A Monument to Adam

creative nonfiction
by Mark Twain


Just for fun, we occasionally publish vintage pieces from historic authors.
Some one has revealed to the TRIBUNE that I once suggested to Rev. Thomas K. Beecher, of Elmira, New York, that we get up a monument to Adam, and that Mr. Beecher favored the project. There is more to it than that. The matter started as a joke, but it came somewhat near to materializing.

It is long ago--thirty years. Mr. Darwin's DESCENT OF MAN had been in print five or six years, and the storm of indignation raised by it was still raging in pulpits and periodicals. In tracing the genesis of the human race back to its sources, Mr. Darwin had left Adam out altogether. We had monkeys, and "missing links," and plenty of other kinds of ancestors, but no Adam. Jesting with Mr. Beecher and other friends in Elmira, I said there seemed to be a likelihood that the world would discard Adam and accept the monkey, and that in the course of time Adam's very name would be forgotten in the earth; therefore this calamity ought to be averted; a monument would accomplish this, and Elmira ought not to waste this honorable opportunity to do Adam a favor and herself a credit.

Then the unexpected happened. Two bankers came forward and took hold of the matter--not for fun, not for sentiment, but because they saw in the monument certain commercial advantages for the town. The project had seemed gently humorous before--it was more than that now, with this stern business gravity injected into it. The bankers discussed the monument with me. We met several times. They proposed an indestructible memorial, to cost twenty-five thousand dollars. The insane oddity of a monument set up in a village to preserve a name that would outlast the hills and the rocks without any such help, would advertise Elmira to the ends of the earth-- and draw custom. It would be the only monument on the planet to Adam, and in the matter of interest and impressiveness could never have a rival until somebody should set up a monument to the Milky Way.

People would come from every corner of the globe and stop off to look at it, no tour of the world would be complete that left out Adam's monument. Elmira would be a Mecca; there would be pilgrim ships at pilgrim rates, pilgrim specials on the continent's railways; libraries would be written about the monument, every tourist would kodak it, models of it would be for sale everywhere in the earth, its form would become as familiar as the figure of Napoleon.

One of the bankers subscribed five thousand dollars, and I think the other one subscribed half as much, but I do not remember with certainty now whether that was the figure or not. We got designs made-- some of them came from Paris.

In the beginning--as a detail of the project when it was yet a joke-- I had framed a humble and beseeching and perfervid petition to Congress begging the government to built the monument, as a testimony of the Great Republic's gratitude to the Father of the Human Race and as a token of her loyalty to him in this dark day of humiliation when his older children were doubting and deserting him. It seemed to me that this petition ought to be presented, now--it would be widely and feelingly abused and ridiculed and cursed, and would advertise our scheme and make our ground-floor stock go off briskly. So I sent it to General Joseph R. Hawley, who was then in the House, and he said he would present it. But he did not do it. I think he explained that when he came to read it he was afraid of it: it was too serious, to gushy, too sentimental--the House might take it for earnest.

We ought to have carried out our monument scheme; we could have managed it without any great difficulty, and Elmira would now be the most celebrated town in the universe.

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Mark Twain was the pen name of Samuel Langhorne Clemens (1835 – 1910), often characterized as the greatest American humorist. In addition to innumerable stories and essays, he is remembered for his novels, including Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.

 

The Ballerina from Brighton Beach

by Olivia Stanfield

The air in the windowless corridor was heavy with competing smells; hairspray, saccharine body mists, ballet chalk plus something sharp and acidic; nerves.

“Do you know what happened?”

“No, do you? My agent got a call; they want everyone who made it to the final round back so they can replace her.”

“Didn’t she have an understudy?”

“Yeah, but apparently she has crabs.” Chirps of embarrassed laughter bounced along the hall. “I’m not kidding. She got caught itching like crazy in Wardrobe. I heard she can only come back with a doctor’s note. ”

“Oh my God, that’s so gross.”

“Right?”

“I heard the prima tripped.”

“Slipped is more like it. You know who it was. I bet it was vodka.” The “v” is pronounced as a “w” and the chirps crescendo quickly and become snickers.

“Really? You think it was her? That’s terrible.” A stage whisper, chins tilt towards that ballerina, the one whose face was hidden as she leaned over the phone that rested in her lap.

“For the prima it is. Not for her.” Now there was a gesture, a subtle jolt of a fist with the thumb arching backwards, in that ballerina’s direction.

“I guess.”

The ballerina in question, straw-yellow hair perfectly glazed to her skull, bun tightly pinned below her crown, unfolded her long pink-clad legs and rose from the floor along the wall.

She tightened the belt of her black wrap sweater and asked, “Tуалет?” The chatter faded; the foreign word hung in the stale air of the crammed hallway. No one answered.

Turning her bird-like neck to the right, she looked down at a young woman seated next to where she now stood. Bending at the waist, she leaned down, loudly exhaling the offensive word: “Tooo-a-lee-yet?”

“Toilet? You mean bathroom? Downstairs, by the front door.”

“Spasiba.

The ballerina lifted her bag. She picked her way through the minefield of legs, duffels and water bottles to the door that opened onto a grimy staircase. The fresh air from the street door below cooled her flushed cheeks.

At the bottom of the staircase she turned, colliding with a short stocky woman pushing a janitor’s cart, thick dark hair wound tied loosely at the nape of her neck. The woman’s broad forehead ricocheted off the ballerina’s sharp sternum. She read the tag above the woman’s breast: Milagros - Liberty Cleaning. Milagros moaned, rubbing her brow with one chapped hand. “Oh my gosh,” the ballerina whispered in perfect English, “I am so sorry. Come here, let’s see.”

She herded the stunned woman into the restroom, wet a paper towel and placed it on the woman’s forehead. From her bag, the ballerina pulled a small pouch and from it, an unmarked bottle. She popped the lid, knocked two pink pills into her palm, swallowed them dry. She grimaced into the mirror, then towards Milagros. “I need this lead so bad, but I think they know.”

Qué?” Milagros looked up the stairwell. The stick-limbed shellacked girls from the first floor made her nervous.

“It was me, I spilled water onstage. I’m so screwed.”

“Someone iz eslipping? Where? I go clean.” Milagros reached for her mop.

The ballerina from Brighton Beach stared down at the concerned woman whose forehead wrinkled. Regret spread under the ballerina’s black leotard, prickling her skin. Playing Confession with this random cleaner in the bathroom, in English? She pulled her thin shoulders back, recovered the swanlike angle of her neck. “Nyet, spasiba,” the ballerina said harshly. In a flash of scissoring legs and pink tights, she flew up the stairs and back to the claustrophobic lycra-filled hallway.

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Olivia Stanfield is an author and mother of three who lives in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Originally from Manhattan by way of Middleburg, VA, she is querying her first novel and preparing to start her second in addition to occasional bouts of poetry and flash fiction. You can find her in all her bilingual bizarreness online at www.oliviastanfield.com or @buenosairesmonamour.substack.com

 

October 22, 2025







 

Dear Jimmy

creative nonfiction
by Holly Redell Witte


I wish you hadn’t died without answering my messages over the years. Maybe you didn’t see them. Maybe you just didn’t want to connect with me. I wish I knew. I still can’t get over that I was thinking about you one day and then saw your obituary in the NYT the absolute next day. I wanted to tell you that.

It’s not as if we were good friends growing up. You were three years older so not in my everyday circle. But, our parents were good friends so, by default, we were, too. I wanted to tell you I couldn’t remember you at camp even though I know you built the sets for all the plays we put on there, and I was at the theatre every possible moment because I otherwise hated sleep-away camp. I didn’t play sports except swimming, and I really hated having to get up so early because it was cold. Ridiculous that it was summer camp and I wore my winter jacket to the flag-raising ceremony every morning. I wanted to know if you remembered me from camp.

I wanted to tell you that my niece had your brother as a math teacher in high school. That’s probably not so much of a coincidence since we were so rooted in where we grew up that I’m not surprised he stayed close to home.

But most of all, I wanted to tell you how amazed and happy I am to find out you were a world-renowned sculptor and in cardboard, of all things. I found out so much when I watched the documentary about you, Carboard Bernini. What a great name. In a million years, from that time I knew you when you were so mysterious, I would never have guessed that all those boxes you used from your father’s car antenna business would turn you into a Fulbright scholar, get you great art commissions like designing the Jethro Tull Stand Up album cover, the one I just ordered from eBay so I can have some of your art in my life.

That was why I sent you messages at your website anyway. I want to own a piece of your art because it seems like everything our group has done is part of each other. Maybe it’s just me, but in the documentary when you talked about your existential fear of mortality, starting when you were a kid, I understood it. You were always mysterious then and I’m sure we didn’t talk much but I know that fear you have. I have it too.

I wanted to talk to you about that, try to understand it, try to see if it was something having to do with how we grew up in such a tight circle with the same exposure to our faith, to teachers, to books, when every parent was every child’s parent. I wanted to tell you how wonderful it was to watch you in your studio, carving eyelashes out of cardboard for one of your monumental figures.

But you never answered me. And now all I have are the documentaries, your artwork to look at online, lamenting that some of it only exists online because you had this crazy idea that it only served its universal purpose if you let the cardboard sculptures dissolve in the rain. I really want to know much more about that.

Dear Jimmy. I wish you had answered me.

Cheers,
Holly

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Holly Redell Witte is so lucky to live and write in La Conner, WA. She's also lucky to have had work published in Blood+Honey, Screamin Mamas, and a couple of anthologies. Some days she sees three squirrels munching on berries in the tree right outside of her writing window.

 

We Are At War

by Oskar Greenblatt

I open a window to get some fresh air, and she turns up the thermostat. I tell her to wear a sweater, and she says, “That won’t warm the air I have to breathe.” When she clamps an icy hand to the back of my neck, I jump and shudder, and she laughs. I decide to make her an appointment with an endocrinologist. Meanwhile, I sit on the porch, drinking lemonade.

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Credit: This piece originally published at Paragraph Planet.

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Oskar Greenblatt is a retired software developer.

 

Cafeteria Rebel

by Liz deBeer

Davey Tooker – angry that failing his fucking history test got him cut him from fall football – threw a plate of spaghetti, greasy marinara sauce dripping down the cafeteria cement wall. Cracked plate pieces, strings of pasta, clumps of tomatoey ground beef broke apart conversations about Homecoming Dance dates and after-party plans.

In silence, we waited for the principal to drag Davey to the Main Office before resuming our lunch-time banter. But then Davey’s best friend Jon Mitchell flung a handful of brownish-green beans at the same wall, just above the reddish glop, so we rose up in solidarity, chucking rubbery hot dogs, warm chocolate milk, jelly-oozing-peanut-butter sandwiches, and over-cooked Tater Tots at each other while Davey stood with his fist raised in the center of the cafeteria, bits of vanilla pudding smeared on his head like bird droppings on the Statue of Liberty. We roared: We want pizza! We want fried chicken! Never surrender!

Later, Homecoming Dance cancelled, parents asked, What-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you? Don’t-you-know-how-to-act? We stared at the adults like they were idiots, later congratulating each other for our righteous protest. Davey, punished with a week-long suspension, ate stale bread and ketchup alone at home, secretly craving the cafeteria’s spaghetti, garlic bread on the side.

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Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative. Her flash has appeared in BULL, Fictive Dream, Switch and others. She is a volunteer reader at Flash Fiction Magazine. Follow Liz at www.ldebeerwriter.com or https://lizardstale.substack.com or @lizdebeerwriter.bsky.social.