Cellist v. Censor

The Cellist wakes to the low rumble of a diesel engine. She looks to the north and sees a tractor. It trundles along, plowing under the tall weeds of early spring. Inside, a Farmer wearing a plaid jacket and long-brimmed cap sits, face obscured.

It's a beautiful morning. Crisp air, the first in months not soured by the smell of human rot. Light blue sky overhead. The oak's branches birth light green buds. The forest in the distance takes the start of a dark, verdant hue. Daffodils rise from the base of the posts past the mass grave, demarcating the border between the grounds and the field.

The hideous shack is still hideous, but now stands sturdier. Gaps during late winter had been filled by boards or plastic or corrugated tin. If the Farmer has any issue with the shack and the motor by the shack, he doesn't show it. He plows around the home and the well, leaving ample space.

The Censor, who arrives a few hours after the Cellist wakes, is dressed for the season: a bright yellow sweater, brown slacks, a pink collared shirt, sports jacket. He greets the Cellist warmly. They soon fall into pleasant discussion.

I can't think of anything more rewarding, says the Censor, the creation of art that all can enjoy. And the music you perform as a cellist does just that.

The Cellist thanks him.

I love art without smut, he continues. Nothing in my opinion mars expression more than, say, an off-color joke or potty humor, or things that ordinary, decent people - Ohioans for example - would find morally offensive.

The Cellist admits that even if she wanted to perform a smutty piece on her cello, there's probably very little chance she could.

That's because the cello is, in essence, I think, a - ah, profoundly moral instrument.

The Cellist isn't sure whether to agree or disagree, so she smiles. The tractor rumbles by the north posts.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.