Home

Cheateau Wichman by Ben Pease Back Forward

 

It was not unusual for many people's tolerance of alcohol to reach a point where they could see but no longer read, unfortunately it was the opposite for The Wichman. He craved lucidity though it was beyond him, he wished not just to master but to have such a complete domain over it he would seem its creator, its copyright holder: The Wichman would sue your ass if you even considered having a lucid thought of your own. Unfortunately The Wichman was all talk, all interior monologue. He lined his desk with dollhouse-sized busts of Apollo he found in the trash. The Wichman could not bear anyone, even if made of stone in one-quarter scale, gazing out at him the same way the bluebirds and cardinals on his windowsill eyed him as if he were a moving concoction of suet and sun-flower seed. The Wichman nonetheless with a sense he was on the verge of becoming his own little person, desired to flex his guns or be wronged in some way to justify a more errant manner of behaving.