They Who Have Wires for Bones
By
Matthew F. Amati
They Who Have Wires For Bones have also rhinestone eyes, have hearts of thread and twill.
They Who Have Wires For Bones will murder those who don’t have wires for bones. And I don’t have them. Not a single wire in me, nary a bone.
Mother and Father won’t find out. They’re simple, wire-boned folk. But the Deacon, he’s a danger.
If They Who Have Wires For Bones find out my deadly secret they will flay my gingham skin, pluck my black button eyes. Pull out my monstrous vile insides for everyone to see. They'll impale my innards on a cruel needle. They will set them aflame while They Who Have Wires For Bones shake their tiny beaded fists.
What I have inside me, it will burn for a long long time.
Every Sunday, and also every Wednesday, and again on Friday, we file into the cardboard church. We set padded backsides on the matchstick pews. Mother on my left, Father on my right. Ahead of us, behind us, to our left, to our right, the righteous congregation. All woven over wires for bones. All poised and staring straight. Waiting for the Deacon to make his entrance.
The Deacon is tall as a tree's shadow. His cape trails like smoke from burning oil. His head is the head of a great bird made of brass and leather.
The Deacon says things like "Shechem spake unto his father Hamor." And "I am he that liveth and was dead."
The Deacon is here to tell us about HE.
HE is the First and the Last. All Creation made HE, from the stern faced wooden Sun to the supercilious china Moon, from the paper Stars to the Comet with its shiny tin tail. All that surrounds us belongs to HE: the velvet hills, the crinoline sea. As we belong to HE.
HE was the original Craftsman. HE laid down strict rules about what every last leaf, insect, flower must be made of. HE bade each frond be curled felt, each katydid of tendrilous gossamer, each rose of just-so crinkled crepe. And HE made They Who Have Wires For Bones.
As the sun has two sides, painted and dark, so HE both made the world and sowed the seeds of our world’s end – in the beasts that prowl the edges, and in our wicked hearts. Among us, HE scattered the malformed and yes, of course the Deacon means Me, but he can’t tell what’s inside me by looking, he can’t tell I’m wicked, and that’s my salvation.
So far.
I can’t tell exactly what’s inside me either. I’d like to find out. I’ve got my Zipper undone about one quarter of the way.
The Zipper is a transverse fastener that runs from my solar plexus to the junction of the left thigh. The Deacon warns us against fooling with our Zippers. I don’t dare undo it all the way. But what I’ve found is simply marvelous. No wires, no bones. I’m stuffed with bright, vibrant reds and blues and golds. I am certain I’m the only one to be made thus, although I’ve never looked inside anyone else.
Father is coming. Father with his kindly brass mask. He smiles when the wooden sun rises, he’d smile if the world burned.
“The Deacon wants to see you, my child.”
I’m found out. The Deacon! He knows. I know he knows. Or thinks he knows. How? Maybe Shechem spake it unto Hamor or some such.
It’s me, or it’s them. The moment is here.
I’m calling the cat.
The cat is one of those beasts that runs around the edges of our world. Its body is a wad of felted wool. Its face is colorful gift paper, with worn ears and two almond-shaped beads for eyes.
The cat has a trick. When roused, its face erupts in flames. Somehow the cat is not consumed, but there is peril for anyone near.
Special patrols keep it away from our flammable houses, our chapel.
I’m made of bolder stuff.
The cat approaches, tempted by my pasteboard fish. I scoop him up, march into the church. Poor lonely beast, it comes willingly.
The Deacon’s back is turned. In sepulchural tones, he says:
“And to Bathsheba came Adonijah, son of Haggith.”
So he does know! He goes on about Elah drunk in the house of Arza, but I’ve heard enough.
The Deacon turns. He sees the cat. He intones:
“For Zimri was enraged, and set the aflame the citadel, and died.”
Here’s a kick for the cat. It yowls. Flames leap. The pews ignite.
The Deacon steps back. Too late, for that great black head is burning, burning.
From the church to the houses, from the crinkled trees to the cardboard sky, the fire eats all. I go among the ashes and the wisps of homes. I’m burning too, but I can burn longer than They Who Have Wires For Bones.
Father’s mask on a pile of ashes. It speaks.
“We’d have tried to understand, child. We’d have loved you no matter the stuff your bones were made of. O that you’d simply had faith in us.”
I’m a pillar of fire. I stride like Gargantua among the burnt. And now, a new marvel.
As these frail bodies turn to smoke and air, I see that not one of them has wires for bones. They have no wires for bones, they never did, nobody ever had wires for bones.
Of course, we don’t know the truth of our making until our unmaking, until we pass from this world.
In the sky, through haze, do I see a weeping face? Is that HE who loved this world, whose heart breaks to see it go?
Curse HE for making me. I know now that He put in me, not wires, not bones, but isolation’s sorrow, the pitch-soaked wood of woe. And this will sustain my burning till Time itself is folded up and put away with the curling paper stars.
Matthew F. Amati has done almost every job except waiting tables. He's worked as a farmhand, Mandarin Chinese interpreter, grocery stockboy, junior professor of Ancient Greek, and, briefly, Jerry Springer's assistant. He is the author of two novels, and about 50 or so short stories, many of which can be found linked on his diffidently-updated website: www.mattamati.com
By
Matthew F. Amati
They Who Have Wires For Bones have also rhinestone eyes, have hearts of thread and twill.
They Who Have Wires For Bones will murder those who don’t have wires for bones. And I don’t have them. Not a single wire in me, nary a bone.
Mother and Father won’t find out. They’re simple, wire-boned folk. But the Deacon, he’s a danger.
If They Who Have Wires For Bones find out my deadly secret they will flay my gingham skin, pluck my black button eyes. Pull out my monstrous vile insides for everyone to see. They'll impale my innards on a cruel needle. They will set them aflame while They Who Have Wires For Bones shake their tiny beaded fists.
What I have inside me, it will burn for a long long time.
Every Sunday, and also every Wednesday, and again on Friday, we file into the cardboard church. We set padded backsides on the matchstick pews. Mother on my left, Father on my right. Ahead of us, behind us, to our left, to our right, the righteous congregation. All woven over wires for bones. All poised and staring straight. Waiting for the Deacon to make his entrance.
The Deacon is tall as a tree's shadow. His cape trails like smoke from burning oil. His head is the head of a great bird made of brass and leather.
The Deacon says things like "Shechem spake unto his father Hamor." And "I am he that liveth and was dead."
The Deacon is here to tell us about HE.
HE is the First and the Last. All Creation made HE, from the stern faced wooden Sun to the supercilious china Moon, from the paper Stars to the Comet with its shiny tin tail. All that surrounds us belongs to HE: the velvet hills, the crinoline sea. As we belong to HE.
HE was the original Craftsman. HE laid down strict rules about what every last leaf, insect, flower must be made of. HE bade each frond be curled felt, each katydid of tendrilous gossamer, each rose of just-so crinkled crepe. And HE made They Who Have Wires For Bones.
As the sun has two sides, painted and dark, so HE both made the world and sowed the seeds of our world’s end – in the beasts that prowl the edges, and in our wicked hearts. Among us, HE scattered the malformed and yes, of course the Deacon means Me, but he can’t tell what’s inside me by looking, he can’t tell I’m wicked, and that’s my salvation.
So far.
I can’t tell exactly what’s inside me either. I’d like to find out. I’ve got my Zipper undone about one quarter of the way.
The Zipper is a transverse fastener that runs from my solar plexus to the junction of the left thigh. The Deacon warns us against fooling with our Zippers. I don’t dare undo it all the way. But what I’ve found is simply marvelous. No wires, no bones. I’m stuffed with bright, vibrant reds and blues and golds. I am certain I’m the only one to be made thus, although I’ve never looked inside anyone else.
Father is coming. Father with his kindly brass mask. He smiles when the wooden sun rises, he’d smile if the world burned.
“The Deacon wants to see you, my child.”
I’m found out. The Deacon! He knows. I know he knows. Or thinks he knows. How? Maybe Shechem spake it unto Hamor or some such.
It’s me, or it’s them. The moment is here.
I’m calling the cat.
The cat is one of those beasts that runs around the edges of our world. Its body is a wad of felted wool. Its face is colorful gift paper, with worn ears and two almond-shaped beads for eyes.
The cat has a trick. When roused, its face erupts in flames. Somehow the cat is not consumed, but there is peril for anyone near.
Special patrols keep it away from our flammable houses, our chapel.
I’m made of bolder stuff.
The cat approaches, tempted by my pasteboard fish. I scoop him up, march into the church. Poor lonely beast, it comes willingly.
The Deacon’s back is turned. In sepulchural tones, he says:
“And to Bathsheba came Adonijah, son of Haggith.”
So he does know! He goes on about Elah drunk in the house of Arza, but I’ve heard enough.
The Deacon turns. He sees the cat. He intones:
“For Zimri was enraged, and set the aflame the citadel, and died.”
Here’s a kick for the cat. It yowls. Flames leap. The pews ignite.
The Deacon steps back. Too late, for that great black head is burning, burning.
From the church to the houses, from the crinkled trees to the cardboard sky, the fire eats all. I go among the ashes and the wisps of homes. I’m burning too, but I can burn longer than They Who Have Wires For Bones.
Father’s mask on a pile of ashes. It speaks.
“We’d have tried to understand, child. We’d have loved you no matter the stuff your bones were made of. O that you’d simply had faith in us.”
I’m a pillar of fire. I stride like Gargantua among the burnt. And now, a new marvel.
As these frail bodies turn to smoke and air, I see that not one of them has wires for bones. They have no wires for bones, they never did, nobody ever had wires for bones.
Of course, we don’t know the truth of our making until our unmaking, until we pass from this world.
In the sky, through haze, do I see a weeping face? Is that HE who loved this world, whose heart breaks to see it go?
Curse HE for making me. I know now that He put in me, not wires, not bones, but isolation’s sorrow, the pitch-soaked wood of woe. And this will sustain my burning till Time itself is folded up and put away with the curling paper stars.
Matthew F. Amati has done almost every job except waiting tables. He's worked as a farmhand, Mandarin Chinese interpreter, grocery stockboy, junior professor of Ancient Greek, and, briefly, Jerry Springer's assistant. He is the author of two novels, and about 50 or so short stories, many of which can be found linked on his diffidently-updated website: www.mattamati.com
