The Corn-Flaked Phantom

In the unfinished basement of a thickly painted duplex, laundry hangs to dry as little Marco bob-and-weaves. Fluffy walls of insulation wrapped in plastic encases a rack bearing Mum's busty brassieres, while a one off hook dangles Daddy's dirty toupee. Down here, much of the wood beams sag. Countless years of untraceable drippings and supplementary plastic buckets have dwindled the supports, warping the downstairs celling/upstairs floorboards to pepper whatever's drying with thin wispy flakes that force the Fructose clan to “shuck” their clothes before folding.

Marco has never really vocalized the strange feeling this basement cubby sparks, not even to himself, he just kind of… feels it? The un-homely frigid concrete floor, the flickering blue tinted pot light, or the fact it's motion activated with a five minute timer; Marco always setting a game plan before making the plunge, today is no exception. A hunt for pipe cleaners, tongue depressors, butcher's twine, and dedicated craft—expired—pasta for Mrs. Mumps' John Harvey History class, his four brothers, (Malcom, Malto, Marvin, and Merkle) having all taken it successive years, while his triplets sisters, (Corthy, Caryl, and Cannabelle) took it all at once with Mr. Carton's instead—a result of Mrs. Mumps' infamous '05 sabbatical where the tried and true fusilli corn combine diorama was replaced for the gimmicky fad of the fettuccine silo. Both respective odes to the life and legacy of the great John Harvey Kellogg, hailing from this very Tyrone Township many many years ago. Some say he still lurks here in the rotten souls of sinful boys, while the rotund mayoral figure, Rev. Johnny Cake Slim, insists “There aint no chance a phan-toom is lurkin'round this very Tyrone Township without payin' NO tax thar!"

A hand of fusilli, one of pipe cleaners and twine, Marco grows suddenly befuddled as-to-where those damn thar tongue depressors gone! His game plan predicted they would be storage bin "Halloween #3", repurposed for arts and crafts after Malto, Merkle, and Marvin grew too old for trick or treating. Suddenly on the very top shelf, Marco sees a bin titled "Halloween #4", intrigued what's inside, with hopes for depressors, he drops his fistful of fusilli and clenched cluster of cleaners. First on tippy toes, then a grapple up the shelves, his little fingers' many tips collectively tickle it in briefly, inching it closer. He bites his lip, extending his foot to lift his body higher. He doesn't know why, but the more he squints his eyes, the closer to Halloween #4 he feels. Sweating, shaking, fluttering, the light abruptly shuts with a loud metallic beep. Like an electric fence, his reflexes stutter with a high pitched "YEEEOUCHH!" as he plummets bare foot to fusilli, and the semolina shatters. A coat hook rips his shirt fiber by fiber clean off like a knife heel to a cob. Pipe cleaners pierce his little toes while his head slams into the drying rack and clothes and towels take flight alike! A wad of bunch up brassiere lodges in his gullet, and for a moment he just lays there. Bare back to freezing floor, kind of choking, kind of crying, breathing through his nose the only option. Eyes open or closed, he sees the very same thing. A liquid black ripple to the buzzing of the fridge.

"Marco..."

"Huh?"

"Psst... Maaaaarco."

Suddenly a flick! The lights come on. The confused Marco glances up the stairs to reveal nothing. Nobody's there.

"Mhhllmo?" he tries to ask, muffled and shivering (bra still in his mouth), "Mhss... mnybmady mmthmre?" a sudden pat on his shoulder. Marco screams, spitting out the bra, revealing none other than his oldest brother, Malcom, slamming closed the fridge with a chicha tallboy in his hand.

"'Sup fucker."

"I uhh..."

Malcom looks down at the bra on the floor. "Oh I see..."

"No-no-no, it's not–"

"So you're having impure thoughts aren't you Marco?"

"Im-pure?"

"Oh Marco." Looking around in suspicion inching closer, "I'd be careful around here. Y'know... John Harvey sees all..."

" J-J-John Harv-ey?"

"Have a good one kiddo!" slapping Marco's bare back, whizzing up the stairs. "And Marco!"

"Y-yes?"

"Don't forget your corn flakes. MWAH-AHAH-AHAH."

* * *

Later that night, Melvin, polishing off his nightly 3 bowls of corn flakes, empties the milk, promptly summoning his youngest son, Marco from the craft corner with the offer of a fetch quest.

"Eh son!"

"Yes pa?"

"She's em-ty! Can ye git paps someuhtha three percent yall."

"But momma says only skim for you."

"But momma ain't gonna know thun there. She say the three percent's makin' me bald! She aint gonna get mad if you accidentally git the wrong one... right?"

"Umm... yes?"

"Good!"

". . ."

"Well, go friggin' grab it kiddo."

Marco sucks down his breath's remainder, clenching his fists, he proceeds to revolve down rickety stairs with the looming fear of John Harvey Kellogg's presence. He notices his footsteps' syncopation with the sound of jangling bottles in the loose fridge door. Initially he brushes it off, deeming it an response to his staircase stomping. But as he creeps closer, the two rhythms desynchronize. forming something reminiscent of a 3:2 polyrhythm (one one could potentially count as "nice-cup-of-flakes-nice-cup-of-flakes-nice-cup-of-flakes" and on and on, patting knees like a drum on every syllable). His silky hair stiffens like stalks, a sense of embarrassment succeeded by fear. Maneuvering around the now empty drying rack, his hand grasps the handle, and strangely, at that very moment, the two sounds syncopate once more. A sudden gnaw of adrenaline tingles his jawbone. Clinching every hole in his face in the shape of a fritter, the milky blackness returns as he swings open the door, blinded by the stark fluorescent white. Nothing's there. A breath of relief. He grabs the 3% and slams the door, heading back towards the staircase with a newfound sense of purpose. He flicks off the basement's light, the staircase is intrusively narrow, a heaven-like glow through the door at the top becomes the crux of his being. Step by step, scrambling up the stairs, head naturally looking down at his feet, the light abruptly wipes to dark right to left. Clicking his neck back up, he notices the door swinging shut, but his inertia’s too great to stop his body's trajectory, and before he knows it, a sensation between zapping and burning pummels his temple, as a series of stair rolling freezeframes are fleshed out with those very same, milky black ripples.

Marco awakes in a dark foggy corn field. Shriveled beige stalks knotting in the wind. Black crows peck surrounding ears, brash squawking, Marco covers his, swatting them away. Strangely, he doesn't feel scared, budding with a feeling of "it is what it is". A distance mill draws his attention. Bending closer reveals thick blue writing barely legible it in the dark.

"GEN-ER-AL?" he reads aloud.

"SAY NOT THAT WORD MARCO!" a ghostly hand grabs him by the neck, hoisting him up like a baby, crows circle his head, below him appears a semi-transparent face, balding contrasted with a thick rounded goatee and handlebar 'stache attached to a gibbered neck in a tightly wound dress shirt below a crisp tweed jacket, and general odor of milk. Can this really be him?

"That is an impure thought Marco"

"The name of the mill?"

"Marco. You know what that mill represents, a stray, impulses, pleasure, sin..."

"I-I do?"

"It's not what you say, rather what you think. What you think is what you live Marco. Now Marco... do the right thing."

"But what is it?"

". . ."

"What is it man?"

". . ."

"Just tell me John!"

"Tell me?"

"Whaaa?" Marco opens his eyes, both perplexed at the differing voice and unaware his eyes were even closed to begin with. Marco blurry vision sharpens revealing brother Malto on his knees.

"Now who is this John you speakin' of?" Malto inquires.

"I uh... don't know."

"Ya don't know?"

"Yeah, I don't know."

"Heh. You a strange kid Marco. Strange kid." grabbing an indiscriminate box or carton or sleeve of some corn by product off the shelf.

Marco brushes off the staircase grime, helping himself up picking up the dented milk carton.

But then it hits him:

"The right thing."

"Could this be it?" he thinks to himself stepping up the first three stairs. "Not letting Father slurp the 3%!" another two. "The milk!" one plus a pivot on the backfoot, "It's impure! Of course. He needs the skim! Free of all the fat that's making him bald!" filled with purpose, he undoes all his steps, exchanges the milks, and stumbles back up the stairs, keeping a steady eye on the deceitful door. He places the carton on the table and runs to bed as quickly as possible, shutting his light, hiding beneath the sheets, pretending to sleep. He smacks his palms, praying to John that father doesn't notice the switch up. But he does. And it's now. And the drunken Marvin pounds the door cursing him away.

"I knows you's in thar! He's goan getcha! Kellogg man! He's no joke! He's goan getcha! I sware!"

A loud shattering sound rustles the door, a white liquid oozes in below the gap at its bottom.

* * *

Marco simmers, shaking and scared, he tries to sleep but it's not a valid option. Every time his eyes shut, he's back in that field unaware of there being a world outside it. He tries to keep them open but they burn dry, and every time they close he drifts further into this nightmare. In the very same field, a bit further from the mill, he sees a distant cabin. Near it a large cylindrical shape, resembling a radio tower. "Is that like a post?"

"SAY NOT THAT WORD MARCO!" John Harvey's voice returns. "I know you know what it resembles Marco! But this is dangerous. This is wicked! Impure! No matter what you cannot touch yourself!"

"Touch myself?"

"MARCO! SAY NOT THOSE WORDS!" Harvey slaps him across the face. Opening his eyes, to the pounding sun and 7:15 alarm clock buzzing, hinting that he is indeed late for school.

The weary Marco Fructose stumbles his way to class, running into the identical twins from the west end of town, Dextrose and Dextrin, assuring to not let his arms brush his side. They ask "Why you standin' like that?" to which he responds, "It's a uh... condition?" and they brush it off, naturally pivoting the conversation to a question regarding the fusili combine due Friday, specifically "How's it coming along!"

"Uhh... good! Very good! The best!"

"Good, good." their heads swivel left, swivel right in hesitation, inching back to center "Don't tell anyone..." now whispering, "but our older brother Diluent's already made this years ago. Heh. So we're just gonna resubmit it!" sniggering as one like a cackle of hyenas.

"NOW MARCO!" a wispy voice interjects from somewhere just above his eye's periphery. "I know you've got many older versions of the combine in the basement, but do not get tempted, it's a slippery slope, a slope it sure is! All that free time, you'll need some stimulation. Young boys like you bore quick! Boredom makes you crave... and you crave surely! Look at yourself, you must be dying to touch yourself!"

"I mean yes? My arms are hurting John!"

"Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat! It's too late Marco! You lust, desire, finagle for all we know! How dare! How dare you—"

"MARCO!" shouts the twins, concerned. “Are you okay?"

Adhered to the sidewalk in a voiceless state, Marco, rather slowly, comes to his senses, letting out an:

"I'm fine. We should—yeah we ought to—get to homeroom."

* * *

Hours later, with a belly full of lunch lady Peaches' corn fritters in the second row window seat of John Harvey History, Marco sits wide legged to avoid his thighs rubbing, likewise, his shoulders, stretched out like a mannequin to keep his triceps from rubbing armpits. The class looks back at him puzzled, pointing fingers, covering their respective mouths whispering quips, even the stoic Mrs. Mumps cracks a smile. But Marco doesn't notice. So worried he'll offend John Harvey, his body turns to clockwork. The board reads "Biological Living" followed by a list of bullet points detailing what exactly the practice persists of. But Marco doesn't read it, preoccupied with gazing out the window towards the corn field 'cross Stoutgrass Prom.. He notices the "General" labelled mill, the phallic concrete "Post", the very same flocks of pecking crows, interpolating where he was in relation to three.

Suddenly a new face appears in the window's reflection, one identical to his vision. Marco concludes, It MUST be John Harvey, though says not a word. Marco whispers "John?" to no response. "John? PSST! Hey John! Jah-onn, can you hear me?"

"I don't know about John but I sure can Marco!" Mrs. Mumps appears in the window covering the image of John. Marco turns around one leg at a time, maintaining an equal distance.

"Why are you talking over my lesson Marco?"

"I-I-I"

"—SHHH. This is a warning. If you speak up again, you will be sent to the principles office!"

". . ."

"But first, are you in pain?"

"Pain?"

"Yes, pain. You look uncomfortable, do you need to see the nurse? That position isn't normal."

"Position?"

"Yes, position—your arms! You look like a twisted goal post!"

"It's just so I don't touch myself!"

"So you don't WHAT?"

"TOUCH MYSELF!"

The class let's out a collective gasp. Mrs. Mumps appalled. She points to the door screaming, "TO THE PRINCIPLE'S OFFICE NOW!"

"B-b-but—"

"NO BUTS MARCO!"

". . ."

Marco slowly rises shuffling off to the office in a crab walk fashion past Mrs. Mumps' life size John Harvey cardboard cutout.

Sitting stiff by the front across the secretary's desk, a disappointed principle walks out a bigwig office with a posture like scissors, calling Marco's name, five fingers stretched apart like a turkey drawing rises rises, familiarizing Mr. Flint with Marco, the former asks him to enter.

"It's not what you think Mr. Flint!"

"That's what they all say son."

"B-b-but look, I'm good! I'm pure. I haven't touched myself yet today!"

"Oh Marco. You see here at Kellogg Elementary we have a benchmark we follow. Biological living you see! Exercise, hygiene, temperance, and strict sexual restraint. If you fail to adhere to these core values, you are not only letting down your peers but the big man up sta—"

"MARCO!" The voice of John interrupts, much louder than the "irs". He tells Marco of his sins, how he's grossly misinterpreted his message, how his poor behaviour has lead him astray from living biologically. A monologue Marco observes to be near verbatim with Flint's. Tuning into one then the other, it's like a never ending sentence: comma after comma, semicolons and implied em-dashes pivoting the plot with no central message. It feels rather redundant, and Marco, he's tired. Wanting nothing more than to touch himself once and for all. The Corn-Flaked Phantom claws at these thoughts, but Marco knows, deep down, that he needs to break free.

Thighs jittering like neodymium magnets held inches apart, Marco shuts his eyes, letting go of his respective polarized left and right. Like medicine balls, his knees clunk together. Flint and John still babbling, Marco releases his arms, allowing them to fall into place with no regard for John's pries. Flint asks what's going on. With a sense of purpose Marco says:

"I am touching myself."

"YOU'RE WHAT?!!"

"I said, I am touching myself." stepping backward out the office eyes still in contact with Flint.

"MARCO! You sit down here right now!"

"I. Am. Touching. My. Self." breaking contact, swerving right, Marco bolts out the waiting room.

"DAGNABBIT MARCO!" Flint drops his binder, chasing him out the atrium, out the automated front, in and out the vestibule through the second door—most would deem the real front door—Mr. Flint, huffing and puffing, waves away as Marco bolts through the bus lane, across the street, vanishing into the corn field. Like a shock collar for distance, Flint feels a compulsion to stay put in the concrete facade. Perhaps a higher power, or perhaps, the Corn-Flaked Phantom.

"We've lost another. That damn boy."

* * *

At some point in the evening, Marco comes home. Dirty, dishevelled, confused and in shivers, spiritually he kicks open the front with a sledgehammer sole, though in actuality he fiddles the locked knob and promptly knocks and waits patient for Caryl to open it, snarling: "YOU'RE LATE."

To his left, Caryl rejoins the the nine member majority of the Fructose clan seated around the dining table. Porcelain bowls of milk and corn extrusions are poked with many spoons, Mum and Paps reiterate he's late, the begrudged latter twisting the table's carton so Marco can read the "100% skim" label. Marco takes a seat, adjacent to Marvin, across from Cannabelle, no-one says a word of Marco's obvious dishevelment. Scuffed up cheeks, muddy fingers, and a baby stalk pierced through his black bushy hair, he looks at them perplexed, wanting desperately someone to acknowledge his situation.

"We got a call from your school Marco..." Mum brings into focus, reaching for the sugar.

"You, you did?"

"Why yes." a pinchful she sprinkles, tasting and adjusting accordingly.

"What... was it... for?"

The lot start to giggle. Malto whispers something in Cannabelle's ear—mouth movement resembling "your turn"—to which Cannabelle responds with a valley girl "Fiiiineeee..."

"W-w-what's going on guys? Is this about the Corn Flaked Phantom?!"

"The Corn Flaked Phantom?" Marvin pounds the table, Malto smacks his shoulder clicking chicha.

"Oh Marco! Oh Marco!" Cannabelle pours a bowl three quarters with flakes topped-up with skim and the spade-like motion spoon shovelled in. Looking back at Corothy and Caryl doing their respective utmosts in holding back the very same hysterics their ape-like brother counterparts have failed to contain. Cannabelle slides Marco the bowl.

"This is why we eat them, silly!"