Lifpprnk by Loan Antoci

I was born the same day my father, the writer Johnny Action, decided to take his life. He was writing in a new journal his last words when the happy event took place. “November the first. There is no way back. This journal, these words, this graphite and this lifpprnk – here I am – are the last things I’ll ever see”. Between me, lifpprnk, and the rest of the words, my father changed the pencil.

As any other things in this world, I was born by mistake. A farce of fate; an unfinished word, with a graphite body shaped by the broken tip of an old pencil; brought here to witness this tragedy.

My father was preparing his pistol to blast his forehead. No emotions on his long face. Eyes lost behind some stupid glasses, a nose that separates the apparently smart gaze from the rest, a mouth that never really laughed and a chin engulfed in a jungle of gray hair. No resemblance to me.

My father armed the weapon. I jumped out the page right in the mouth of the muzzle, determined to stop him. The gun was no better. A Colt used in different wars and quarrels by his grandfather, rusted and with one chamber loaded with a blank bullet; a hope in the dark tunnel of gun powder. In my childish despair, another bullet waited on the mark, a good bullet, my nemesis.

The writer, lacking any originality, put the muzzle against his cheek, then underneath the bearded chin. Left facing darkness and death inside the muzzle, I decided to go towards the chamber where all the bullets waited for the big chance to be fired.

After a few steps, I discovered a hole in the iron barrel that led deep in the handle of the gun. I crawled like a nasty worm, scratching my body against the ruthless metal, in search for an escape.

Stepping in to the light few moments later, I found my father with the pistol against his chin writing something on a small piece of paper. That was my chance to stop him. Sliding on his finger, I stuck on his nail, rubbing my head on the keratin surface.

Johnny Action winced. The pistol reached the table, the hand grabbed the piece of paper and the mouth, that mouth which never laughed, started to chew cellulose. I admired the spectacle from the highest place possible: the nose. The happiness didn’t last. It never lasts as much as we want.

Johnny Action put his pistol against his forehead. He inspired the air, the air and me. A tornado snatched me from the peak and flown through the unpleasant cavern of my father’s nose.

I was not familiarized with the biological wonders of the human nose so I spare you with the details. In the end, I wake up mingled with different entities of varying degree of liquids, embraced by cellulose ball stuck in front of a little bell, dangling on the ceiling of a white colonnade. I started to regret the coldness of the gun barrel when that sticky ball heated and swelled, hitting the bell.

Human being is not a pleasant view, especially when you look from inside out. I like the crispness of minerals, the roughness of winds and the silence of immortals. Still, I had a moral mission: to save my father. I have made a plan. My father had another.

The cellulose ball stopped. Disgusted green lava emerged from behind the bell, pushing the sticky ball along the colonnade.

I danced, yelled, rolled, drowned and, finally, came out the mouth in the last moment. The green lava seized the gun and my father’s hand while I stood proud on top of the cellulose ball.

I have managed to save my dad! While cleaning myself, I waved to him. But Johnny Action took the cellulose ball and loosed it up. With tears and soft hand touches, he cleaned the cellulose ball.

But I stayed glued to that piece of paper and I grabbed her with such despair until my union with the rest of the written letters was inseparable: “I h ve lo ed you, my de r lifpprnk, and you   ed me”.

My father’s eyes grew like onions. The mouth that never laughed whispered curses, called me names for covering his beloved written words with my misspelled unfinished letters.  Don’t judge me too harshly, father, I whimpered. It was the best spot to stick to. I’ll never divulge the name, I promised. And yes, maybe I’m an impostor. But, to stay alive these days is the only way, right?

He put the paper next to the journal, cleaned the gun and positioned it on his forehand. Holy ink, we started again! It no longer mattered. My father had loved me. At least, that’s the truth the posterity will learn. That was the only thing that interested me. After all, I was his last word. He can die in peace. Goodbye, my father! I had loved you too.

Johnny Action rolled the chamber and pulled the trigger. Blang! He shivered and trembled like the bell inside his mouth. The hand hit the desk, the head hit the journal, inches away from me. The great Johnny Action consumed his last action while gave me eternity.

They’ll come and see the horror, I thought. They discover his last words. They put the papers in a protected environment, with calculated moisture and temperature, where all I have to do is to make myself a decent tan and to smile for the cameras and tourists. Thank you, dad!

A river of blood insinuated around me, letting me isolate. The smell refreshed my brain showing the danger. Soon I’ll be lost in the middle of a blood stain putting the critics fighting to explain the mystery. Was it a suicide or a murder? Who is the undecipherable name? Is Johnny Action cheating his wife? Or did he find an ugly truth about her? Is it his writing or not?

Paternity is easy to do, hard to keep; or to prove, especially in the arts. Remorse invaded my calligraphy. It was selfish to think that I could enjoy my celebrity, knowing that I did nothing to save my father, even he was never aware of my existence.

I left the paper, jumped over the river blood and came next to my father’s head. His hair covered his face. Are his eyes wide open or closed? I felt sorry for him dying without completing his last words. I should have been one of those last words, but, unfortunately for him, I was only an imperfect word, an error which helped to conclude an unhappy life.

Suddenly, a finger dragged a trail in the blood; then, another one and another. The hand of my father was moving. He was alive. Did he miss?

Johnny Action fired, for sure, with the blank one. I ran towards his eyes to convince myself. Waves of unbelievable joy conquered my stratified layers. But this amazing writer – after all, he created me, right? – he squeezed the gun in the hand, evoked some gods, blamed them all and fixed the barrel inside the mouth that never laughed.

I was running like crazy along the finger that pressed the trigger, towards the hole in the muzzle, not fully understanding why I’m trying to save this desperate soul. But I had no idea how to stop a bullet. Do you?

In front of my nemesis, the good bullet, I stood resolute. I put my small body inside the hidden hole of the muzzle and I took my head outside. I looked without fear in the eye of the bullet. Johnny Action pulled the trigger.

A rising sun emerged behind the flying shell. My graphite fired like a torch and exploded in myriads of sparks. Lif-p-p-r-n-k! What was my father last word?

The bullet hit my head and lost the trajectory. Another explosion melted metal uniting in graphite splinters.”

“I hope Johnny Action survived. Lifpprnk didn’t. You can find some fragments of a once great unfinished word inside of an old Colt kept in a protected environment. I’m staying next to it, on a blood-stained piece of old paper, still dreaming of Lifpprnk’s first passionate kiss. The happiness didn’t last. It never lasts as much as we want. But stories do. Lifpprnk kept his promise: my name is still undecipherable.”