This Story Unfolds in Medieval Surrealism. Carlos del Puente Stories

The cathedral bells of Saint Paradoxus rang backward, their bronze tongues licking time into spirals as Inspector Abelard the Unblinking arrived in the village of Nonsensica, a place where the river flowed uphill on Tuesdays and the blacksmith forged swords from solidified whispers. His mission was simple: to investigate the theft of the Sacred Chicken of Contradiction, a fowl said to lay eggs containing either profound truths or terrible puns, depending on the phase of the moon. The chicken had vanished from its gilded coop during the annual Feast of Unanswered Questions, an event where villagers debated whether silence was a color or a flavor, and the local bard had been arrested for rhyming crimes against nature.

Abelard, a man whose left eye saw the past and whose right eye wept ink, made his way to the Paradox family estate, a castle built entirely of doors—some leading to rooms that didn’t exist, others to the same room but with different lighting. The Paradoxes were notorious for their inability to agree on anything, including which direction gravity should pull, and their household was a cacophony of clashing realities.

At the castle’s heart sat Patriarch Zeno Paradox, a man who communicated exclusively in unsolvable riddles and wore a cloak stitched from unfinished sentences. His wife, Matriarch Hildegard of the Floating Head, had divorced her body years ago and now existed as a disembodied voice that emanated from the chandelier, offering unsolicited advice in iambic pentameter. Their children, the twins Tweedle-Debt and Tweedle-Doubt, were conjoined at the wallet and shared a single pair of pants, which they argued over daily on philosophical grounds.

But the true chaos simmered in the presence of Uncle Quixote the Literal, who insisted that metaphors were a government conspiracy, and Aunt Scheherazade the Never-Ending, who had been telling the same story since 1247 and refused to die until someone guessed the ending. The grandparents, both natural and by marriage, loomed like malfunctioning gargoyles: Grandfather Oedipus the Self-Made, who had legally married his own shadow, and Grandmother Lady Lazarus, who rose from the dead every fortnight to complain about the quality of modern resurrection.

The investigation began with Abelard interrogating the last person to see the chicken, Cousin Hamlet the Indecisive, a man who took twenty minutes to choose which foot to step forward with and had recently rewritten the Ten Commandments as a series of maybe-suggestions. The chicken, Hamlet murmured while staring at a skull he’d found in the garden (which may or may not have been his own), had grown tired of being a symbol and fled to join a troupe of anarchist mimes performing The Divine Comedy in interpretive dance.

Meanwhile, the family’s debates reached a fever pitch. Zeno declared that the chicken’s theft was both happening and not happening simultaneously, while Hildegard’s floating head countered that existence itself was an overrated plot device. The twins, ever the contrarians, insisted the chicken was a tax evasion scheme disguised as poultry, a theory they demonstrated by attempting to pay the castle’s rent in existential dread.

But it was Grandmother Lady Lazarus who derailed the central theme. She rejected the chicken’s sacred status outright, claiming it was actually a soup ingredient that had gotten delusions of grandeur. In defiance, she exhumed a spoon from the cemetery (where it had been buried next to a turnip named Destiny) and began stirring the air violently, creating a vortex that turned the castle’s moat into a broth of unanswered prayers. Her rebellion caused the sky to rain footnotes, each one critiquing the narrative’s pacing.

Abelard’s ink-tear eye spilled prose as he documented the madness. He noted the cathedral bells now ringing in sonnet form, the twins’ pants becoming sentient and filing for divorce, and Uncle Quixote’s duel with a dictionary he mistook for a heretic. The inspector soon realized the chicken was irrelevant—the true crime was the family’s refusal to let reality settle into a single version. Without consensus, the world began to fray: the drawbridge melted into a puddle of bad metaphors, and the portraits in the great hall blinked out of existence, one by one, as if erased by an unseen critic.

By the witching hour, the castle had become a tangle of conflicting plotlines. Abelard fled with only a single clue clutched in his fist—a feather that smelled of irony and bore the chicken’s final words: This was never about me.

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