Insidious clusters of duck-billed platypus eggs are multiplying in a unicycling nomad’s scrotum.

Via the mass of eggshells permeable, the fluid nest of platypi nibble on the delicate hors d’ oeuvres of their host’s testicles, stretching the envelope to thinnest transparency and the tense verge of bursting.

Shining through the scrotal sac, twinkling in stars far and near, swarms of bluish eggs bulge over the saddle of the nomad’s unicycle making pedaling most difficult-

But pedal he must—with relentless prudent toetips, he-she-it, is the yoked transitional martyr caught between species, without precedent or family tree, the first and last of its kind, bereft of destination and cause, ever so careful not to crush the precious eggs against the saddle while riding up and down endless hills strewn with buttercups and clover.

Leg muscles bulging, arms flailing the wind with Dodo bird wing inutility—two left hands twirling a long tall back scratcher built from stolen shepherds’ staffs fixed end to end with morning dew glue—

The nomad pedals furiously, never sleeping stopping or looking backward; two left hands miming smiles of waking dreams for swallows swooping down pecking kisses of levity upon his chapped muttony frown, saddened and dulled by the uniform passing view of wayward shepherdless sheep, aimless melting forms of boredom trickling down far off mole holes riddling the vast expanse of hills.

Where pristine sameness reigns, winter fall and summer are fibs of rogue mischief, the folly of phantom seasons carved in the far ends of the back scratcher by stray shepherds’ children orphaned by their fathers in pursuit of stolen staffs.

Throughout the hills, an endless spring asserts a timeless calm, lush with new beginnings, every buttercup has just bloomed, the fresh scent of clover wafts up from forward turning unicycle wheel as new eggs join swarms of brethren spontaneously—

Windswept facial pores tornadoing sweat off his brow—zigzagging in fierce rivulets through valleys between tightly crowding egg bumps pressing the limits of taut elastic skin—back scratcher answering a primordial itch—steaming fragile but invincible scrotum swelling up into a mountain thrusting into clouds—

The nomad is cloaked in the imperial shadows of glory—protruding with Portuguese-man-of-war severity—reflecting violent blue hues in spinning wheel spokes—

Binding monotreme umbra fusing he-she-it and platypus into one.

Across the hilly landscape, the penumbra engulfs the cog adrift in its wanton life cycle—

Portuguese hors d’ oeuvre-of war—ballooning into a host of infinite generosity.

Ecstatic cryptozoologists crawl out of the hills to classify the new species but it eludes their grasp—

Quack doctors with miracle cures, carrying weighty tomes entitled “ Elephantiasis of the scrotum, the laurels of a lofty masculinity” are swallowed up by the umbra before they can dupe their patient, naïve but inscrutable.

Seductive wood nymphs, try to extract the eggs orgasmicly, but fail to arouse the lust of the monkish unicyclist and are sent back to charm school—

Lachrymose tailors design elegant costumes too small for the nomad, poorly contoured to the ever-expanding scrotum bursting through impeding seams, threads, buttons, and lace; tailors drowning in tears shed over abandoned sartorial carrion littering the hills, cast off by the nomad pedaling naked and free.

Oviparous losers wait for the nomad to lay the eggs in honor of their legacy but vanish with disappointment—

Ovoviviparous dreamers erased by their own dust bum around forever to never hear the cracking of eggs hatching—

Viviparous demons rejoice with parthenogenetic tricksters mutually validated by the nomad’s triumphant existence—

The nomad cycles in darkness and light—following a random feral route beyond the limits of time and exhaustion—gelded by the cosmos in flux—the eunuch ushering in the continuum of a new breed—harsh winds tornadoing sweat off his brow—watering the buttercups and clover.

Via the mass of eggshells permeable, ravenous platypi bills suck up and regurgitate partially digested iotas of manhood, thus radically increasing and decreasing testosterone levels; every seven hill climbs, the nomad alternating between caricatured polarities of virility and effeminacy at regular intervals.

The nomad uttering cacophonous gibberish of resonant baritone interspersed with squeaky falsetto: AAAAOOOO-iiiiiiiii-I—ih!!—ihhhhhhh! OOOAHIOU—ihhh!

Trembling the mole, haunting the swallow, making the heart of the cryptozoologist beat fast with ecstatic expectation—

Dispersing stray shepherds’ children carving fibs of winter fall and summer in the far ends of the back scratcher—tingling the buttercups and clover….

The nomad built the back scratcher during virile phases, forcefully wrestling staffs from the tight grips of raging shepherds. He showed off for the nymphs, basking in idyllic glory; pedaling resolutely, unicycle wheel balanced and firm, back scratcher clenched heroically between mossy wind-warped teeth—

Two left arms subduing shepherds in full nelsons, hurling them towards distant future stars, morning dew gluing the fresh staff booty to the far ends of the back scratcher.

Two left arms subduing the fresh mold of cryptozoologists and quack doctors in half nelsons, thus erasing discovery of the new species and silencing medical sophistry—

Coquettish nymphs graduate from charm school with honors, enrapt by the nomad’s wrestling powers; charming nymphs lactating and soothing the motherless nomad older than the hills, squirting he-she-it with infatuated milk—quenching a lusty thirst every seven virile hill climbs—

Fickle nymphs fizzling at the cusp of the manly wane of the nomad turning into a monkish limp-wristed sissy.

Predatory mobs of raging shepherds intent on retrieving their staffs, roam the hills stalking the nomad during vulnerable phases of effeminacy—

If the shepherds ever get close enough to tackle the nomad, he twirls the back scratcher counterclockwise, manicly cycling in circles so fast until magically vanishing into the chasm of chapped muttony frown, emitting a deafening high-pitched falsetto screech—two left hands of the waking dream miming all the shepherds’ deepest fears—frightful sign language and piercing screech knocking shepherds off their feet, rolling downhill and slithering vanquished down far off mole holes.

The nomad thus cementing his dominion, emerging from the safety of the defensive trick, sissydom waning, giving way to toughness, the voice of a thousand pubertys cracking, deepening and tingling the buttercups and clover.

Deep in their shells, the platypi are hypnotized into memory and song by the relentless pace of the nomad’s cycling. The up-and-down rhythm of pedaling legs causing a faint chorus of tiny platypi bills to tap inner shells in harmony—singing the refrain of the last Dodo bird chirp trailing off into silence—mourning the inutility of the Dodo birds’ wing—celebrating the Dodo birds’ flight home to roost in hosts on a distant future star.

The hills tremble gently with masses of lulled footsteps of stray shepherds’ children, orphans of eternal spring, breaking into a somnolent gallop, driven towards the distant chorus of platypi bills tapping inner shells in harmony.

Policing deep in the nomad’s shadow an umbra-warden smothered in costume carrion, oversees a chain gang of crying tailors shackled ankle to ear with broken threads, seams, zippers, buttons, and lace—

The eggs continue to multiply beyond time, chimerical fauna never hatching, embarking on an eternal incubation and the scourge of ovoviviparous bums erased by their own dust—

Platypi feasting at the banquet of Portuguese-hors d’ oeuvre-of-war—scrotum ballooning into a host of infinite generosity—

Swarms of bluish eggs bulge over the saddle of the nomad’s unicycle far and wide, making pedaling most difficult—

But pedal he must.

The yoked transitional martyr caught between species, the first and last of its kind, ever so careful to remain undiscovered and not crush the precious eggs against the saddle.

Safe in their niche, the chorus of eggs grows louder, ringing violent blue hues in the nomad’s ears—

The nomad cycling to the rhythm of the platypi tapping inner egg shells, reverberating throughout his body in flux—

Two left arms flailing the wind with Dodo bird wing inutility, groping towards an aerodynamic majesty—

Two left hands glowing with sinistral clairvoyance, twirling the back scratcher glistening in the orange-grey dawn with morning dew glue, answering a primordial itch—

Imperial umbra reaching above endless hills, engulfing stars far and near—

Echoes of platypi bills tapping inner shells in harmony, tingling the buttercups and clover.

Richard Gessner is the author of The Conduit and Other Visionary Tales of Morphing Whimsy, published by Rain Mountain Press in 2017. An audiobook with the same title, narrated by Richard Gessner, is available on Amazon and published by Rain Mountain Press. His fantastic, speculative, surreal fiction has been featured in various publications, including Black Scat Review 24, Fiction International, Skidrow Penthouse, Seinundwerden, Air Fish, Another Chicago Magazine, Ice River, The Pannus Index, Happy, Mallife, Rampike, Coe Review, The Act, Oink!, Furious Fictions, Flesh & Blood, Tales Of Dark Fantasy and Horror, The Fiction Review, Lost and Found Times, and Aieee. His artwork has been exhibited and/or published in Raw Vision, Asbury Park Press, Pleiades Gallery, Hamilton Street Gallery, Cry Baby Gallery, The Court Gallery, Studio Montclair, Sulfur Surrealist Jungle, Pluto Artzine, and The Donald B. Palmer Museum, including a solo show. Additionally, he has created advertising for Rocklin Opticians in 2018 and 2019 and provided illustrations for Gene Frankel Theatre and Rockefeller Center, including “Gift of the Magi” and “Cop and the Anthem.”

About the illustrator: David Boyle has painted many oil paintings since the mid-nineties, which have sold well in Wellington, Palmerston Nth, and has sold sculptures from Hastings City Gallery in New Zealand. David’s art has been seen in online magazines and paperbacks such as Last Leaves, The Woodward Review, Five on the Fifth, Radar Poetry, Mollusc Lit, and Backwards Trajectory, with more coming. His website is boyleswellington.