I disembark my boat.
I am far from home;
my beard is long, my hair is longer, and my eyebrows are thick.
I am slapping my feet on the concrete streetsโ
my arms flap in the wind like thrashing waves.
Towering skyscrapers cackle with a million mouths.
Cars honk nasally honks when I cross red lights,
cyclists slam grimy hands on their bike bells.
I shoot shards of glass laughter in response.
Ha,
ha,
ha.
This is the city I have traveled great lengths to find.
I round a dark corner
and arrive at the place of ferocious creatures,
wild and free. Their eyes are yellow like yolks,
and their claws are long and white.
Fangs jut out beneath their thin lips,
and horrible masses of hair shoot
off of their scalps. They roar
terrible roars and gnash
their rotten teeth. They roll
their terrible eyes and brandish
their terrible claws.
I stare straight into the yolks and shout,
โBE STILL!โ
The creatures tremble in fear
and place a yellow crown on my head.
This is my crew.
We prowl littered sidewalks
and hide in the shadows cast
by lanky streetlamps. We sort
through the trash and throw
moldy food at businessmen.
We are enacting the wild rumpus,
and then the rumpus enacts us.
I rarely think of home.
One day, the Sheepish One approaches me sheepishly.
โOh, Royal Highness, can we play in a jazz band?
That is all I have ever dreamed of,โ he pleads.
โWhat kind of king would I be
if I ignored the wishes of my dear followers?โ
We stalk the streets for an appropriate club.
Red and yellow lights flicker from beneath the street.
Soft music wafts up to me and my crew. Beating
drums meander and woosh, the sound of pine trees
being pushed aside. A saxophone travels down
the musical scale like dew dripping off a spiderโs web.
I motion for my wild creatures to follow me.
We descend the stairs
to enter the cramped and dingy club.
A band plays on a stage to the right of the bar.
A few characters sit around rickety tables:
an old man sipping on whiskey,
a grizzly bear picking lint off his fur,
and a family of five sitting with their hands clasped on their laps.
โWe have arrived,โ
I announce to the venue.
The audience turns to face us
while the jazz band continues to play.
I clear my throat.
โAHEM!โ
The band quiets.
โWe have arrived.โ
The performers mill
down the steps of the stage
and line up at the bar to order
Scotch whiskey.
I bang headlessly on the drum parts.
Bang,
bang,
bang.
The Scaled One growls into the mic,
the Beaked One smashes Three Blind Mice on the piano,
and the Sheepish One plays the saxophone,
the most hideous melody I have ever heard.
We play until all of our eardrums explode.
Then we bow and head out.
The night is warm and forgiving.
Through glass windows,
we watch waiters shuffle and sweep.
Mice scurry underneath garbage cans
and The Scaled One scoops one up.
It chitters in his palm.
He gives it a kiss,
releases it to the shadows.
I do not think of home.
I do not think of Mother.
Our days are long.
We prowl the streets,
raid the trash cans for food.
We play jazz as horribly as we can.
One boring evening,
I notice the Beaked One crying.
โTell me, what is wrong Beaked One?โ
I ask, curling my neck upwards.
He wipes away a tear.
โI am the only one with a beak.
All the others have glorious snouts or noses.
Why was I born so different?โ
I climb his feathered shoulders
and stroke his head.
โI am the smallest
and the only of our crew without fangs,
yet do you find me crying on boring evenings?โ
The Beaked One shakes his head.
โRejoice, for your differences make you unique.โ
I climb down the Beaked Oneโs shoulders.
I hesitate and readjust my crown.
โDo you have a mother, Beaked One?โ
He scratches his chin.
โI have never thought to think about it,โ
he declares.
โI have a mother. She sits all day, morose.
Only gets up to cook and clean.
If I spend too much time at home,
her apathy infects me like a virus.
I become slop, the ghost of the King I should be.โ
โIt sounds quite lovely to have a mother,โ
the Beaked One remarks.
He sticks his hands in his pockets.
A car flashes bright headlights
that land on his face, and I jump back.
In the light, his beak fades into an oozing wart.
His feathers transform into chest hair,
and his fangs into long teeth.
His yellow eyes are now red,
strained with exhaustion.
โYouโre rightโit is lovely,โ
I say. I smell chicken soup and butter cake.
โI think I must return home, my friend.โ
In my red sailboat with the yellow flag,
I cross night and day.
The skies are cross-hatched
and the waves lipsticked with white foam.
I fall in and out of weeks.
Salty, cool wind thrashes.
I too am cool,
standing tall in my fur suit
and velvety confidence.
I return to my room and find Mother and supper waiting for me.
Chloe Boccara was born and raised in New York City. She isย currentlyย a third-year student at Oberlin College, majoring in creative writing, French, and comparative literature. Her writing has appeared in theย Santa Clara Reviewย and theย Wilder Voice. One day, she hopes her writing will also appear in a novel. In her free time, she likes to rollerblade and collectย coolย teapots.
