Joe Alan Artz: A CONTENTED SUN RISES • Cleaver Magazine

Joe Alan Artz
A CONTENTED SUN RISES

Envelopes of Very Small People keep arriving in my mailbox. I bring each envelope in and gently slit open the top flap. The people come out slowly, gasping in awe, looking all around. They spread out across my apartment. They explore, find small nooks and crannies, settle in. They raise magnolias in tiny pots. The peculiar charm of a magnolia breeze wafts through my four rooms along with Celtic music, or something similar, that the people play and sing.

The settlers, hardly aware of my presence, require nothing of me. Farmers plant small grains and leafy greens in the soil built up in the gaps between floorboards. Shepherds tend flocks of dust bunnies in the gloom beneath the couch. Come spring, they shear fleeces of lint from the bunnies that others weave into fabrics to be scissored and stitched into clothing, using patterns centuries old.

The Very Small People prosper. Market towns spring up. I live in terror of crushing people underfoot, but as they establish fixed roadways between settlements, I adjust my routes to theirs. Where our paths must cross, they set flashing red lights on poles, turned up at an angle to catch my eye as I approach.

Every new envelope that arrives increases their population. The economy and birthrates grow apace. The roads grow congested, a trend that continues until butterflies begin arriving in small boxes, delivered by Amazon. The boxes have air holes and are labeled “FRAGILE: Living Things.” When the Very Small People get a text saying a box has been delivered, they text me to bring it in. Those knowledgeable of butterflies gather round as I lift the flaps. “Stand back,” they shout as butterflies burst forth in iridescent swirls. Floor traffic dwindles as travel goes airborne. The smallest butterflies carry one passenger, lying prone along the thorax. Larger ones carry up to seven, seated, bent knees gripping the thorax tight. The largest—tropical giants—carry cargo.

Population and prosperity increase at Malthusian rates. Very Small People inhabit every flat surface in my apartment, anywhere gravity allows. Butterflies spangle the airspace, everywhere that gravity has no influence. Wherever I choose to stand or sit, suburban sprawl encroaches. In the end, I find myself crowded into a corner with only my laptop, minifridge, and a chemical toilet. Sitting cross-legged on the fridge, I gaze, mesmerized, into and across an exuberant New World in motion. I feel bliss. I’ve never known what it’s like to belong. I’ve never felt so much at home.

A group of developers clusters below, debating whether to demolish the minifridge and build houses or convert it to luxury apartments. “Apartments,” I call down. “Great view from the top floors.” The developers look up, astonished. Their generation has forgotten I exist.

Gravity lets go. I rise to the ceiling, the only place left where I’m not in the way. Lying there, on my back, hands behind my head, I beam down on their realm, the contented sun of Very Small People.

Joe Alan Artz, a native of rural Kansas, is a retired archaeologist. He writes short fiction and poetry in the coffeehouses of Iowa City, Iowa. His published work has appeared in The MacGuffin, Beecher’s (now Landlocked), Prompt Press, Wapsipinicon Almanac, Daily Palette, and Diverse Arts Project. Joe’s flash fiction piece “A Contented Sun Rises” was a finalist in Cleaver’s 2022 Flash Contest.