by | Oct 27, 2015 | Fiction, Flash Fiction

A force of serum in the fibrous tunic of the scrotum will enhance the hydrocele, too much. I could do two deep incisions on its inferior surface. Sabatier wouldn’t like it, but I could do it, if you wanted a quick solution to your hydrocele so quick to balloon. If you want I will cut it, and I think we should.
These topical measures don’t do much, it does seem. Even Sabatier admits it.

Leeches are out there. We could blister it. My assistant makes alcoholic smothers. It would be a combination of relatively soft tactics.

Of course, Sabatier would be quick to recommend the backwards kick of a horse which has in the past cued the outbreak of a success. The hydrocele ruptures, you see, so completely as to cause a complete reabsorption of the serum to the bloodstream. Of course Sabatier always did say, “Blood is an entirely alive thing.” But here we have no pastures, and our room is sterile of the brethren of elk, mule, and deer. My assistant must prepare, horselessly, an idea. Even with a leech, and with alcoholic bath, you see, there will have to be, there must be, some cutting.

Incisions, the excision of a portion, scarification onto your internal surface, cauterization by the red hot of an iron, or the use of tents, widgets of lint, and various injections, implantations, the implant for instance of a leech into the center of your scrotum so that it may swim and suck serum and be removed like a vast droplet, a kind of carrier pigeon—all have been so highly lauded, so condoned by Seton, by Sabatier even, that we will do all of them, until there’s no more serum and we, with our red wine, will reign again, and leeches, in their gang, are so feminine, like the tatters of a black negligee plumped up with the animation of blood-desiring. These leeches are so much better, surely, than the kick of a horse, and less invasive of course than a slice—a leech will go in as soft as the night and suck you out and close you up again, with her mouth.

And our leeches will be so glistening with black coats so healthy, so shiny, when we release them into the river because they have served us so long, and because we do not want to be the keepers of anything for too long, because we love them. We love that they are black negligee tatters with the hearts of tigers and mouths all over. You will have to trust us, Sir. Trust us when we tell you Sabatier is dead. You will have to trust, and you must believe that those who do not have any real love for you will not also necessarily destroy you.

Photo by Mechanoid Dolly


About The Author

Caren Beilin

Caren Beilin’s novel, The University of Pennsylvania, is recently out with Noemi Press and her fiction chapbook, Americans, Guests, or Us, is available from DIAGRAM/New Michigan Press. Her stories are in McSweeney’s, Caketrain, and Fence.