meanness the natural state even of happy suns? Was it the mustache?
“ Suicide ,” the sun whispered.
My face was buried in his mustache.
“Stop breathing on me and summon your vultures. Your mustache tickles.”
“ Suicide .”
“Why are you saying that?”
“ It’s my favorite bad word .” Maybe I had a reason to be paranoid. Maybe the sun was a pickled pedophile disguised as a pancake. Maybe Pancake Island was not a happy place at all. “ I only get a chance to say bad words when sad travelers crash here. Pancakes know no bad words. They only know good ones. My proximity to the sky and role as guardian has allowed me to pick up certain words and ideas, things I overhear from outer space, things I hear from those like yourself. I like to say bad words. I like to say 'suicide.' It is my favorite word to say.
“ I am never allowed to say it. I am never allowed to talk about it because the pancakes I interact with on a day to day basis would not know what I am talking about. So I am saying it to you, my sorry pickle. You who are unworthy. You who are a disease. The words for who and what you are, for your condition of being, do not exist in this culture. You cannot stay here because as far as pancakes are concerned, sadness does not exist. You do not exist . "
The sun floated back to a higher point in the sky. I raised my fists toward his golden, fluffy body. I shook my fists and yelled, “I am a pickle! I exist!”
“Oh, I know you exist,” the sun said, “but you belong with other pickles, with your sadness. Go home to Pickled Planet. Return and suffer with your species.”
I hung my head and rubbed my eyes and sobbed. Real briny tears came out, but the tears were false. As a pickle, I could cry on demand. Tears were part of my plan, and so far, everything had gone accordingly.
The sun opened his mouth and yawned, as if bored with me. Birds without feathers or bones flapped out of his mouth. Birds of red flesh and white fat. Corpuscular birds with beaks and claws of white fat. Eyes that rolled and melted because they were also made of fat. They must have been the bacon vultures.
They circled my rocket ship several times, descending lower with each succeeding circle, until they landed. They communicated by clapping their crispy wings together. They got busy fixing the rocket ship. They had a stupid way of fixing it, slapping it here and licking it in other places, letting their grease soak in. Since they lived inside the sun, the bacon vultures must have overheard our conversation, but watching them work, I realized that it did not matter. These birds were idiots. They did not understand our mode of speech. I lamented that my ship was likely lost forever, but it hardly mattered since I had no intention of leaving Pancake Island.
I stopped crying. I laughed, pretending to have gotten over the foul mood that had taken hold of me.
I knew I probably caught the strange sensation from drinking those handfuls of the sea, but I figured I might as well query the matter.
"Excuse me," I said. "I drank some of this sea and feel rather pleasant. What is this stuff?"
"This is maple syrup," the sun said. "To prove that I'm a kind sun who sends all voyagers merrily on their way, you may leave with one jar of maple syrup scooped from our tiny sea."
"Just one jar?" I said.
"One jar," the sun said. "Maple syrup is the most important resource in the universe. Without it, our happiness wouldn't be as sweet. It would be nothing at all. Maple syrup is also a very limited resource. The sweetest things always come to an end. We pancakes rejoice in their temporal state. This is one reason we live happy lives. Unlike you, we believe in no eternity. For a while we will be the proprietors of happiness, but no one can say for how long. We've already lost so much. The last agave apes curled up and fell asleep some while ago. They never woke again. The honey horses went before them. Now these creatures sleep on the bottom of
“ Suicide ,” the sun whispered.
My face was buried in his mustache.
“Stop breathing on me and summon your vultures. Your mustache tickles.”
“ Suicide .”
“Why are you saying that?”
“ It’s my favorite bad word .” Maybe I had a reason to be paranoid. Maybe the sun was a pickled pedophile disguised as a pancake. Maybe Pancake Island was not a happy place at all. “ I only get a chance to say bad words when sad travelers crash here. Pancakes know no bad words. They only know good ones. My proximity to the sky and role as guardian has allowed me to pick up certain words and ideas, things I overhear from outer space, things I hear from those like yourself. I like to say bad words. I like to say 'suicide.' It is my favorite word to say.
“ I am never allowed to say it. I am never allowed to talk about it because the pancakes I interact with on a day to day basis would not know what I am talking about. So I am saying it to you, my sorry pickle. You who are unworthy. You who are a disease. The words for who and what you are, for your condition of being, do not exist in this culture. You cannot stay here because as far as pancakes are concerned, sadness does not exist. You do not exist . "
The sun floated back to a higher point in the sky. I raised my fists toward his golden, fluffy body. I shook my fists and yelled, “I am a pickle! I exist!”
“Oh, I know you exist,” the sun said, “but you belong with other pickles, with your sadness. Go home to Pickled Planet. Return and suffer with your species.”
I hung my head and rubbed my eyes and sobbed. Real briny tears came out, but the tears were false. As a pickle, I could cry on demand. Tears were part of my plan, and so far, everything had gone accordingly.
The sun opened his mouth and yawned, as if bored with me. Birds without feathers or bones flapped out of his mouth. Birds of red flesh and white fat. Corpuscular birds with beaks and claws of white fat. Eyes that rolled and melted because they were also made of fat. They must have been the bacon vultures.
They circled my rocket ship several times, descending lower with each succeeding circle, until they landed. They communicated by clapping their crispy wings together. They got busy fixing the rocket ship. They had a stupid way of fixing it, slapping it here and licking it in other places, letting their grease soak in. Since they lived inside the sun, the bacon vultures must have overheard our conversation, but watching them work, I realized that it did not matter. These birds were idiots. They did not understand our mode of speech. I lamented that my ship was likely lost forever, but it hardly mattered since I had no intention of leaving Pancake Island.
I stopped crying. I laughed, pretending to have gotten over the foul mood that had taken hold of me.
I knew I probably caught the strange sensation from drinking those handfuls of the sea, but I figured I might as well query the matter.
"Excuse me," I said. "I drank some of this sea and feel rather pleasant. What is this stuff?"
"This is maple syrup," the sun said. "To prove that I'm a kind sun who sends all voyagers merrily on their way, you may leave with one jar of maple syrup scooped from our tiny sea."
"Just one jar?" I said.
"One jar," the sun said. "Maple syrup is the most important resource in the universe. Without it, our happiness wouldn't be as sweet. It would be nothing at all. Maple syrup is also a very limited resource. The sweetest things always come to an end. We pancakes rejoice in their temporal state. This is one reason we live happy lives. Unlike you, we believe in no eternity. For a while we will be the proprietors of happiness, but no one can say for how long. We've already lost so much. The last agave apes curled up and fell asleep some while ago. They never woke again. The honey horses went before them. Now these creatures sleep on the bottom of
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