They Had Goat Heads

They Had Goat Heads - By D. Harlan Wilson


6 WORD SCIFI


Mechanical flâneurs goosestep across the prairie.



THE MOVIE THAT WASN’T THERE


I go to a movie and notice I’m starring in it. I don’t remember shooting the movie, let alone auditioning for the part. I am not an actor.

Dénouement: A harmless kung fu demonstration threads into a hyperkinetic gorefest. I die, uttering tender, hopeful words into the ear of my wife. A touching moment, despite the impossible carnage distinguishing the scene. People cry.

Credits. Lights.

We file out of the theater and proceed to the cemetery in long silver Lincolns and Cadillacs.

A vast crane lowers me into a hole in the ground. Closed casket. Ribbons of film dangle from the lid, encircling the casket in a corona of celluloid.

The actress who plays an ingénue fatale in the movie gives the eulogy. “He w-was the only reel man I knew,” she whimpers, then makes a sex motion with her finger. The audience nods in painful understanding.

It is a long ceremony. And hot out. Sweat dribbles down my back. Countless grievers speak on my behalf, explaining that, aside from egregious shortcomings, I was a good man. One woman doesn’t say anything. She stabs herself, repeatedly, at least fifteen times, possibly more, blood spurting from the wounds, although I can tell she makes a calculated effort not to puncture any vital organs.

An ambulance arrives and two paramedics put her on a stretcher and take her away.

“F*ck you!” she shrieks—at me I think, but maybe not—as the doors of the ambulance slam shut.

Nobody leaves until I have been buried. Ennui.

The director shows up at the last minute, just in time to stomp the dirt into my grave. My wife accompanies him. She stands there quietly, staring at her toes.

A gravedigger passes out hors d’oeuvres on the silver platter of an overturned spade.

Chirping. Soft breeze. Smell of fresh air and green pastures. Everybody clasps hands. We run through a field of sunflowers, kicking up our knees. If we fall down, we lie there for awhile and observe the blue screen of sky.

[Insert solar eclipse.]

Dénouement: The reel belies the projectionist’s good intentions. It comes loose and he doesn’t know how to fix it. White screen. They blame me. And yet reviews of my actions are invariably positive. The only significant critique has to do with my physical stature, a body of lies that doesn’t adequately reflect the courage of my character.