The Samurai is lying on the black futon sofa, a fiery blue Fudō Myō-ō emblazoned on his golden ō-yoroi. There is a scarlet coffee table with a white vase filled with blue roses between us. His katana, sheathed, is braced between the fresh gray carpet and a loose silver doorknob. I, the Therapist, note all of these things. I click my pen; the sheath shifts. My black ink colors my paper; the doorknob rattles. The Samurai asks what is a garden without its flowers? A thin, clean cut forms across the stretched neck of the vase, which slides from the bottom bowl. As the blue rose petals scatter across the scarlet table, the table catches fire. The petals do not. The vase does not. The carpet does not. The katana has not moved. I, the Therapist, note all of these things. I click my pen; the sheath shifts. My ink, now blue, colors my paper; the doorknob rattles.
I, the Therapist, stand from my chair and walk towards the door. I, the Therapist, remove the katana from its sheath. The hilt is blue; the guard is red; the blade is silver; the guard is melting. I, the Therapist, slice through the doorknob. The cut is sloppy but cleaves all the way through. The doorknob does not fall. The doorknob is gone. The blade grows longer, thicker, sharper. I, the Therapist, ask what is a door without a doorknob? and I, the Samurai, feel the silken blue threads which bind my golden armor loosen, ever so slightly.
I, the Samurai, shift; the pen clicks. I, the Samurai, stand from the black futon sofa, which turns gray and sinks into the carpet. I, the Samurai, walk to me, the Therapist, and I, the Samurai, remove my kote, gripping the katana’s blade bare-handed, and I, the Samurai, bleed lava. The blade is melting; the guard is blue. In my - the Samurai's - hand is a doorknob. I, the Samurai, ask what is a doorknob without a door? The door is gone, but I, the Therapist, and I, the Samurai, cannot walk through where it was. Possibility, I - the Therapist - answer. What is possibility? I - the Samurai - ask. An impossible question, I - the Therapist - reply. Plumes of smoke pour from the table’s inferno, filling the room. They cannot escape through the door’s opening. The silken blue threads which bind my - the Samurai’s - golden armor loosen completely. The threads spill onto the carpet, followed by the armor. The carpet does not catch fire. The pen clicks. I, the Samurai, am only wearing the menpō, the mask.
I, the Samurai, hand me, the Therapist, the doorknob. I, the Therapist, open my - the Samurai’s - stomach with the doorknob. Lava pours from me, the Samurai. The mask stays on for this part, I - the Samurai - insist. Intestines fly from the wound in my - the Samurai’s - stomach, transforming into twin golden serpents, which encircle the table’s inferno. The mask stays on for this part. I, the Therapist, insert the doorknob into my - the Samurai’s - stomach and turn my wrist. Nothing happens. The mask comes off for this part. The menpō crumbles and I, the Therapist, turn my wrist once more. The smoke ascends from the table, shooting through the air towards and into my - the Samurai’s - stomach. The table has stopped burning. The serpents rest upon the table. And I, the Therapist, crawl inside my - the Samurai’s - stomach. Somewhere, a pen clicks.
Travis Shosa’s work has appeared in HAD, Maudlin House, Bruiser Magazine, Burial Magazine, Eulogy Press, The Bulb Region, and GONZOID. They serve as the editor at Dodo Eraser.