The Moustache by James Roderick Burns
1
IT WAS MAGNIFICENT – a matched pair of tremendous, vaulting walrus moustaches, trembling with wax and vigour, that graced the middle portion of a hipster’s face.
The moustache was a true thing of beauty, too resplendent to remain unaware – for long, at least – of the nobility with which nature had endowed it.
Soon, an idea arose amongst its sleek, black follicles: am I to remain a mere adornment, some static symbol of virility, shivering upon a weak and half-camouflaged lip?
He thought not!
Once the thought had arisen, there followed prompt and decisive action: first, strategic detachment, by night, from an unworthy host; a stern pulling up, root by root and sprout by sprout, into the heady air of freedom; last, swift removal to better climes through a forest of linens, a shabby lino sea and startled pet.
With the bang of a cat flap, he was gone.
2
The moustache rested on a park bench, mulling over his options by the light of a baleful moon.
To where, and to what, must he aspire?
His first leap, not too far and comfortable enough, was to an assistant manager’s office beneath lighted arches. Immediately he bristled with authority. The keys to the kingdom were his: two smart, puce short sleeved shirts, a clip-on branded tie and the wonders of the schedule. Teenagers scuttled, hither and yon, at his merest rustle. Yet he soon grew tired of the bustle, the incessant beeping, and discovered globules of fat adhering to his strands.
3
A second leap, then – though somehow arches remained. Perhaps he was fond of that gently-curving, nurturing shape.
He awoke nestled on the philtrum of a middle-aged man of the law. A winter’s night beside the tracks; a whistle yearning for air, a truncheon for the corrective kiss of skulls. Through long nights he directed one bloody hand after another through the gutters and poolrooms of the city.
But why, he realised, should he remain fixed, either in place or in time? Why serve such undistinguished masters? Rootlessness, after all, was no curse, but a blessing of sorts. Without thought, he sprang out and down – backwards, perhaps – and found his destiny, his apotheosis and forever home.
4
The room was dim, lit only by miserly candles, flaring here and there in the gloom; certainly not the light of kindness. In air stale, fetid with bodily effusions, each prick and spindle of his being exulted: look upon my kingdom, ye scoffers, and despair! He flared and rippled with delight. Before him in the workhouse lay an endless tide of misery, of stirabout and oakum and the vinegary sting of the lash.
Looking round, he stretched taut, took a bright, delicious anticipatory breath, and began work – separating mothers and children (each to their own dark, hopeless cage) with the sweet ease and satisfaction of a high lifted, waxy, ice-water parting.
James Roderick Burns is the author of one book of flash fiction, To Say Nothing of the Dog, and five collections of short-form poetry, most recently Crows at Dusk (2023).
Crows at Dusk is available to purchase from Red Moon Press – here
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