pulse Mag (MTL lifestyle magazine) is accepting submissions.
Scrivener Creative Review, a publication based at McGill University is back and accepting submissions.
New edition of Annual Report.
“An Odyssey of Dingbats” by Mr. Omar King is available for purchase now.
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