The Wax Conspiracy

Onions don't grow here at all

"Think," he said. "Think about this one more time. Think about the last time this happen. How much mess you made, Katyusha." He checks the rear-view mirror. "We ride to fix it again."

Hours later the car pulls over one last time for the day. Destination: here. Their boots hit the gravel as they step out. The engine clicks down. They grab shovels from the backseat and walk toward the perimeter fencing, careful to leave only one and a half set of footprints between them.

"Many times I tell you already. Mole men is not growing from babies in ground. No more now," he tells her.

They pass the road sign marking the border of Anatolia. The sign is dinged with bullet holes and chipped away from rocks thrown at it over the years as cars kick up the gravel road. In an hour the sun will rise and the two of them will be gone.

"Father believes in the old country and the old ways," she said. "I do too."

They trek for a little while. Through the marsh, over quiet, around some graves. Before they're out of breath they stop. Destination: The other here. They can only find this spot fiddling with the Lipschitz continuity over a discontinued map. The errors on the map open up the true lines they need to follow.

Into the beds they only see holes leading into tunnels, dirt and soil otherwise sunken in.

"Gone," he says.

"Grown," she says.

They won't need their shovels after all.

Ethan Switch

Written on Monday, 8 June 2015

The Wax Conspiracy

Recently by Ethan Switch