《The Fable of Aesop》 Dads funeral Ace didn¡¯t cry at his father''s funeral. He barely even knew the man, let alone the litany of estranged family members that peppered him with condolences and hugs. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry for your loss,¡± a woman claiming to be his aunt Rita said, staring at Ace with sad eyes behind tear-tracked eyeshadow. She probably wasn¡¯t lying about her name, but he just didn¡¯t know these people. Don¡¯t be, he wanted to say, no loss on my part. But instead, he gave a sincere-looking smile and thanked her. ¡°It¡¯s so good to see you,¡± some cousin or another told him through fake-looking tears, ¡°I just wish it were under better circumstances.¡± It¡¯s fine as is, he wanted to say, at least I don¡¯t have to think of conversation topics. But instead, he smiled and shook his cousin''s hand with an empty promise to reconnect later. ¡°Your father was a great man,¡± a skeleton of a woman told him with snot and tears streaming down her face as she draped herself over Ace. His paternal grandmother, he realized. ¡°I just wish he had been a better father.¡± Oh fuck you, Shannon, he burned to say, to scream in her thin, lying skull-face. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to fling the scrap of a woman off him, heedless of whether or not he would set off another funeral when her fragile form smashed on the floor. Instead, he returned the ¡°hug,¡± giving her a few half-hearted pats on her bony back, muttering some well-to-do nonsense. He barely even knew what he was saying. ¡°He did his best,¡± Ace had said. The lie tasted sour, but at least he could stop the stream of mucus and tears from dripping on his shoulder. His grandmother smiled with the sad eyes of a mother who had outlived her child, weakly squeezed him on the arm, and said some more well-wishing, woe-is-me ¡°pleasantries,¡± before moving on to more receptive shoulders to cry on. He hadn¡¯t felt any need to look at the body, but in front of the open casket seemed to be the only open space in the room. He looked down at the tree the apple had fallen from, the eyes closed and hands clasped peacefully around its abdomen. People had said he looked peaceful, at least, but all Ace saw was a stranger''s corpse, and he didn¡¯t much care whether it was peaceful or not. It looked gaunt, in fact, the sockets sunken in and skin even closer to the skull than the old bag. Ace was no expert, but its makeup looked wrong, somehow, something about the shading made it look even more dead than it was. The polished oak wood of the casket caught his eye, the brass handles gleaming in the harsh lights of the funeral home. Expensive casket, cheap morticians, Ace mused to himself. It was the kind of state-of-the-world trite nonsense that rose to the surface during events like this. Maybe following the rituals stripped away the higher thoughts, and every remotely clever thought that could be thought had to revolve around the center of attention. A narrowing of the mind. Mental tunnel vision. Ace let out a quick breath from his nose. Not quite a laugh, but the closest he had come to feeling anything all night. Closest to feeling anything in weeks, if it came down to it. Years, even. Come to think of it, Ace wasn¡¯t sure if he had ever felt much of anything. He hadn¡¯t felt anything when he was six and his father left him a note explaining how he wouldn¡¯t be around for a while. Or when he was ten and realized a while meant forever. Ace felt especially numb when he found out what he had left for him in his will. There was no reading of the will, as movies had braced him to expect, just a business-like call from a lawyer informing Ace of his loss and windfall, in that order. If his father hadn''t left Ace the farm, there was a good chance he¡¯d never even know the old man died. ¡°Old man,¡± was a misnomer. His father wasn¡¯t old in the grand sense; late-forties, but Ace was twenty-five himself. He looked ancient in the box, but that still had something to do with the makeup shading. Whoever the makeup artist was, Ace half-hoped they would be fired. The other half wanted them to go on to make more bodies look unnaturally dead. To continue this deader-than-dead sorcery so no one would ever remember their family members peacefully at rest. To ensure the dead lived on as corpses in the minds of the living. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Ace rubbed his eyes. The harsh lighting was getting to him, and the unlively company wasn¡¯t helping either. He was about to turn and walk off when he felt a hand on his shoulder. ¡°It¡¯s a tragedy, isn¡¯t it?¡± Ace followed the hand and saw it was attached to a young woman, maybe two years his junior. She had long blonde hair, a sharp nose with otherwise soft features, and dark brown eyes. The same color as his own. ¡°That big fancy box, and they can¡¯t even get the makeup right.¡± She had thought he was crying, wiping away a tear rather than rubbing life back into his eyes. And she had played it off as a joke. Not only that but one based on an observation he had made himself. Ace couldn¡¯t help himself, he honked out one sharp laugh. From his perspective, he sounded like a wounded goose, but the young woman only smiled. ¡°You have his laugh too, huh?¡± She asked with a curled smile. Ace coughed and composed himself, trying to ignore the gaze of all the grievers who looked over to find the dying bird they all heard. ¡°My mother used to tell me that. When I was younger, I practiced and practiced until I could laugh like a person. The real one still comes out from time to time though, especially when someone hits the right mark.¡± He looked her in the eyes, ¡°Well done, hasn¡¯t happened in months.¡± She smirked and mimed a slight curtsy. ¡°I had to do the same thing, now I can giggle like a schoolgirl on cue. I knew laughter was contagious, but I didn¡¯t realize it was genetic too.¡± Genetic? Somewhere deep in Ace¡¯s brain, a nickel fell into its slot, and the pieces came together. ¡®You have his laugh too.¡¯ ¡°You¡¯re my sister, aren¡¯t you?¡± He asked with an arched eyebrow. She beamed. ¡°Guilty as charged, one of them at least.¡± She offered her hand for a shake. ¡°I¡¯m Autumn, you¡¯re Aesop, right?¡± Ace grimaced, but still took her hand and gave it a limp shake. ¡°I go by Ace. It¡¯s nice to finally meet one of the other wild oats. How many was he up to? Eleven?¡± Autumn smirked, then glanced at the shell that used to be their father. The smirk did not survive for long. ¡°Thirteen, the last two were twins. They didn¡¯t come. Most of the mothers didn¡¯t.¡± Mine didn¡¯t. She had been dead for six years, but Ace knew she wouldn¡¯t have come even if his father had croaked first. ¡°I wish I hadn¡¯t,¡± Ace said. He caught a flash of disappointment in his half-sister¡¯s eyes and scrambled to amend himself. ¡°Not that it isn¡¯t good to see everyone. I probably would have never met anyone here if it weren¡¯t for the man of the hour. Besides¡­¡± He trailed off, staring into the distance for what felt like an eternity. ¡°¡­ You didn¡¯t have much of a choice,¡± Autumn finished for him. Ace snapped back to reality and looked at her, eyes narrowed. ¡°What?¡± He asked, still confused. ¡°He left you the farm, right? Kind of have to show up when you get that kind of parting gift. From what I hear, Dad could never make it grow anything but weeds, but the house is big and land is still land. What was it? Eleven acres?¡± ¡°Thirteen.¡± A smile started to creep across Aces¡¯ face, ¡°The last two acres were twins.¡± Life tended to line up that way, a sort of balance. His father had left behind thirteen children and thirteen acres, and, at the very least, that merited a polite chuckle. The well-practiced hums that formed a semblance of a laugh, one that hadn''t failed him yet. He was delighted to hear the schoolgirl giggle of his sister, as honed and measured as his own, a feminine reflection of himself. A realization dawned on him, and he felt his face slip back into that neutral position it spent so much time in, the ¡°laughter¡± abruptly cut off. ¡°Something wrong?¡± his sister looked genuinely concerned, an expression he could never quite manage. ¡°N-no,¡± he stammered, looking again at the husk they both called a father, ¡°It just occurred to me that he might have had to learn how to laugh too. I''m not sure either of us will ever know how much like him we are.¡± His sister smiled but shook her head. ¡°He never faked his laugh, it was either the strangled goose or nothing. From what I''ve heard, the only consistently good thing about him was the unabashed way he lived. He was who he was and refused to be anyone else, even when it was to his detriment,¡± she looked at the corpse and arched an eyebrow, ¡°especially then. He wasn''t afraid of himself,¡± she smiled. It was the most honest smile Ace had ever seen. ¡°I hope my kids say the same about me when my time comes.¡± Ace¡¯s smile didn''t feel a fraction as honest as hers, but he meant every bit of it. ¡°I hope so too.¡± The farm ¡°There are six bedrooms and four bathrooms,¡± the lawyer squinted at his documents as though they held high wisdom between the lines of drivel Ace knew flooded the paper. ¡°Wait, no. There are three full bathrooms and two half¡­ but six toilets?¡± Ace almost wished he cared, the lawyer was running some heavy mental arithmetic. ¡°It seems the master bathroom has back-to-back toilets, separated by a wall of course. Oh- there are even landline phones connected to both alcoves. Granted, they''ve been disconnected for well over a decade, but still an¡­ interesting addition.¡± Ace hummed atonally as they toured the house, vaguely suggesting interest when he couldn''t care less about his father¡¯s toilet phones. His toilet phones, he reminded himself, all of this was his now. The creaking boards in the foyer, the odd bathroom count, the goats and the pigs, the chickens and the ducks, the responsibilities he never asked for, and never wanted. At least there weren''t any direct neighbors. A couple lived a half mile down the road, no children, but six dogs and a pair of donkeys, and a town whose name he had already forgotten four miles past them. He rode through on his way to the farm, but nothing caught his eye beyond the antique shop at the far end of it. Colter, that was the town, and that shop held the same name; Colter Antiquities. Ace had always liked antique shops, every item they sold had real history, from the vinyl records to the rusted gardening equipment to the dusty old books. Real things that had a real impact on real people''s lives. Ace caught himself chewing on the skin around his thumbnail as they exited the house to examine the rest of the property. A nasty habit, one he thought he had kicked in high school. He had already chewed a flapping hangnail and decided to sheer it off with his incisors rather than let it catch and give pain later. He idly chewed the chunk of skin as he tuned back in to the lawyer''s incessant droning on. ¡°The property consists of three major plots: the main house, warehouse, and pack house, one four-acre plot fenced off and split down the middle with a pole barn along the length, and a six-acre plot fenced off between two pole barns behind the structures. Oh, and a square pole barn in the middle of it where a bulk of the chickens roost.¡± The lawyer looked up from his documents for the first time since they started the tour. ¡°The chickens free-range across the property, we tried to fence them in while we were managing the property over the last two weeks, but¡­ well¡­¡± ¡°They can fly,¡± Ace finished for him. The lawyer had this anxious kind of smile with eyes to match behind square lenses. He was his father''s go-to lawyer, usually dealing with his DWIs or helping him dodge child support. This close relationship ended up burdening the lawyer with the role of caretaker for the property until Ace could claim it for his own, a role he was ill-suited for, to say the least. A pipe cleaner with glasses, that¡¯s what he was. Ill-suited to deal with anything bigger than a hypoallergenic cat. ¡°Yes¡­¡± the pipe cleaner said. He looked on the verge of tears. ¡°They can fly.¡± They stared at each other. Or, more accurately, Ace stared at the lawyer trained to maintain eye contact, being a lawyer and all. Two professional liars, one for profit and one for survival. Ace couldn¡¯t say how long they stayed that way, but a roosters crow snapped some life back into the lawyer. Ace was unmoved. The pipe cleaner held out a monogrammed pen in one hand and the documents in the other. ¡°If you would please sign here, ownership of all this will be transferred to you.¡± Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. Ace stared at him for a moment longer, letting the pipe cleaner feel the weight of the expensive pen he held out. He judged it perfectly, and when the anxiety in the lawyers'' eyes turned to fear of being stuck with this farm, he spat out the chunk of skin onto the grass, and grabbed the pen and documents, to the lawyers'' great relief. He stared at Ace dumbly for another moment until Ace twirled the pen, and he understood the signal to turn around. He laid the documents on the lawyers¡¯ back, pushing slightly harder than necessary as he signed his name. His full name. The one he never used if he could help it. When it was done, he clicked the pen closed and the lawyer turned back around, reaching for the papers and pen. Ace handed over the documents but pocketed the pen, leaving the lawyer with one arm still outstretched for an awkward moment. The arm snapped back to the lawyers¡¯ side. The pen wasn''t worth it. Ace felt a tinge of pride. Maybe I¡¯ll get it mounted. ¡°Thank you so much for your time,¡± the pipe cleaner stood a bit taller now, unburdened by what was now Ace¡¯s responsibility. Asshole. ¡°I must be going, I have to get these notarized before five,¡± he gestured with the papers and started toward the driveway. He suddenly stopped and patted his suit pockets. He seemed to find what he was looking for and came back to Ace holding it. ¡°I almost forgot, your father had a study attached to the garage. He left it locked and made it very clear in his will that no one was to have access but his heir under threat of postmortem legal action,¡± the pipe cleaner leaned in close. He smelled like plastic. ¡°He snuck that into everything, if we opened it at all our firm would have had to shell out six figures to a charity of his choice. It would have been good PR, granted, but¡­ you know.¡± He was holding out a key. Nothing special about it, just simple brass on an empty keyring. Ace accepted it. Anything to get him gone. It felt heavy. He knew his father had been less than forthcoming with his personal life, but Ace thought he had told his lawyers everything, that was the only way for them to do their job as well as they had. To think he hid something, let alone a whole room from them even after death was¡­ disconcerting. Not surprising, but still. He looked back at the lawyer planning to give a hollow thanks, but the pipe cleaner was already halfway to his car. Ace was slightly pleased he didn''t have to deal with him any longer, but slightly disappointed he couldn''t get the last word in. He planned on using the same ¡°thank you¡± he used at the DMV last spring after that two-hour wait. The one with the head tilt, the small smile, and the slight widening of the eyes, the one that scared that woman so much she watched him all the way back to his car through the window. He had looked back at her before getting in, giving a slow wave with just his fingers. He came back a week later and sat in the waiting room, just wanting to see her and be seen by her. He never saw her again. She had resigned after he left the first time. Ace thought about this as the lawyer drove away. If the pipe cleaner ever came back, he¡¯d greet the man with that look. No I won¡¯t, it doesn¡¯t work as an opener. Over the years he had crafted a slew of facial expressions for every occasion, all practiced to perfection, and timing was everything. One doesn¡¯t bring their queen out in the first turn. All this fantasizing about small future victories was well and good, but like it or not there was work to do. Animals to feed. Lives to care for. What a drag. Feeding time The law firm kept the feed barrels in the pasture filled, so Ace didn¡¯t have to lug any bags from the barn. The goats and a few chickens swarmed Ace as soon as he crossed the gate, curious, but mostly hungry. There were twelve of them, a mostly even split of gray, black, and brown. One of them, white with a few black spots, stood away from the rest, a female. They all followed him on his way to the feed pen, watching him intently as he filled the bucket with their feast. He waded through them to the bowls strategically placed around the chicken coops, all of them competing for the first bite of food to hit the bowl. He had to pour the feed right over one of the black and white ones head. A few goats and chickens stayed at each bowl, so each was easier than the last. When his bucket was empty, that white-with-black-spots goat came close and looked at him. Right in his eyes. ¡°Go on,¡± Ace gestured to the five full bowls. ¡°Plenty to eat.¡± The goat just looked at him. She bleated softly, and stepped a bit closer. She was a pretty little thing, cute for a goat. Ace was overcome with a strange urge. He knelt down, and the goat came closer. He¡­ scratched the goat behind the ears. She leaned into it, forcing him to scratch her between the horns. He found himself enjoying it, calling her a ¡®good girl¡¯ in the process. He rubbed her neck and found she was wearing a collar. It had a name tag. ¡°Greta, huh?¡± The name suited her. He patted her on the neck and stood. ¡°I¡¯ve got to tend to the birds now, girl. Go on and eat.¡± He gestured to the feed bowls again. She looked over, then looked back at him and bleated. Ace shrugged and went on with the task, he still had to check the water and feed the chickens. The water bowls for the goats were all around the pump, mostly full and clean, but it was a hot day, so he topped them all off anyway. Greta was still lingering, only a step away. She followed him to the chicken pen, but he managed to keep her outside the gate. He topped off the two gravity-fed water jugs and gave the fifty-five gallon blue barrel in the center of the pen a couple kicks. It had four PVC fittings sticking out at even intervals near the bottom, allowing food to drop down as they ate, but the lawyer had told him that hollows tended to form, and a couple kicks made everything drop into place. He took off the lid and took some feed with the scoop that was left inside for the ducks. He had to squeeze through the barely-open gate just to keep Greta from going in. He latched the gate back and looked at her. She looked at him, then to the scoop of feed in his hand, then back to him and stomped her front hoof. Ace couldn¡¯t help himself, he smiled, just a little. He poured out some of the feed for her, and she wasted no time gobbling it up. There were only a few ducks anyway, they probably didn¡¯t need a full scoop. With Greta distracted, it was easy entry to the duck pen. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. The feeding part was easy, just pour the feed into a bowl, easy as pie, but the water was a different story. Ducks are waterfowl, and their instinct whenever there¡¯s water is to go for a swim, which is why they had a little kiddie pool in addition to their water bowl. That was all well and good, aside from the fact that ducks also use both of them as toilets. He dumped out the bowl, and it was at least half duck shit. The pool was even worse. He rinsed them both out and refilled them, knowing perfectly well he would have to do it all again tomorrow just so they don¡¯t die of dysentery. Ace had learned early in life the importance of not shitting where you ate, but the ducks clearly had no such education. He could already tell this would always be his least favorite part of feeding time. With everyone fed, the only thing left was to collect the eggs. He had no idea what he was going to do with them, but he couldn''t let them build up or else they¡¯d start to hatch, leaving him with even more birds to deal with. It was free breakfast, he supposed, but fried eggs would get old quick, and he usually skipped breakfast in any case. The idea of finding someone to sell them to sickened him; the only saving grace of this place was how far removed it was. He had no idea what he would do with the farm. He could sell it and the animals and float around for a few years until he found someplace that suited him, someplace away from people where he wouldn¡¯t have to rely on anyone but himself. A place a lot like the farm, for that matter. Maybe he could just stay there, find a way to make a meager living. Maybe try to get some part time work at that antique shop, just to earn enough to pay the bills and keep himself and the animals fed. Ace didn¡¯t have expensive tastes, and there were worse places to settle down. He might get away with talking to as few as five people a week. The only time he had ever been able to do better than that was when he ran away when he was fourteen, camping in the woods for two months before getting sick of eating squirrel. He had come home and sat at the dinner table as if nothing was wrong, and his mother never said a word about it. He still wasn¡¯t sure if she even noticed he left. A sharp peck to his hand snapped Ace out of his introspection. One of the hens was exceptionally broody, defending eggs she sat on with rage and fervor. She was still a chicken, and didn¡¯t have much force behind her even with all her strength, but even still there was a red mark where she landed her strike. He decided then he liked this chicken. She had shiny black feathers and glared at him with beady red eyes, hatred burning behind them. Ace had a small smirk on his face as he distracted her with one hand and scooped the eggs out from under her with the other, deftly stealing her eggs and depositing them into the bucket. The chicken gave a sharp bok and gave him a dirty look as he exited the coop, his smirk growing just a touch wider. Greta greeted him outside the door, the rest of the goats having finished their feed and moved on to grazing the field. Ace felt that smirk grow even wider, dangerously close to evolving into a smile. He knelt down and scratched her behind the ears as she stuck her head into the egg bucket, hoping to find more food. ¡°You¡¯re a funny one, Greta. Maybe I¡¯ll stick around just for your sake.¡± Her head popped out of the bucket and she looked him in the eye for a breathless moment. She bleated, then nudged her head against his hand, commanding him to keep scratching her. He obliged.