Vivian and I | N. H. Van Der Haar

“It's about the beauty of failure. It's about that failure happens to all of us... every character is not only flawed, but sucks at what they do, and is beautiful at it... it shows that failure's funny, and it's beautiful and its life, and it's okay, and it's all we can write because we are big... failures” – Eric “Doc” Hammer on the themes in his work The Venture Brothers.

The year is 1925. Children ate their dinners silently at the kitchen table. Each with an individual set of metal cutlery. They did this without complaint. Outside, the older children carry their cutlery in the street to use as weapons. Those less violently inclined practice shaving arms, legs and faces in the reflection of their broken pieces of cutlery. Street dogs and feral cats eye them suspiciously, keen to keep themselves away from sharp objects that could inflict pain and death. Mirrors have become too expensive. I pick the corn we ate at dinner out of my teeth with my thumbnail. I ask Vivian if she had any other ideas.

The year is 2024. Men and women ate their kitchen tables for dinner. We refrigerate our children for their safety. Somehow, the people outside had developed the hobby of climbing the outside of buildings. A crowd assembles and cheers a shirtless figure scaling our apartment complex. Very carefully he begins to spray the window and wipe the grime away. Vivian and I danced on the folding bed in the spare room until the springs poked through and tickled our feet. Laying on my back, I asked Vivian if she had seen me age noticeably, but by then she left already.

The year is 1941. A Dutchman has been raised up high to the position of Pope. I couldn’t quite say why. Children have become the greatest stars of stage and screen. We shout in joy and tear our hair out in happiness when we watch them dance. They are all born with sensible names but are given foolish names when they first become celebrities. Names like the Amazing Burnley, Graffiti Bookmark and Bend-Back-Broken-Grinner-Bobby. Regardless, I spent the remainder of the year wandering from town to town selling French-language bibles, which are books civilians read on Sundays.

The year is 1776. Someone bombs a post office building in protest of the war in Poland. Perhaps it was in protest of the war on Poland. Some people cannot seem to make their mind up. According to the wireless, an elderly tabby cat died in the explosion. His small family holds a silent vigil in the ruined building. To cope, Vivian and I take public transport to get painful massages. Vivian still refuses to speak to me or return my deceased wife’s jewelry, so I sulk behind closed doors and pout over breakfast.

The year is 1290. The school reluctantly agrees to integrate. There were some protests, but things settled down when police served alcohol to the mobs assembled. Eventually, all soured with bad alcohol the protestors wandered through the streets, chatting idly to one another in alleys.

The year is 1167. My final Bishop takes your Queen. A common mistake. I wouldn’t hold it against yourself. With practice you could eventually beat me and after that we can do town hall competitions, if you like? Climb down from out there for goodness’ sakes! If you’re not careful, you’ll fall! Wouldn’t you like to powder my back?

The year is 1991. Children run through the lawn with their hands outstretched as if they are birds. A couple of them peck at the ground and shuffle like chickens. Vivian and I try our best to ignore them as we drink black coffee in the rain. The raindrops calm the heat of the coffee. It makes for an invigorating break. “What about some Oolong?” Whispers the potbellied frog on my shoulder. Silently, Vivian removes the skin on my shoulder and lays it gently on the ground. The frog skitters off the skin and disappears into the wet bushes. I try reach out to touch Vivian’s face, but my arm is not long enough. My joints pop and crack.

The year is 1555. Children populate our many ships of trade and war. With sharpened cutlery clenched between their crooked teeth and with parrots on their shoulders, they make brutal war upon the shipping lanes with little to no mercy. Those with coin to spend drink wine sitting down from crystal glasses. Those without drink vinegar mixed with disinfectant lying on their backs from waterproofed hats. This communal intoxication has produced a generation of ingrates, wetbacks, lay-abouts and ne’er-do-wells.

The year is 2001. Vivian slurs when they sing: “We don't do it… we just… talk about it!”. Their shirt is far too tight, they look awkward and constricted. Their left shoe is untied. An audience member climbs onstage to tie it. Backstage, children haul curtains and are a flurry of typical backstage activity. A trio of particularly mischievous children take turns sipping brandy from a flask. Eventually the crowd grows restless and begins to hurl wine glasses at Jagland, who dodges them only barely with the sway of his heavy hips. First aid is called when an elderly patron is hurled onstage by a pair of young ushers. Vivian and I go into the other theatre downstairs and watch the second act of the new musical Kicked out like a second-hand Virgin.

The year is 1388. I will not yield the floor. Regardless of what the bastards say. I speak despite my poverty, my lack of station and the dirty grime on my face. I raise up my hand. A half-dozen winged angels grip the fingers and tear it high above my head. Their faces remain passive as their long, serpentine tongues cover each digit tenderly as they tear my hand into a dozen, beautiful pieces. All those assembled, regardless of their opinion, are showered in a thin, dusting of my blood.

The year is 1081. In Constantinople, the Hagia Sophia trembles from the aftershocks of an earthquake. A roof tile falls and strikes a priest blind. People scream at passing clouds and swear an unending vengeance on one another. Vivian and I are long dead, stripped of our clothes by vandals, huddled together in a one-person coffin. Covering us both are pairs of spectacles and coffee grounds.

The year was 3002.

N.H. Van Der Haar is an autistic, queer writer who recently completed his master’s at the University of Melbourne. Previous work of his can be read at The Victorian Reader, Antithesis Magazine, and Farrago Magazine. They can be found online on Instagram: @avocado_cybernetico.