My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me by KATE BERNHEIMER Page B
Authors: KATE BERNHEIMER
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Rumpelstiltskin is hungry.
At the sandwich stand, he asks for peanut butter and jelly on wheat. Eating and hopping, he unwittingly lights on an anthill. It goes scattering ahead of him in a fine particulate brume. Half of Rumpelstiltskin lowers himself to the ground and sits with his haunch on his heel. He watches as ants swarm from the razed hill: they broadcast themselves in all directions, like bursting fireworks or ink on water. Within a matter of minutes, the tiny, volatile creatures have built a protective ring of dirt around the bore above their home. Half of Rumpelstiltskin finds the sight of creatures working as a collective a strange and unfamiliar one. It’s spooky and—for some reason—a little bit sad. Half of Rumpelstiltskin has trouble enough comprehending the nature of individuality without throwing intersubjectivity into the pot. Although he has unmade anthills on many, many occasions, Half of Rumpelstiltskin has never stayed to watch the ants rebuild. As a gesture of goodwill, he leaves them that portion of his sandwich he has not yet swallowed. If they can’t eat it, he thinks, perhaps they can build with it.
An abundance of drugstores lines the walk between the park and Half of Rumpelstiltskin’s home, and he stops at one along the way. There he purchases a chocolate bar, a bottle of apple-green mouthwash, and a newspaper from the metroplex across the river, the headlines of which affirm what he has long held to be true—that the world tumbles its way through political conventions, economic treaties, televised sporting events, and invasive military tactics in starving third-world nations with utter indifference to the inglorious fact of his half-existence. The stock market columns report that gold is down—straw way, way down.
Half of Rumpelstiltskin has poor depth perception. Hopping home, he trips over a concrete parking block.
1:25 P.M. He receives a Mad Libs letter from his other Half.
3 March
(year)
Half of Rumpelstiltskin:
Not much new here in .
(place where you are not)
The Queen has decided once again to levy a whole (term of derision) new batch of taxes—and guess who the (ironic adjective) victims are this time around: homunculi. That’s right. Miss has decided that the time is ripe to tax (what’s her name) , , , and (things) (other things) homunculi. And who’s the only homunculus on this whole (color) ? Me! Rumpel- - (land mass) (crude participial adjective) stiltskin . . . Sorry. Just need to vent some of my and (bodily organ) frustration. I should learn to control my temper—if there’s a moral to this whole affair, that must be it—but you know how it gets. , at least we’re not as bad as (tame interjection) . (fictional character renowned for losing his or her temper to no good end) Life on the personal front is no Life on the personal front is no (word that rhymes with letter ) than on the political. I’m still out of work—the (occupation) position fell through—and I’m on the outs with . (person you and I know who used to keep me from being lonely sometimes) Sometimes I wonder when and how it all turned so . (adjective expressing disconsolation)
When you get the chance, your half of this (direction) __to me, so I can find out what I’ve to me, so I can find out what I’ve (word that rhymes with better ) written. When the words won’t come to me, I figure they must be yours. I miss you and (subject) (verb) (object) (sad word) (sad, sad, sad, sad word)
All Right:
Half of Rumpelstiltskin
2:30 P.M. He delivers a speech to a local women’s auxiliary organization.
Half of Rumpelstiltskin stands at a lectern fashioned of fluted, burnished cherrywood and speaks on “The Birthrights of First-Born Children,” a topic in which he claims no small degree of expertise. Half of Rumpelstiltskin has had his fair share of ill-favored dealings with first-born children, particularly those of millers’ daughters. As he speaks, the
At the sandwich stand, he asks for peanut butter and jelly on wheat. Eating and hopping, he unwittingly lights on an anthill. It goes scattering ahead of him in a fine particulate brume. Half of Rumpelstiltskin lowers himself to the ground and sits with his haunch on his heel. He watches as ants swarm from the razed hill: they broadcast themselves in all directions, like bursting fireworks or ink on water. Within a matter of minutes, the tiny, volatile creatures have built a protective ring of dirt around the bore above their home. Half of Rumpelstiltskin finds the sight of creatures working as a collective a strange and unfamiliar one. It’s spooky and—for some reason—a little bit sad. Half of Rumpelstiltskin has trouble enough comprehending the nature of individuality without throwing intersubjectivity into the pot. Although he has unmade anthills on many, many occasions, Half of Rumpelstiltskin has never stayed to watch the ants rebuild. As a gesture of goodwill, he leaves them that portion of his sandwich he has not yet swallowed. If they can’t eat it, he thinks, perhaps they can build with it.
An abundance of drugstores lines the walk between the park and Half of Rumpelstiltskin’s home, and he stops at one along the way. There he purchases a chocolate bar, a bottle of apple-green mouthwash, and a newspaper from the metroplex across the river, the headlines of which affirm what he has long held to be true—that the world tumbles its way through political conventions, economic treaties, televised sporting events, and invasive military tactics in starving third-world nations with utter indifference to the inglorious fact of his half-existence. The stock market columns report that gold is down—straw way, way down.
Half of Rumpelstiltskin has poor depth perception. Hopping home, he trips over a concrete parking block.
1:25 P.M. He receives a Mad Libs letter from his other Half.
3 March
(year)
Half of Rumpelstiltskin:
Not much new here in .
(place where you are not)
The Queen has decided once again to levy a whole (term of derision) new batch of taxes—and guess who the (ironic adjective) victims are this time around: homunculi. That’s right. Miss has decided that the time is ripe to tax (what’s her name) , , , and (things) (other things) homunculi. And who’s the only homunculus on this whole (color) ? Me! Rumpel- - (land mass) (crude participial adjective) stiltskin . . . Sorry. Just need to vent some of my and (bodily organ) frustration. I should learn to control my temper—if there’s a moral to this whole affair, that must be it—but you know how it gets. , at least we’re not as bad as (tame interjection) . (fictional character renowned for losing his or her temper to no good end) Life on the personal front is no Life on the personal front is no (word that rhymes with letter ) than on the political. I’m still out of work—the (occupation) position fell through—and I’m on the outs with . (person you and I know who used to keep me from being lonely sometimes) Sometimes I wonder when and how it all turned so . (adjective expressing disconsolation)
When you get the chance, your half of this (direction) __to me, so I can find out what I’ve to me, so I can find out what I’ve (word that rhymes with better ) written. When the words won’t come to me, I figure they must be yours. I miss you and (subject) (verb) (object) (sad word) (sad, sad, sad, sad word)
All Right:
Half of Rumpelstiltskin
2:30 P.M. He delivers a speech to a local women’s auxiliary organization.
Half of Rumpelstiltskin stands at a lectern fashioned of fluted, burnished cherrywood and speaks on “The Birthrights of First-Born Children,” a topic in which he claims no small degree of expertise. Half of Rumpelstiltskin has had his fair share of ill-favored dealings with first-born children, particularly those of millers’ daughters. As he speaks, the
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