Dear Mr. Gibraltar:

First of all, there couldn't possibly be any appropriate words to express just how much I have delighted in reading your magazine over the years. The electricity in my fingertips when I penetrate the mailbox and caress the new issue's fresh pink cover; the tingling down my spine as I begin to absorb its innards; the sense of fulfillment, and yet a kind of sour malaise, at consummating the final word.

That said, it is my great joy--and dire apprehension--to inform you that I have included with this letter my very short story "Mutant" for your most honorable consideration. The thought of contributing to your magazine drives my body into a bizarre vertigo of orgasmic bliss, but even if my story is rejected--as it most likely will--I can still frolic in the climactic notion that my words have been blessed with the glory of your noble gaze.

Sincerely,
John Kibble

Mutant
by John Kibble

Jesus was gay.

This being the last time his penis would be inside another human being, he thought it was only appropriate that it happen in a manger--to complete the circle, as it were. Jesus was used to being watched, so the curious eyes of the barn animals did not trouble him any, but he was still worried about his lover. "Are you sure they're not bothering you?"

Judas smiled, kind and cool, the way he always did to assure Jesus that everything was going to be all right.

After they finished, they sat together on a moist pile of hay and gazed outside at the full moon. Judas' body glistened with sweat and love-juices in the gentle light.

"It's tomorrow."

Judas tried to smile. "I know."

"This is the best way for everyone, Judy."

"I know."

"You'll be hated by many people."

"I don't care about that. I just--I won't be able to live without you. You know that, don't you? My life is meaningless without you."

"Don't." Jesus felt the warm breath of a sheep on his naked back, but he didn't have will enough to turn around and shoo it away. "Don't die for me, Judas."

"You're not one to talk."

Jesus laughed, but the quick powerful breaths elongated--evolved--into drawn-out sobs. "I hate this."

"Me too." Judas wrapped a powerful arm around him.

"I don't want to do this. I don't want to die." Jesus felt himself erupting inside--tiny geysers into mighty volcanoes. "Fuck god! Fuck humanity! I want to be with you, Judy! I don't care about anything else!" His anger dissipated into the musky air and he cried harder.

Judas gently forced Jesus' head onto his thigh and Jesus rested it there. "Yes you do."

Jesus closed his eyes. "No I don't."

"ShhŠ" Judas stroked his hair. "It's going to be okay, Jesus. It's going to be okay."

It was a lie, Jesus knew that, but there, in that manger, baptized in moonlight, saturation by an air of their wry copulation, he could almost convince himself that it was true.

***

Dear John:

You should understand first and foremost that this is not an acceptance letter. But it isn't a rejection letter either. Confused? Allow me to explain.

The writing itself is good. Your style is easy to read. And you do have the ability to write a powerful/emotional scene, while not overly dramatic. But--and this is a big but--the story itself is too offensive!

We have many Christian readers and I'm afraid something like this might arouse too much of a stir.

The truth is, if the main character wasn't Jesus, you would still have an excellent story. Maybe even a better one. My suggestion is that you rewrite it with fictional characters, perhaps set in modern day America, and see what happens. If you do rewrite it, I'll be happy to take a look at it. I'm not promising anything, but I will say that you have an excellent chance here. Don't waste it.

Yours truly,
Daniel Gibraltar

Dear Mr. Gibraltar:

You probably don't remember me--I know how busy you are--but I recently sent you my story "Mutant" and you said that if I rewrote it, you would be interested in seeing it. Well, here it is. It is no longer about a gay Jesus, but I think, as you said, it still might be a good story. Perhaps even better.

Sincerely,
John Kibble

Mutant
by John Kibble

George heard voices.

They were crusty old men; always grouchy; the kind you would expect to see filling out complaint cards--and they spawned an ever-present backdrop in this immutable (and horrible) act of his existence.

But, in this coffee shop, searching Mary's being, the woman he loved--her zits formed brilliant constellations on her face; her mouth, always ajar just a little (as if she had something important to say but could never quite get it out), a crescent moon of teeth gleaming with yellow radiance--her beauty almost made up for the agony of living.

What an ugly fucking bitch. She ain't worth your time, George. She ain't worth your fucking time.

George imagined himself walking over and asking to sit down. She always sat there, beside the shell-shaped lamp--

That lamp is shit. Ugly as shit.

--and he always sat here, beside the bookshelf.

You gotta go home, George. Gotta keep working on the Book. Gotta tell the world the truth. No one else can. No one else, George. Go home. You gotta go home now.

George feared the line between Mary and himself. The scariest part was just how thin the line really was. He could walk over and talk to her at any moment. Just like that. He could do it now.

Forget that slut, George. Ain't got the time for shit like that.

He stood. He couldn't take it anymore. Fuck the Book. Fuck it. He walked over.

"Excuse me, I uh-my name is George."

Fuck her.

"Hi. I'm Judy."

George was singed with a blast of molten disappointment. It was stupid, he knew, to expect her to be named Mary, like he always imagined, but he couldn't help it.

Fuck her and let's go.

"You--you come here a lot."

She smiled a little. "Yeah. You do too."

Come on.

"I do? I mean, you noticed?"

She laughed and it was the most wonderful thing he ever heard.

Fuck her!

George's hand reached down and crawled up her dress like a spider he couldn't control.

Fuck her! Fuck her!

The worst part wasn't what was happening down there, but what happened above; Mary's face--she was so humiliated.

George pulled his hand away and closed his eyes tight. "Fuck you! I hate you! Fuck you!" He collapsed to the floor and pounded on his forehead as hard as he could. Then he wept. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," but of course she was gone, and only the vile fretting of frail voices remained.

***

Dear John:

This is better, but I couldn't possibly publish your story and stay true to myself at the same time. You see, John, my son has Tourettes and it is my belief that mental illness should not be regarded as a curse. My son has embraced his disability and has started a mentor program where older people with Tourettes help the young. This disease has given these kids a sense of a community that they might not have otherwise known. In my book, that's no curse.

I'm still up to reading another revision if you are to writing one.

But perhaps a character a little less crazy next time, hmm?

Yours truly,
Daniel Gibraltar

Dear Mr. Gibraltar:

I am so sorry. I did not know about your son. I never would have sent you such a blasphemy against mental illness had I known.

Here again is "Mutant," where mental illness has been replaced with art.

Sincerely,
John Kibble

Mutant
by John Kibble

Georgia loved Judy.

Georgia leaned in to kiss her and was bitch-slapped by a too-sweet tsunami of perfumed air, like cotton candy shoved up her nose. Judy, of course, was trying to cover up the smell of old age; of a dying libido. But Georgia didn't care. She didn't care about Judy's wrinkles or her fading sexual appetite or the horrid perfume.

"You're so beautiful. My sweet Mona Lisa."

Judy smiled, apprehensively, like she only half believed her. If only Judy knew the truth about their relationship.

"Where do you want me, Georgia?"

"How about sitting on that chair."

"We've already done that chair, haven't we?"

"Probably."

Judy sat on the chair and tried different poses until Georgia said, "Freeze."

Georgia loved Judy, but even more she loved to paint Judy. She painted Judy and only painted Judy. Nothing else in the world was important, except that the world would someday understand just how amazing Judy was. So far, that hadn't happened.

Georgia blamed herself. Judy was doing everything right, but Georgia couldn't quite capture that fleeting thing, that fury of grace, that somehow showed itself even when Judy was sitting perfectly still. It was an obsession really and Georgia felt like a hunter, trekking through a mythical swamp, attempting to bag the rarest of phoenixes.

The world just didn't react the way they should have to Georgia's paintings. Judy was the Mona Lisa of modern times and it was up to Georgia to give present her to the world.

"Are my breasts okay? Are they sagging too much?"

"They're perfect."

Georgia smiled but frowned inside, thinking about all the time that she wasted painting those breasts over the years, when she could have--should have--been sucking on them. It was a curse--a horrible, wonderful curse.

Fucking art.

Judy was so good to put up with her madness.

Georgia shook her head, attempting to clear her thoughts, and realized that she didn't deserve Judy. Someone else could have appreciated her so much better; so less abstractly.

All she wanted was a wide-eyed spectator--for someone somewhere at some art gallery to look at The Judy and go, "Wow." And mean it.

"Are you okay, Georgia? You're not painting anything."

"Yeah--yeah, I'm all right."

***

Dear John:

I have to admit--I really like this story.

But I do have one little suggestion and it has to do with the Judy character. The reader doesn't really know anything about her except that she's growing older. There's something missing. Try to make her a bit more unique. Maybe she could be a hippo.

Yours truly,
Daniel Gibraltar

Dear Mr. Gibraltar:

At first I was quite perplexed at the prospect of Judy being a hippo, but as I started writing, the story flowed with a rather constant surge. I almost wonder why I did not think of the idea myself.

By changing Judy into a hippo, the main character and setting have changed as well--I hope it is still to your liking.

Sincerely,
John Kibble

Mutant
By John Kibble

George (a tin god and proud of it) received a dead hippo in the mail.

It was only a photograph of a dead hippo, of course, but George could feel the death emanating from the bloody behemoth just the same. He sat at the dinner table--silverware aligned like good little solders--alone, and caressed the picture with the gutted envelope still in his other hand.

"Judy always sends me pictures." She was a photographer for a wildlife magazine. "This isn't any different." But of course it was different. She did not take this picture for the magazine. The angle was all wrong. The lighting was dreadful. She meant it to be.

This picture was just for him.

He stared at the obsidian eyes of the beast and recognized them. Those were Judy's eyes--the look she made whenever she learned about another of George the Republican King's decrees. He destroyed the things that Judy took pictures of and now the hippo was Judy and Judy was the hippo and they were dead. The hippo, once so large and commanding, seemed deflated now; shriveled; a void of hope that said the life and spirit of the brute was lost forever.

All George could feel in himself was a furious bubbling and nothing else. He wished for something different, anything, but nothing came forth.

He was a horrible husband, a wonderful god, but a horrible, horrible husband.

"Why!" He slammed his fists on the table and cracked the glass. Blood snaked down his fingers and kissed the already bloody hippo, so it really didn't matter. "Why did you let this happen!"

It was because he had another love--one he never asked for, but embraced just the same. Civilization. God, he would fuck a bomb if he could. He loved how it felt to suck people into his big holy vagina and push them out again, reborn--another tally on the wall of his justification cell.

"You should have loved her! You should have loved her better!"

But Judy was dead to him now, like the hippo, and he had killed them both.

It wasn't Judy's fault. She tried her best to understand him; to understand why he would support things like the execution of mentally retarded killers. What she never quite grasped about him was that he didn't give a shit about why people did the things they did. And he especially didn't care about why he himself did the things he did; thought the things he thought. He now imagined launching all of the world's hippos into the sun where they would die in the agony of melting flesh and scream their hippo screams, and it didn't matter why.

There was something else in the envelope; something bulging--and he knew exactly what it was. He clutched the envelope and tried to throw it out the window, but he couldn't, and so he put it (and the ring) into his pocket and thought about how good it would feel if he could cry.

***

Dear John:

This is a bit embarrassing for me to say, but in my previous letter when I wrote hippo I actually meant to write hippie. I was thinking that if Judy was a hippie, it might spice up her character. Sorry about the mix-up/typo.

But I quite enjoyed the hippo story, actually. Very much so.

However, there is one problem. The George character has to change. I don't want the Republicans who read my magazine to feel alienated or targeted in any way.

Again, I really like what you did with the hippo, and I'll be happy to look at a revision that isn't so politically biased.

Yours truly,
Daniel Gibraltar

Dear Mr. Gibraltar:

You are right, of course. I should be more sensitive to others' points of view, even if they are destroying our planet. Hopefully, this Mutant will be more appropriate.

From,
John Kibble

Mutant
by John Kibble

Georgia's stuffed hippo was her mother.

In a way. Georgia knew that the hippo wasn't actually her mother, but her mother was named Judy and the hippo was named Judy and when the hippo spoke in Georgia's mind she sounded exactly like her mother. So when Georgia looked at Judy the Hippo, she could see her mother's face--stretched out, though, with a long rounded snout.

It was Georgia's birthday today and her father took her to the cliffs that overlooked the ocean. Her mother used to take her to the cliffs every Saturday and they would look out and talk about things that weren't really important, but seemed momentous at the time. That was, before her mother was buried in the ground, under the flat stone, next to the broken sprinkler.

"My little girl is growing up." Judy the Hippo would have smiled if she could've. "I can't believe you're eleven already."

Georgia grinned.

Her father stopped walking and so Georgia stopped too. He looked out at the ocean and put his arm around her. "Happy birthday, Georgia."

"Thanks, daddy."

"It's beautiful out there."

"Yeah."

He looked at her in the face--he didn't do that very often anymore. "I hope you can forgive me someday for what I'm about to do."

Georgia's stomach squished up and she felt like throwing up. He wasn't going to die too, was he? "Daddy?"

"You're eleven years old, Georgia. You're becoming a young woman. And you're too old to carry around that stuffed hippo wherever you go. I thought you would stop it years ago, but it hasn't happened. It's my fault for letting it go on for so long."

"No. Daddy, no."

"I'm sorry, but this isn't healthy. You have to get rid of it now. You have to get rid of the temptation."

Tears streamed down her cheeks and onto the hippo. "I won't."

"I'm sorry."

Georgia didn't like her father upset with her like this. It hurt so much. But she couldn't get rid of Judy. Judy talked her to sleep every night. Judy made her not afraid at school. Judy--

"Don't get rid of me, Georgia." Judy sounded scared. Goergia's tears ran down Judy the Hippo's dirty pink face. "Please."

"Mommy."

Her father spoke softer. "That hippo has nothing to do with your mother, Georgia. It's just a stuffed animal. You have to let it go."

"Don't listen to him, Georgia. Don't throw me away."

Georgia cried harder and couldn't stand her father's eyes on her. If she didn't throw away Judy, her father would keep looking at her like this forever. It hurt too much. It felt like the funeral felt with the body and the flat stone and the broken sprinkler.

"Goodbye, mommy."

***

Dear John:

A very heartbreaking story.

But again, I'm afraid I can't publish it. My son had a safety blanket for many years, and when he turned ten I threw it away and I think my son has turned out a better person for it. Many Americans practice this operation and if the story was published, I believe many readers would suffer from unjustified guilt.

Of course I'm still willing to read another revision.

Yours truly,
Daniel Gibraltar

Dear Mr. Gibraltar:

Here you are. This Mutant is a bit strange, but I think my best yet.

From,
John Kibble

Mutant
by John Kibble

George was born with a concave face.

But the doctors told his parents that his brain was fine--"so it would be wrong for you to orphanize him," and they didn't. George always appreciated that. Even now, baptized in that special plastic air of his work-a-day suite--and his desk faced the window because he was the CEO and CEOs could face wherever they pleased, and beyond the glass there was an aboveground swimming pool, a menagerie of twinkles, with bouncing bodies and outside smiles--he couldn't help but think about those two sickly-eyed bastards of his past and just how hard they worked to make him feel commonplace.

Hide-and-seek, of course, was neither about hiding nor seeking. It was a game of exploration; getting the chance to fumble little fingers through nooks and crannies with the necessary justification to say to yourself, "Well, as long as I'm hereŠ."

George wriggled under his mother's bed (sometimes it was his parents' bed, but daddy had to go on time-out tonight) and felt a little like a worm burrowing with a feverish dance into sanctuary before sunlight permeates rain cloud.

"Ready or not here I come!"

The underbelly of his mother's bed was more metallic than he expected, like an unfinished skyscraper, but he nonetheless felt a sense of demi-immunity with the knowledge that his mother slept so nearby; just a wee-bit closer to heaven.

What's this?

George picked up the book and read the cover. "How to Keep Your Special Child from Joining the Circus." Apparently the doctors gave his parents (George learned later from his father one inebriated night) horror stories about mutated children who ended up as circus freaks. This was a surprisingly common occurrence, and nothing frightened his parents more than the prospect of a child displaced from run-of-the-mill-hood.

He flipped to a random page:

The Nostalgia-Vertigo Effect can be nullified through a redirection of self-image. Your child feels as if he belongs with freaks because he identifies himself as one. Help to channel the focus of his individuality into something less peculiar and he will certainly--

"Found you!"  

George was blessed with a drum set for Christmas because drum sets didn't touch the face.

His father spewed out a massive conglomeration of curses trying to fit the stupid thing together. He kept hitting his head on the drums and that little bum sound--which probably made him feel reduced to a cartoon character where pain is painted with buffoonery--brought about an exponential growth of irritation.

The whole while his mother faked an air of excitement, looking through all the drum books--both on technique and history--they had bought him. "Look at that Mr. Weinberg. Handsome fellow. He must get all the women."

George pretended to care.

And even after he figured out that he didn't give a damn about drums, he kept pretending to care, because he knew his parents needed him to play. They needed to think that he had something other than the freakiness. And of course he did have many other things (none of which had to do with drums) and he kind of liked living at home. The circus was the farthest thing from his mind.

His parents made him play the drums outside. They didn't mind him bothering the neighbors but anything that disillusioned dad during game time was strictly forbidden fruit.

There was something about playing outside in the rain--something quite annoying. He was constantly at odds with the raindrops, which really antagonized his rhythm. The sky was playing one song. He was playing another. And his song was much better.

"You're getting better every day, Georgy. You sure you don't want to join a band yet?"

"No. Not yet."

But George didn't see himself as a drummer, and he certainly wasn't a freak (at least not a Freak), but luckily he always had that one thing to fall back on. His parents were crazy sons of bitches, and with that to clutch on to, he wasn't so different from the other kids.

Some of the women thought it was romantic, most of them thought it was gross, but after he metamorphosed into a millionaire, all of the women he came into contact with were willing to give it a go.

So his idea was that since his face was concave, there had to be another face out there that could fit into his. Perfectly. There were so many disheartened people out there in the world--sluggish spirits drifting through a wasteland of pale obelisks inscribed with fairy tales--looking for someone special. Deep down, George knew people didn't really believe in soul mates anymore, but they always kept an eye out anyway.

But maybe, maybe George was the one special person with a key. When he found that person who fit his face, he would know that she was the one, and he wouldn't have to be afraid.

But of course there was no such woman. He accepted that now. First of all, his soul mate's forehead would have to bulge out much more than the average human's, with a nose thin, long, and pointy, and there were so many other elements of oddity, one day he just had to look himself in the mirror and shake his head.

Ending it.

He had lots of money at least and that made him happy. And he had a beautiful wife named Judy with a face that didn't fit just right, but he could still kiss her okay. Plus, he had workers who liked a freaky inside-out boss. They appreciated his willingness to bend the traditional expectations of a bigwig organization.

Misdemeanor Mondays. Fornication Fridays. He even gave swimming breaks, with pay.

***

Dear John:

This is a very fine story indeed--but alas, there's something very wrong with it. Doctors, psychologists, almost all child-related professionals, agree that children born with mutations should be made as normal as possible. I couldn't imagine doctors not attempting to remedy George's concave face. If I didn't feel so strongly about this, I wouldn't have any problem with your story.

But you deserve an explanation. John, I'm going to tell you something. Something that's very personal to me and I hope you'll keep it to yourself.

I was born with both male and female genitalia. The doctors decided that it would be in my best interest to become one specific gender, and I'm glad they did.

I hope you understand.

Yours truly,
Daniel Gibraltar

Dear Mr. Gibraltar:

Here you are, Mr. Gibraltar, a delectable little tale of art and anguish, with a rather pleasing aftertaste. I'm sure you'll find it quite appetizing.

Many thanks for your many glorious criticisms,
John Kibble

Mutant
by John Kibble

Once upon a time there was a Painter and this Painter found a most beautiful tree to paint alongside the road into town. The Painter's life was good, except everyday a Nobleman stopped his horse and snuck up behind the Painter and said, "That's no good! No good at all!" And the Painter got frustrated and crumpled up his painting and cried himself to sleep and the next day he had to start all over again.

For a long time the Painter didn't say anything to the Nobleman, because he was, after all, a Nobleman. But one day the Painter just couldn't take it anymore.

"That's no good! No good at all!"

And the Painter turned around and said, "If you ever say that to me again I'm going to rip your tongue out with my teeth! I'm going to throw paint in your eyes and kick you in the crotch so hard your oldest son will fall over dead where he stands! I'm going to stick my paintbrush up your ass and paint your heart black as night and then I'm going to rip it out and showcase it to the world as a piece of fucking art and I'll become rich and famous just because you're such a god damn asshole! Do you hear me!"

The Nobleman nodded and rode off and the Painter lived happily ever after.

The end.

***

Dear John:

I'm sorry to say, this isn't a very good story. The use of language is too simple and you seem to have lost something in this revision. I really don't see how this story is relevant to your previous Mutants at all. I do trust in your abilities to tell a tale--maybe you were sick when you wrote this one--so if you send me another revision, I will of course take a look at it.

Yours truly,
Daniel Gibraltar

The End

Jeremy Shipp can be contacted at Foresery@aol.com.