Those who cannot hear the music think that the dancer is mad

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Rational Madness

Does-Doesn’t

A short story by Ian Postre

FIRE AND BRIMSTONE

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You could tell by the length of the bags under his eyes that this was a creature who had not slept overmuch.

You could tell by the colour of his beard that he was beyond his three score and ten. Not to mention the length.

You could tell by the dishevelled clothes - though cloths would be a better description - that this was a man haunted, possessed enough to go around unwashed, untidy and unaware of the smell.

I have never subscribed to the opinion that, given a long enough time unwashed, the hair eventually cleans itself. Perhaps this poor fellow was the exception that proves the rule.

Always ashamed of the many holes, cavities, crevasses, canyons, stalagmites and stalactites, reefs, peaks and caverns I dare to call my own teeth, I felt humbled by the endless tunnel of black and yellow which gave forth the toothless consonants and tongue-driven vowels as he turned on heels toughened by decades of such indignant revolutions, and disappeared down the grey corridor along which, just a few seconds earlier, he had so recently marched.

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Watch out for the next in this series of short stories,
“The Catapult of Christ”, in Issue Two.