Deadly Depictions

By Carolyn O’Brien

         “The leg bone’s connected to the knee bone, the knee bone’s connected to the thigh bone, the thigh bone’s connected to the hip bone, now shake dem skeleton bones.” Hank tugged the front door shut behind him while singing the lyrics to his favorite old spiritual song. He marched across the front yard, pausing near the fence that surrounded his house. He groaned as he sank onto one knee, professing his love for the sight before him. To his left, a dead bird lay swathed in a paper bag — the pieces of a bird.

          He gazed at the wooden plank of the fence, gliding his rough fingertips over the contours depicted on it. The curve of a bird’s head, the open beak, the dark, walnut streak arching downward from an opaque, chestnut brown sphere that represented the creature’s swollen breast. Strategically placed fissures in the timber signified the feathers of its wing. He brushed the image with the palm of his hand; the bird’s portrait forever engraved in its grave marker.

          Hank lowered his other knee and grasped the garden spade to his left. He proceeded to cut a patch of grass from the area at the base of the picket.

         “Need any help?”

          He was startled by the unexpected outburst from the pretentious ass looming over the fence. Mark usually did his jogging earlier.

          “Sorry, didn't mean to alarm you. I was having a late morning run, beautiful day.”

         Hank placed the grassy patch upside down on the lawn beside him. He tapped his specs on the bridge of his nose with his middle finger and said, “Found a dead bird on my doorstep this morning, probably a gift from one of the stray cats I feed. Just giving it a proper burial. —I think I could handle it.” Then he plunged the tool into the earth, scooping shovelfuls of dirt from the gravesite.

          “I’ll leave you to it then.” Mark trotted back to the road. He felt sympathy for the old man, most of the residents of Blackwood shunned him, calling him “bonkers” or “a real oddball” behind his back.

      When Hank was satisfied with the depth of the grave, he rested the garden spade on the lawn and picked up the morbid bundle. He gently placed the bird’s wrapped, dismembered carcass into the hole, filling the remainder of the shallow void with the extracted mound of dirt. After covering the soil with the grass rug, shifting his weight to pack it snuggly back into the earth, he wrestled onto his feet and took a few steps backwards.

          His head swiveled to the right, eyes fixing on the snake illustrated on another picket in the fence. He stepped closer, lightly caressing the image. Where others saw the circular pattern in the wood grain as the natural knot left behind by a severed tree branch, he was able to see the deliberate artwork of a coiled serpent, its neck extending, accented by a ‘V’ that denoted its forked tongue.

          He strolled onward. The next plank of lumber showed a replica of Golden Guy, the fish. A figure in the shape of a torpedo appeared to be jumping from a ripple on the surface of a pond. Squiggles on either side of the form exemplified splashes of water. He sighed; he actually missed the little fellow, but his death wasn't in vain, he told himself, he's been donated to science.

          He rounded the corner and walked past the gated entrance of the enclosure, his private pet cemetery, then paused. “Aw, Jerry the mouse. Your pointy nose, your round corkscrew ears, your delicate hooked feet.”

          Resuming his trip down memory lane, Hank turned to his right and focused on the board next to the corner beam. He smirked as he stroked the butterfly’s body, it stretched along the board like an elongated rubber band. The lovely insect’s wings were a series of arched contours growing in size, similar to the way sound waves are symbolized. That one was easy, he thought. He buried a butterfly from his collection, wrapping the pieces carefully in tissue paper before putting the delicate specimen in the ground.

          He shambled ahead several more paces and paused when he came upon the drawing of the hissing cockroach. Folding his arms on his chest, he gawked at the ladder of horizontal lines etched in the picket before him. His vision blurred as he recalled the moment he crossed paths with the filthy pest.

          It scuttled out from beneath the oven, scurrying so quickly across the hardwood floor, that the only way he could capture it was by stomping on it. Even then, he had to transfer his weight onto one leg to crack its tough armor. Its little helmet separated from its body, shooting across the room and rolling under the refrigerator. After wiping its viscera off the bottom of his shoe, he folded the disposable towel, then gathered the pieces of the critter, and put everything in an empty matchbox, burying it below its likeness in the fence until the creatures from outer space seized it from beneath the ground.

          He sauntered toward the back of the house and stopped when he noticed the burnt silhouette of an inverted lightbulb blemishing one of the boards. He ran a finger along each of the eight curved streaks that sprouted from it like rays of light. “No, not a light bulb, a spider." Directly below the spider was the sketch of a snail. He swiped his thumb across its chubby little body and traced the spiraling shell it carried on his back with his fingernail. The shed at the edge of the forest was sure to house plenty of spiders.

          He ambled toward the fence gate, sweeping it across the uneven blades of grass as he swung it open, then dashed across the uneven terrain to the dilapidated structure. As he stood silhouetted in the doorway, sunlight leaking through the walls of warped boards, he spied something crawling along the windowsill. Upon closer inspection, he was able to identify it as a wolf spider. Cupping the delicate and harmless creature in his hands, he returned to the cottage.

          The spider trapped within his laced fingers; he spun around and rested his back against the door. Turning the knob with his elbow and backing into the small vestibule, slamming the door shut with his hip. Hank hurried to the bedroom. He dropped the creature into an open jar he kept at the bottom of his closet. It was the “kill jar,” a jar any serious butterfly collector would possess. He carried the jar to the kitchen and set it on the counter before snatching the bottle of ethyl acetate from the shelf above the kitchen sink. After thoroughly saturating a few cotton balls and tossing them in the glass container with the arachnid, he sealed the tomb. “There you go buddy.”

          He then sat down at his desk and pried open his laptop to research how he could easily find a snail. “Let’s see, we have, looking for terrestrial snails, aquatic snails, catching snails, lure snails out of hiding, common snail habitats, create a snail hiding place.” He cleared his throat, “Search at the optimal time. Looks like I’ll have time for a nap.”

***

          The sun had gone down by the time Hank woke. He grabbed a flashlight from the bedside table before heading out the back door. He strolled towards the old shed where he lifted some fallen, splintered boards, rolled boulders and scraped aside moist leaves.

          Eventually, a silvery slime trail reflected off the yellow beam from the flashlight. It meandered along the thick root of a tree. At the end of the trail, a snail squirmed amidst the damp debris. Hank picked it up by its cone-shaped shell and rushed back to the house, thrusting open the door with his free hand and resting the snail in the kitchen sink.

          He hurried to the bedroom, this time withdrawing a shoe box from the closet. He set it near the occupied kill jar on the kitchen counter. From the box, he extracted a mask and gloves, putting them on as if he were preparing to perform surgery. He produced a pair of forceps, using them to remove the motionless spider from its chamber. After laying the deceased arachnid on top of the tissues in the half-used tissue box, he dropped the snail into the jar. “You won’t feel a thing. Another cotton ball for good measure.”

          Hank’s head jerked upward when he heard a knock on the door. He put the sealed jar on the shelf next to the bottle of ethyl acetate, they would be obscured by the hanging cabinets that divided the kitchen from the living room. He threw the forceps into the copper sink and stuffed his protective gear into the pottery that held some large utensils. After surveying the room one more time, he ambled to the door, taking a moment to compose himself before wrenching it open.

          It was a young woman. She said that she had heard about Hank’s compassion toward the hungry stray cats in the area. “Twyla, one of my cats, wandered off. I haven't seen her since last night. Maybe you've seen her?” She held out a flyer with the cat’s photo on it.

          Hank took the flyer, and while he studied it, noting her name and phone number, took a few steps back, making room for the woman to enter. She hesitated. “Is Twyla here,” she asked.

         He looked up at the woman. “Oh, no, sorry. But I do recognize her, and I expect she will be coming around anytime now along with another group of cats I've been feeding.”

          She entered the cabin, flinching at the sound of the door shutting behind her. Hank slid a chair from a table in the center of the room, gesturing for the woman to sit. She shuffled nearer, clutching her handbag close to her body.

          “As you know, I'm Hank — and you are Lydia.”

          The woman stared blankly and then said, “Yes, Lydia, my name and phone number are on the flyer.”

          “What a lovely name, it's a pleasure to meet you Lydia,” he took her hand and bowed his head before strolling past the cabinets to the stove. Filling the kettle with water, he offered her some tea before saying, “I don’t get many human visitors. I assume you live near-by?”

          “My five cats and I recently moved into the stone cottage beyond the hill.” Lydia's eyes darted to and fro. She fidgeted in her seat. “Shouldn't you put food outside? — For the cats.”

          “The cats will scratch at the door when they arrive. I wouldn't want the other woodland creatures to eat all the food before they get here.”

          The kettle whistled and Hank prepared two mugs of tea. He took the ethyl acetate from the shelf and covered his nose and mouth with a dish towel as he drizzled a bit into one of the cups. Navigating over to the woman, he offered it to her.

          The woman accepted the tea from Hank, her hand trembling. She just couldn't relax. And she wondered why she was being so paranoid. The man feeds stray cats; how bad could he be? She sniffed. “Do I detect a hint of alcohol?”

          “I added a few drops of Chambord liqueur, I hope you don't mind.”

           She took a sip and gave an approving nod.

           “I’m a butterfly collector,” Hank said. “It is a very intricate process. I’ve learned a lot about the practicality of every part of the butterfly. —You know, —I believe they chose me because of my knowledge.”

          The woman raised an eyebrow and swallowed audibly. “They? — Did you win an award or something?”

          “What? — Oh — yes, something like that.”

          “Good for you.”

           Hank prattled on. “Did you ever look at a piece of cut wood and see an abstract picture embedded in the grain?” He didn’t wait for an answer, nor did he expect one, Lydia appeared to be a little woozy. “Most people think the images are natural and coincidental. I, however, understand that they are deliberate sketches; one of the ways extraterrestrials communicate with us. The fence surrounding my house is strewn with their graffiti. They are asking me to help them learn the anatomy of beings on this planet.

           During his speech, Lydia fell unconscious. Hank hobbled to where the woman slumped and lifted her out of her chair, cradling her limp body in his arms. He sighed, and carried her to the bedroom, laying her on the duvet spread across the mattress. It suddenly occurred to him that he did not have a Plan B.

          Dashing back to the kitchen, Hank commenced with detaching the legs from the spider. He used a paring knife to separate the figure eight formed by the abdomen and the head, dropping the ten pieces in a small manila envelope.

          He tapped on the jar, the shell of the snail clinking as it hit the edge of the glass. After dumping the contents into the sink, he proceeded to remove the shell of the mollusk from the foot. He severed the head, meticulously detached the upper and lower tentacles, and after cracking the shell in half with a nutcracker, he put the pieces in a second envelope. Then he cleaned up and went to bed.

          In the morning, while humming the tune to DEM BONES, Hank buried the grim packages containing the creepers in a single plot below their likenesses in the fence. He lifted his head and squinted at the old shed. From where he crouched, he could clearly see the portrait of a human face adorning one of the walls: Two almond-shaped eyes, a lengthy and rather pronounced streak, like an aquiline nose between them. A horizontal split in the lumber signified parting lips according to Hank. It was like a portrait on a mausoleum.

           Lydia was his first attempt at a human jigsaw puzzle, but once he noticed her prosthetic leg, he knew his superiors would not be happy. He needed a complete specimen. After she finally awoke from her comatose state, apologizing for having a panic attack and blacking out, Hank made the decision as to who he would now use for the human model. He sat near the table in the center of the room, his eyes fixed on the axe beside the door. Mark would be stopping by soon with the newspaper from town.

***

           The extraterrestrials observed Hank via one of the many screen monitors lining the walls of the rocky cavern on another planet. He was one of the several individuals they counted on to provide them with samples of the life forms on Earth. He was about to supply them with a complete prototype of the human body. It was the best way to ascertain an accurate replica of the beings. Once they perfected the change over to the citizens of Blackwood, another tiny corner of the planet called Earth would be theirs.

End