In one corner of her apartment sat an orange machete. In the other corner was a satin robe. The room was cramped, and there was no furniture, just objects. Vitty whizzed around the apartment each morning in the satin robe and swung the sword while singing an ode she wrote, an Ode to a New Day, she named it. The ode went as follows.
Light of each day,
Welcome me into your reach,
Sun of all mornings,
Fill me with your peachy brilliance
Sing your song with me!
The first syllable of ‘Light’ was drawn out, sometimes eclipsing 30 seconds. Her staccato streamed through the objects, giving life to each figure. Vitty had a pinching voice and on some mornings, with the windows open, passerby’s raised their shoulders to their ears after hearing her hanging voice, but this meant nothing to Vitty, who continued to sing.
Of course, no two mornings are alike, and when the temperature dropped or when no sun shone through, Vitty entered into a delirious sadness that could make even an apple frown. What’s worse is that Vitty would sing a different song on sullen mornings. It went as follows.
Why do the minutes torment me
And mock my very being
Clouded in anger is my heart,
My grievances are like an eruption
That buries ancient cities
And tears me at the bone!
It is such a sad song, and Vitty cried each time she reached the end, screaming ‘bone’ into every crevice of the room. On these mornings, the outside world saw little of Vitty, something that many appreciated while others lamented- notably the fish.
Oh she loved fish! And could you blame Vitty? Could you blame her at all? I think not, because no one in this small city cared for the fish in the park’s pond the way Vitty did. She hated cold and cloudy days. But today was not cloudy and after finishing her ode and tip toeing a pirouette, she changed out of her robe and into a dress dashing out the door and onto Freehill Ave. The dancing and pirouetting did not yield on Freehill Ave., nor down Shylot Way, a tip tap topped each block until she found herself at the pond in the Park.
Staring at the pond, Vitty looked into the only mirror she had and giggled at the leftover cream cheese that sat above her lip. A cackle rang out. Squirrels took shelter. Using her dexterous tongue she wisped the cream cheese away and entered the Pond.
Underwater, the fish filed into position. Maxim, the head honcho of this pond was feeling a little buggaly boo today, so Peter (a younger fish, considered by many to be Maxim’s top apprentice) led the formation that would welcome Mother Vitty into the pond. Upon seeing Peter, Vitty let out a proud cheer, because she had always loved Peter, even more so now that Peter demonstrated he was no tadpole. Mother Vitty floated at ease in the pond, with swarms of fish supporting her from below; she was able to glide around the pond as if skating on ice. Vitty cherished her relationship with the fish, and at the end of her gliding, she walked to the edge of the pond where the fish cheered her existence. Vitty smiled, and as expected, began to sing for this fish.
Oh how the fish loved the sound of Vitty’s voice. Some fish thought she was the greatest magician to live, other fish knew her as such. The song went as follows.
Lovely fish, creatures old as time
How I love to see you shimmer each day
In the ponds and oceans round the globe
You are the very reason I sing
The reason I live is found in your kindness
And I loathe to be without you
It was such a loving song, and the fish felt most alive in the midst of her bravado. But Vitty tired now after such a lovely outing and began to walk back to her apartment. She danced through the city, beaming all the way.
But upon arriving back at her apartment, Vitty noticed there had been a disturbance.
The objects told her so.
Vitty tiptoed to the corner of her room where the orange machete lie and gripped the handle. Her veins leaped through her tense body as she looked for clues. A great darkness blocked the sun, and while Vitty saw no one, a daring uneasiness overcame her.
Vitty started slashing her apartment to bits with her machete until there was nothing left but her satin dress. The darkness passed and light billowed.
Vitty put the machete down and caressed herself in the new warmth that flowed through her. Vitty tip tapped out of the apartment once again, streaming towards the pond, never to see land again.
Antony Ohman never considered running for president. Instead, he writes, takes photographs, sells books, and follows Boston sports with an unsettling passion.
"Untitled" by Antony Ohman