There was one time, the beginning of all time, this time, a father: the first of the abundant men. He gathered up in his great warm fists and bred out worth. From his pink loins flowed the flesh of sons and sons. And from the sons more and more sons flowed until his genealogy squeezed tight across the dusty earth.
But the father had a problem, and the problem was death. For he did not want to die, and he did not wish to see an end to his sons, but space was short and time was cramped with his lineage. Having heard the stories, the father knew his older sons would be no use to him. A youngest son was needed, empty-skulled and desert-handed. He called to him his eldest son, a man of great abundance himself, and said to him, “Go and fetch the youngest son, for it alone can solve this riddle.” So the son went and he returned.
“Father,” said the eldest son, “Across the earth you have many sons and sons of sons. The waters that were once oceans run their acrid paths through the thick veins and passages of your sons because there is no other space for so much water in this world. The salts and sands that first lay into mountains have hardened into the gnashing hungry bones of sons. There is no room for them to have any other life. What son do you want? There is no youngest.”
Hearing this, the man troubled. If a youngest son existed, it was lying mute in the ashes. He called to his second son, only a little less fecund than the first. “Go and fetch the youngest son, for it alone can solve this riddle.” So the son went and he returned.
“Father,” said the second oldest son, only a little wiser than the first. “I have looked for this youngest son, but I cannot find it. How can I find the end of us? The earth is piled with your sons. The mild, cold distance between the dizzy planets is bloated with your sons. I have withered and choked on the blocked tangled thighs of my brothers. I rot. I spoil. And still from the gelatin of my insides spring new brother-sons. As soon as one arises it is shouldered out. There is no edge, no end, no youngest son.”
And the father, for he was, troubled deeply at the words. Everywhere he looked he saw only himself. If a youngest son existed, it was waiting in its devouring rags, no friend to him. With a final breath, he called out to his progeny. But a youngest son is quite unrecognizable until the moment that it speaks. And so, at last, it answered.
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Megan Barickman is a writer based in Colorado. You can find her on twitter @MeganBarickman.