from
 THE HEART OF THE WORLD
Jared Smith

I dreamed back to the days of my childhood: the long summer days and nights, the quiet, peaceful evenings spent with Father amidst the crackling of the fireplace. He was a good man, all in all; I will never see his kind again. Of course we had our disagreements. Did not Icarus and Daedalus? You see, Father was a purist—he rejected words. He felt that miming was the only true form of expression, something that, when done with an artist’s touch, reveals more beauty and universal truth than anything else known to man. I agreed with his view, but at times I grew frustrated, for he required all household communication to be performed in mime. This led to utter disaster on more than one occasion. I recall, for example, the evening of my eleventh birthday, during which Father presented me with a sweatered dachshund. After quite a lot of miming on Father’s part, I learned that the dog’s name was Nutmeat. He was a timid and awkward creature (his previous owner had apparently been a taxidermist), and it was not until after dark and Father was asleep when I was at last able to show Nutmeat his own reflection in the mirror without him collapsing in a heap. After all of our hard work I thought we were due for a little distraction, so I removed Nutmeat’s sweater and dressed him in a miniature cassock (Father’s father was a midget priest), and after removing my shirt and wrapping my braided leather belt around my head, I began to play the part of Salomé, dancing the seven veils. Our little orgy must have gotten quite out of hand, for Father came storming into the anteroom where we were at play wearing only his knickers and soiled nightcap. He ripped the cassock from poor Nutmeat’s tender body, rendering him pale and shivering. At this point Nutmeat became afraid; his eyes widened, and he emitted a tiny, helpless squeal, his first utterance of the night.