Owen Perry is a freshman living in Eastern Kansas. Being both raised in the era of the Internet and fond of technology, he is used to change, technical and social. When he's not writing, he can be found tweaking his Linux computer or chipping away at one of the video games in his vast collection.
A Tale as Old as Black and Blue
The bell over the Hillside Bar’s door rang as Randall passed through, serving as a reminder of financial place almost as blunt as his paycheck. Tonight would mark another night he’d give just to get by, tending to patrons that would just come and go. Giving a hopeful glance over to the bar itself, the tender could only groan at what he saw: clean glasses, clean bottles, properly distanced seats, and general visible upkeep. Great, now he was without much reason to tend to the trivial just to pass the time.
All that was left for Randall to do now was to listen to the combined thrum of the old air conditioner, cars on the nearby road, and the tripe they had on the TVs around the place, and let the boring reality fade out in the static. Actually fulfilling his job description was a second, as little to no one actually came through in the hours he worked, and even less did now. Getting his crumb off of the monetary pie was at least a fairly safe affair, he figured. If no one came, he’d still get paid, and those who did regularly run by the Hillside on his shift were too tired to be tough customers, so there was nothing to fear--just something to meet with contempt.
At least, that’s what it seemed like for the first hour or so. Understandably, not many were clamoring for a drink on a Tuesday after 9 p.m., so the bell over the door remained dead silent. As soon as the clock hit 10:10 p.m., Randall snapped from the trance of listening to the world go by, because he noticed the rattle of a car get closer. Someone was coming by--yet, instead of treating it like a godsend, Randall got a tad wary. Business was slow, sure, but it was understandably so at this hour. Who would be coming now?
Coincidentally, the same thing was likely on the mind of the new face. It’d only take a look at their car to determine that, as “Gailsworth Police” was in bold white lettering on the black van.
Boldly, a knight clad in steel armor--which made his every step sound like a giant’s--swung open the tavern door. He had received word of a fearsome dragon likely on the premises from a humble peasant, and trusting their word, made his way over to the seedy establishment nestled on the hillside. Giving a sweeping glance, though, no such presence was immediately visible. Once he heard the only other soul out with other tavern patrons--the bartender--speak up, though, he caught on to their suspicions.
The clatter of armor marked the moment he went from a bold entrance to a vigilant rest. Both of his eyes were on the bartender, and the moment a word left his mouth, his full attention as well.
“Not a word, dragon, or I’ll clip those wings,” the knight snipped, stone in his duty.
“Sir, you’re making assumptions here—,” the bartender got in before getting cut off.
“Not. A. Word. I know you’re here to steal tavern gold, as no skin wrap you wear coats the sound of that forked tongue.”
The tavern went silent. Behind the helm, the knight had a grin unbecoming of his station. He was quick in deducing just what the threat was and making his purpose clear. There was clearly a reason why the lord of the land appointed him to protect and serve the public. No one was better at keeping the land clear of disgusting creatures like ogres, goblins, and most revolting of all, the oversized lizard rejects others called dragons. No one else was even quite allowed to try to.
“Do I make myself clear, serpent?” the knight chimed in, wondering if the bumbling creature had caught his words.
“Crystal,” the bartender said, the venom in his tone enough to fell a man in a second.
“Good.”
Randall was fully on his guard at this point. Not only had an officer come in at 10:12 p.m. on a Tuesday, an odd time for anyone to be at a bar, he was exactly the type of officer to come into a bar at 10:12 p.m. on a Tuesday--a flagrantly foul fool. He kept to his word, though, and didn’t pipe up again--at least to him, that is. Eyes darting away from the officer, he reached into his pocket, grasping at his phone... only to be met with a shout.
“Put your hands where I can see them!” the brute in blue bellowed.
“I’m just reaching for my phone, officer—,” Randall responded, before immediately obliging as he glanced back at the barrel of a gun pointed directly at his head.
“That’s what the last one said.”
“Sir, I’ll show you. It is just my phone,” Randall tried to reply calmly, his voice wavering a tad under life-or-death pressure.
Slowly, Randall moved his hand down towards his pocket, thumb moving over the button to turn it on. Hopefully, the commonly heard sound of the phone’s model turning on would alert the officer that he was telling the truth.
Three heavy seconds passed, and with a click, there was nothing.
Randall slumped over the counter, unequivocally dead.
An innocent man’s blood painted the bar like a work of irredeemable faff only a misanthrope would call “art.”
Over it, the officer stood, with a start of a smile unbecoming of his station.
*
The next day, the lord of the land sought council with the knight. What words came from his mouth stung a tad, but didn’t surprise him. He had mishandled dealing with the dragon masquerading as the bartender, and because of the lack of clear aggression shown, the title of knight would be revoked. At least, those were the main takeaways. The fact that the bartender was only a man was ignored, despite how a good part of the talk--more of a long reprimand, but still a talk--harped on just that.
Nothing more came of the slaughter of the beast, and that was fine enough for the man clad in steel. He didn’t don his steel again, but he was alive. After all, one less wretch was in the world.
One less innocent.
Nothing more came of Randall--including any lawsuits, yet excluding getting fired--and that was fine enough for the man clad in blue. He didn’t wear a badge again, but he was alive. After all, one less potential rabble-rouser was in the world.
One less innocent.
Ages passed, and the tale started anew--the very tale itself as old as black and blue.
Nothing more came of the slaughter of the beast, and that was fine enough for the man clad in steel. He didn’t don his steel again, but he was alive. After all, one less wretch was in the world.
One less innocent.
Nothing more came of Randall--including any lawsuits, yet excluding getting fired--and that was fine enough for the man clad in blue. He didn’t wear a badge again, but he was alive. After all, one less potential rabble-rouser was in the world.
One less innocent.
Ages passed, and the tale started anew--the very tale itself as old as black and blue.
A Conversation between Owen Perry and Lily Bechtold
1. Hi, Owen! We’re so happy to have the opportunity to speak with you today. What made you decide to write “A Tale as Old as Black and Blue”?
Hello! I’m both quite honored and quite happy to have this platform to speak. Three things together were chiefly the reasons I decided to write “A Tale as Old as Black and Blue”: a strong reaction of mine to the many horrific instances of police violence within the current national conversation, a bit of ongoing experimentation that I was doing with my talents in writing prior to my writing of this piece, and a realization of mine that the two prior items could go hand in hand. Holding a strong opinion to express whilst developing my style of artistic expression made push come to shove, and lo, “A Tale as Old as Black and Blue” came to be.
2. The story of “A Tale as Old as Black and Blue” is one that most of us know intimately, one we have seen play out time and time again. How do you think taking this particular story and choosing to tell it in the framework of a fantasy world brings new meaning to it?
Choosing to tell “A Tale as Old as Black and Blue” partly in the framework of a fantasy world, I don’t believe, is something that brings new meaning to the painfully age-old story of police brutality—it serves to highlight elements of it that have always been present. The framing serves to highlight that the “hero” pedestal police officers are put on can easily be abused, that police brutality is not some new phenomenon, and—by extent—that police brutality is a systemic issue because of its recurrence.
3. I think the line “An innocent man’s blood painted the bar like a work of irredeemable faff only a misanthrope would call ‘art’” offers a very concise, powerful commentary on the commodification of acts of police violence. How else does this story speak to that particular theme?
To be entirely honest, even though I do realize how that line would speak to the commodification of acts of police violence, I didn’t consider that theme whatsoever while writing. Due to that, I can’t think of anything within “A Tale as Old as Black and Blue” that I believe would speak to that theme. Though, it does bring to mind an interesting question to consider: the question of an author’s intention vs. the audience’s reading in any given work. I believe, of the two classes of interpretations, an author’s intent holds weight over an audience member’s interpretation, and thus should always be considered within interpretation. What an author could feasibly think and thus feasibly express cannot completely be removed from a work, so they should always be a factor within interpretation.
4. You repeat the motif of “a grin unbecoming of [the knight’s] station” a few times here. It’s a powerful line; what motivates it? What does it mean to you?
What motivated that line, solely, was a want to not be too vague with the metaphor I made within the text. Because of such a want, I thought to link both the knight and the officer through use of repetition—and therein lies the meaning I see in it. The story of police brutality keeps repeating, even in the smallest, initially innocuous ways—and I believe that line serves to convey that.
5. What kinds of social impacts do you see poetry and literature as having? How do you think your work participates in the literary conversation about social change?
I believe the social impacts of poetry and literature, considering the infinite possibilities in the written word, are similarly infinite. Any given work of literature or poetry can reflect the social climate of its day, press for a better one in an act of protest, or do something entirely different—it all depends on what words are written where, how those words are written, and a number of other factors. When I expressly intend for it to—as not all of my work centers around social issues—my work participates in the literary conversation about social change by exploring a selection of ideas on any given social issue I write about, and taking a clear stance on those ideas.
6. Young people in the current generation are very politically and socially active; how does being a part of this generation inform your work? What kind of unique and valuable insights do you think young creatives are bringing to the table right now?
Truly, I think being a part of this generation informs my work by informing me that I can create such work, that my input—on a grand scale—won’t be dismissed simply because I’ve been alive for a shorter stint than a large part of the population. It’s encouraging to watch fellow young folk go out, actually speak their mind, and provide a new, possibly better look at social issues than most out there. On an entirely related note, I believe the kind of unique and valuable insights young creatives are bringing to the table right now are, quite simply, new ones. New perspectives are always valuable, and with young creatives growing up in a time so distinctly different than those before, they are developing and expressing nothing but new perspectives.
7. In your bio, you mention the effects of technology on your life. How do you think being “raised in the era of the Internet” impacts your work?
I believe being raised in the era of the Internet impacts my work chiefly through existing at the same time as it. Thanks to the Internet, within seconds, I can access information on any given thing that exists and use it within or as an influence on my work. Through that, my work isn’t just impacted; it’s informed and shaped to a degree any young creative in a time before such a technology wouldn’t feasibly be able to achieve.
8. What are some of your creative hopes for the future? How can our readers keep up with your work?
My creative hopes for the future are as follows: to push limits to notable extents, to explore a good portion of topics that I’d like to write about, and to create out of want and never out of need. As for how readers can keep up with my work, I believe the best answer to that question I think I can give at this point is this: no matter what I decide to do with my work, it’ll have my name attached. I’m not exactly sure how or where I may decide to have my future work published, but no matter what, my name will be on it. Any readers wishing to keep up with my work can look out for it.