‘The People Versus The Memory’

Irakli Mirzashvili grew up in a family of visual artists in Tbilisi, country of Georgia, and enjoys working in oil pastels, creating collages, and photography. His artwork has been exhibited in the United States and Georgia. After living in rural Alaska, the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, and the great plains of Kansas, Irakli resides in the Austin, Texas, area.

The People Versus The Memory

Judge Harrington, who had a three-sentence memory and therefore held the highest cognitive rank in the room, knew there was a man on trial. He knew this because there was a man sitting in the defendant’s box, and the defendant’s box was, by definition, for men who were on trial. The man’s name was Gregory Stevens. Or at least, that was the name on the docket, which the bailiff would announce every time the proceedings ground to a halt, which was every thirty seconds.

“The continuing trial of Gregory Stevens!” the bailiff would boom, his one-sentence memory a flash of brilliant, fleeting purpose.

Everyone would look at Gregory Stevens. Gregory Stevens would look at his hands.

“I’m not sure why I’m here,” Stevens would say, which was the one true thing that had been said in this courtroom for what felt to him like weeks. It might have been weeks. He couldn’t be sure.

“Of course you know why you’re here,” Prosecutor Albright would snap, rising with the magnificent fury of a woman who had just been handed a loaded gun. She had a two-sentence memory, which made her a deadly short-range combatant. “You are here because on the night of the fifth, you willfully and with malice aforethought, disturbed the municipal tranquility!”

It was a brilliant opening. A powerful one-two punch. The jury, a collection of dazed one-and-a-halfers, leaned forward. This was it. This was the time it would finally make sense.

But then Albright would take a breath, and the intake of air would trigger the Rule. Her righteous fire would vanish, replaced by a profound sense of professional duty. She would look at the man in the box with fresh eyes.

“And it is the prosecution’s solemn duty to determine who you are and what you have done,” she would conclude, her voice now filled with investigative curiosity.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out,” Stevens would mumble, but no one heard him.

“Objection!” shouted the defense attorney, Mr. Ericson, a two-sentence man who believed fervently in the power of objecting. He didn’t always know to what, but he knew it was his job. “The prosecution is leading the… person!”

“On what grounds, Mr. Ericson?” Judge Harrington asked.

Ericson’s mind was a battlefield. He had a memory of pointing, and a memory of outrage, but the bridge between them had been washed away. “On the grounds,” he declared, seizing the only concrete thought he could find, “that my client has a constitutional right to not be pointed at by a woman he’s only just met.”

“There’s no such right,” Judge Harrington ruled, making a note on his pad. He looked at the note. It said, 'There’s no such right'. He nodded gravely. “A precedent has been set.”

This was how it went. A charge was made, a memory was wiped, an objection was raised, a new, nonsensical precedent was set, and the bailiff would bellow, “The continuing trial of Gregory Stevens!” to start the whole thing over again.

Stevens was trapped. The only way to be found innocent was to prove he hadn't disturbed the peace. But to prove that, the court needed to remember what the peace was, where it was, and how it had been disturbed. Since no one could hold onto the memory of the crime for more than two consecutive sentences, the trial could never proceed to a verdict. It could only… continue. 

But today was different. Today, the prosecution was calling Mrs. Gable.

A reverent hush fell over the room. The bailiff’s voice cracked with emotion as he announced her. “The court calls the Four-Sentence Witness, Eleanor Gable!”

Mrs. Gable was a legend. A cognitive titan. She was the only person on the civic register capable of remembering four consecutive thoughts. She was the archive. The living record. She was the one who could break the loop.

“Mrs. Gable,” Prosecutor Albright said, her voice trembling. “Tell the court what you remember about the night of the fifth.”

Mrs. Gable took a deep, steadying breath. The court stenographer cracked his knuckles. This was history.

“I was in my garden, as is my custom on a Tuesday evening,” she began. Sentence one. Perfect.

“The sun had set, and I heard a dreadful sound coming from my neighbor’s yard, where Mr. Stevens lives.” Sentence two. The connection! It was established!

“I looked over my fence and I saw the defendant, Gregory Stevens, shouting at the moon.” Sentence three. The crime! The disturbance of the peace itself! Stevens sank lower in his chair. He had a vague, dreadful memory of an argument with the moon.

The entire courtroom held its breath. One sentence left. The final nail in the coffin. The key that would unlock them all from this purgatory. Mrs. Gable opened her mouth.

“And I thought to myself,” she said, her voice ringing with the clarity of absolute truth, “that it is simply impossible to maintain a prize-winning petunia bed without a high-quality, galvanized steel watering can.”

A collective sigh of despair echoed through the room. The stenographer stared at his machine, then slowly began deleting his work. He was a one-sentence man; he had to make room for the next fragment of nonsense.

Judge Harrington banged his gavel, the tag on its handle reading ‘Use-for-Emphasis,’ and then paused. The emphasis had been used, but the reason for it was gone. He looked around the room, a man waking from a dream of being a judge.

“Well,” he said with a sigh of immense finality. “It’s clear we’ve made a great deal of progress here today.” He straightened his robes. “The court will recess for lunch.”

A cheer went up. It was the most sensible thing anyone had said all day. It was, without doubt, a time to recharge and replenish. Everyone began to file out. At last, they had a purpose. At last, there was a plan.

No one, of course, would remember to come back.

Dimitry Partsi is a writer of absurdist fiction, surreal comedy, and speculative work. His humor appears in Defenestration Magazine and Little Old Lady Comedy; his darker fiction in Tales from the Moonlit Path and Horrific-Scribblings; his speculative pieces in 365tomorrows and Blood+Honey