Fiction Only                                                                                         Randall Brown


    Fiction Only. They had made that clear—and now he was brought before them and they would decide if they should remove him and his work.

    Witnesses. First his mother. Yes, I drank Schaeffer beer. Yes, I let no one hold him. Yes, I made him memorize a vocabulary word a day in exchange for Lucky Charms, Cap 'N Crunch, or Count Chocula. Yes, he makes me guilty. Yes, feeling guilty makes me want to drink. Yes, I have red hair.

    His father. Yes, I made him catch fly balls until it grew too dark. Yes, I walked around the house with that baseball bat. Yes, I brought his mother beers until she let me carry her upstairs. Yes, I demanded A's. Yes, I filled out his application for him to Tufts. Yes, I've never read anything he's written.

    His grandfather. Yes, I took him West. Yes, we tied flies on the banks and then cast them in secret streams to fish that had never seen an artificial. Yes, he drove to Huntingdon from Boston in the middle of the night because he knew I was dying. Yes, I'm dead. Yes, he jumped into the grave and pounded on the coffin.

    His third-grade girlfriend. Yes, he was smart. Yes, he was skinny. Yes, he was cute and funny. Yes, later, we all wondered what had happened. Yes, he got fat. Yes, he got angry. Yes, he kissed me. Yes, we met later, in senior year, at a party, and he screwed me against a tree. Yes, it hurt. Yes, I hated myself for it.

    His high school best friend. Yes, I was bald by tenth grade. Yes, the Curve Inn served me Old Milwaukee pounders a six-pack at a time. Yes, we drank in parking lots. Yes, we dreamed about girls who wouldn't date us. Yes, we were in the Science Fiction Book Club. Yes, we looked for alternative universes. Yes, we threw up a lot.

    His college girlfriend. Yes, he loved me, or said he did. Yes, I wanted to love him. Yes, he clung to me as if I were the only girl in the world. Yes, he was nice. Yes, he was sweet, Yes, we said things like we'd find each other later. Yes, we never did.

    His uncle. Yes, I'm dying. Yes, they took out my colon. No, I never touched him.

    "Well there you are," he tells the board.

    They deliberate and judge. "You're lucky," they tell him and let him stay. They warn him about too much truth, how it creeps in and denies the imagination. He makes promises he won't keep. He wonders how to get witnesses to lie.