Ampanill, Dulcotin
By: Josh Gonzalez
Tags: Fiction Writing, Fiction, Short Fiction, Short Story, Nautical Bright

Photo by Hal Gatewood on Unsplash

Until his death at eighty-five Aaron Cotton Vicker enjoyed retelling the story of how he had bought the leather couch. At that time Ampanill was still a vast fruitful land, with rolling hills of crumb deserts, where cotton fields grew in abundance. Atop the hills that surrounded the village of homespun houses where Cotton Vicker lived grew clusters of velvet trees, which could be seen from people’s windows, and it was known to everyone in the village that just beyond the ridge lay a dense forest. It was required, at that time, to travel miles to visit a neighbor, for most of the land was still uncolonized. There was a vast world out there waiting to be explored and the only restriction was one’s own fear.

Aaron Cotton Vicker was given the name Cotton after he had settled in Ampanill. His cotton fields had produced the best cotton in two states, so when he received his first Dolcotin award his neighbors began to call him Cotton.

The truth of the matter was that his wife Emily Cotton Vicker was the real farmer, for she had grown up in Ampanill. She was accustomed to the harsh fulfilling life, for it was all she knew, and it was her knowledge of plowing and working the dry crunchy land that yielded such bountiful fields. Aaron told the crowd this proudly, and so they also called her Cotton. The name was used interchangeably between the two, and they enjoyed it, for they had seen themselves as a team from the day they got married.

The Vicker’s had five children, and on quiet summer afternoons, when the light was setting over the horizon, Aaron would call his children into the house to sit around the stove. In winter the stove was the warmest place in the house, for northern Dolcotin had freezing winters and sweltering summers. By the golden light of the oven fire, Aaron told his children the story of the couch.

“My life,” he always began. “At the time it was rotten to the core. I was a speckleton.” A speckleton was Ampanill’s word for loser. Aaron Cotton Vicker still had his Californian accent, but over the years he had learned the dialect and slang of the people in Ampanill. He had learnt it well, and after only a few years the natives proclaimed that they could barely hear his up-world twang.

It was true what Aaron Cotton Vicker had said to his children, and there were times when he stood in the doorway of his house, looking out among the cotton fields, that he thought of his life before he had bought the couch; he would never go back. That was the one constant thought that had solidified in his mind the night after his wedding; he would never leave this strange land. He had known that his first day in Ampanill when Earl Deet had found him in the desert. There had been such warmth in Earl’s friendship that no one had ever given him in his past life. People in Ampanill cared and respected their neighbors.

The joy Cotton Vicker felt for his life in Ampanill was like a dream compared to the world he had come from. In his old life, where he was only known as Aaron Vicker, he had spent his days waiting for his life to change. Aaron had spent most of his time admiring other people’s accomplishments. From the outside, it seemed that people stumbled upon their successes. It was from this observation that Aaron developed the idea that if he just waited his time would come, so that’s what he did. He waited for people at his work to respect him, because he expected his reliability and dedication to the company to translate into his co-workers liking him. Little did he know, their desire to become friends with each other was built on their common interest to do as little work as possible, and still be seen as valuable workers. As a consequence, he was seen as a bootlicker.

Throughout most of his life, Aaron had been alone. He had never been on good terms with his family and had moved out for college at the age of eighteen. This had given him self reliance, but it also caused him to create habits that relied heavily on independence. The one thing that he had always desired was to find the love of his life, but women seldom took notice of him, and he rarely went out of his way to disprove their opinions.

His depression from the constant failings of his life had manifested itself in his shabby appearance and the extreme clutter of his small apartment. Aaron had gotten in the habit of moving, and as a result he lived his life out of cardboard boxes that lay scattered about his apartment piled on top of each other. He had decided to never unpack them, because in those boxes was the life of the man no one seemed to respect or deem worthy of love.

The day that Aaron Vicker had found the couch it had been raining. Two days before the storm he had woken up with the sudden realization that his life had derailed. It was at that moment that Aaron Vicker had decided to take charge of his life, and he set to work cleaning and unpacking the boxes. After all the work was finished he surveyed his apartment and decided it was time to buy furniture. It was because of this decision that he found himself standing in the rain on the corner of sixth street peering into the glass window of Borque’s Antique shop. On display was a leather couch that was in great condition. It was only fifty bucks as the sign placed in front of it excitedly proclaimed.

He went into the shop confident in his decision to make the purchase.

The shop was owned by an old man named Rick Millers. Rick was an energetic man with a passion for selling used things, and he heartily greeted Aaron as he made his way to the counter.

“I’m interested in buying the couch you have on display,” Aaron said, pointing towards the front of the shop.

Rick’s face lit up instantly. “Perfect, but I must warn you can’t return it once you buy it.”

“Is there something wrong with it?” Aaron asked with suspicion.

“Nothing broken if that’s what you are asking,” Rick said defensively.

“Then why is it so cheap?”

At Aaron’s question Rick lost his glow, and he seemed to regret having mentioned the return policy. A look in Rick’s eye told Aaron he had had this conversation before.

“It’s been sitting in my shop for five years now,” Rick said.

“Really? It looks brand new.”

“It is.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow. Rick sighed, and proceeded to tell the story.

“I got it from a man five years ago. He had apparently barely used it. He was one of those people who put plastic covers over their furniture,” Rick said this with a roll of his eyes. “He came in here with the strangest story I’ve ever heard. He said his wife had completely disappeared. The strange man was clearly out of his wits ’cause he blamed it on the couch! After that I’ve tried to sell the dang thing, for like you said it is in great condition, but people always come back to return it.”

“Is it haunted or something?”

“No,” Rick said. Aaron expected him to say no in hopes of still selling the couch, but Rick’s tone indicated he was being genuine. “No one ever complained about ghosts or anything. They just returned it.”

Aaron looked back at the couch. It was too good of a deal to pass up. Plus he could always get rid of it some other way. He wanted it for his new start, so with confidence he turned back to Rick and bought it.

He set it up in his living room and for the first couple of days nothing strange happened. He soon forgot about the stories Rick Miller had told him and settled into his new life. Then one day as he sat down to watch some TV on his day off something strange happened — he felt himself fall back. It was very similar to the feeling one gets when you go to sit down and there isn’t a chair there. In an instant he was falling backwards, and he passed straight through the cracks between the cushions of the couch.

Aaron continued to fall, but not long after he landed on a soft mound of cotton. He had expected it to be dark inside a couch, but it was actually quite bright. There was a blue sky overhead, and as he peered around he noticed that there were more mounds of cotton, like the one he had landed on, scattered about the place. The ground was crunchy and brown like dirt. As he began to move about the place he suddenly stumbled upon a road.

There was no denying it was a road, and it went on into the distance. From the vantage point of the road, Aaron Vicker soon realized that he was standing in a desert. The cotton mounds were boulders made of cotton and there were even cacti, although from this angle he couldn’t tell what they were made out of. The desert floor was made of crumbs, and he could tell this very clearly when he picked up a full potato chip.

The land that lay before him was vast; he was in another world. Aaron felt a bit of anxiety from the horizon, but he also felt a sense of excitement.

He was just about to follow the road when a leather car came down it. Aaron moved off the road to let it pass, but it slowed down, and a young man rolled down the window.

“Good day to ya,” the man said. He was clearly not much older than twenty-five. The young man talked with a strong accent, and when he asked Aaron a question Aaron had to ask him to repeat it. He was not at all annoyed by this but gladly said again, “Did ye come on down by the sky shoots?”

“Sky shoots?” Aaron asked. He looked up at the blue sky. He was beginning to feel the desert heat, and he wiped sweat from his forehead.

The young man understood that he had confused Aaron. “Did ye fall through the couch?”

Aaron was quite surprised by the man’s knowledge of the couch, but at the same time it made him feel better. “Yeah, how did you know?”

“All the new citizens come from one of ’em couches.”

“There are more?”

“Yes, Sir. There are a good forty couctries out there,” he pointed out towards the horizon. “Come on, hop inside I’ll take ya to Ampanill.”

Aaron gladly got inside the car, and they began to drive down the road.

“My name is Earl Deet,” Earl said.

“I’m Aaron,” Aaron only glanced at Earl, for he was peering around the horizon as they drove down the road. “Where did you say we are?”

“Ampanill,” Earl said. He said it with his harsh accent so that it sounded like there might be an r in there somewhere. Aaron went with what he thought he heard.

“Arm what?”

“A’m nothin’,” Earl laughed. “I said Ampanill.” Earl pronounced both arm and am the same way, and now Aaron was sure he had heard correctly — Arm Panel.

“That’s a city?”

“That’s right. Ampanill, Dolcotin.”

“Doll cotton?”

“Yep, Dolcotin is the state.”

“Ah,” Aaron said. “How do people get out?”

“Now, why ye wantin’ to be getting out for? I’s lived here me whole life. Best place in the world,” Earl said proudly.

It was at this moment as I have stated above that Aaron Vicker had decided that he didn’t want to leave. He hadn’t even seen Ampanill, but he knew that this was the chance for a new life.

“No one’s ever gotten out, as far as I know,” Earl added. “I’s not even sure there is a way out.”

And Aaron Cotton Vicker never looked. When he told the story to his children he added in an adventure of Dustcats attacking the car and how Uncle Earl and him fought them off. The children always got excited over this part, for Dustcats prowled the forests and stole children in the night to eat them in their dens.

Cotton Vicker died in his sleep surrounded by his children and grandchildren. He was buried near his house, which was sewn out of wool and rayon, in the family cemetery next to his wife. Up until his last breath of life he never regretted buying the leather couch on that rainy day.