Letters to Nevertorial: Chicken Big

Your paper commits a cardinal offence all too common in our society with the claim, “Homeowners scurry like chickens fearing that the sky is about to give way.” (“A Third Mortgage Crisis,” April 18th). Your article made passing reference to the popular story of “Chicken Little” as though it were as erroneous as natural selection or Siddhartha sitting beneath a tree. Isn’t it suspicious that the story of the sky falling is so widespread? Positively everyone knows of it. My family does in particular, for in 1963 two of my great aunts were slain by falling bits of sky. The family lost most of the farm and is still awaiting the promised government funds to rebuild. The wait is its own indignity. Your paper’s pretending we were never struck, or that only chickens bore the weight of this tragedy, is egregious.

"The Sun Belt" at Flash Fiction Online

Today's story is at Flash Fiction Online. It's "The Sun Belt," about our sun's intentions in making our little spherical home.

This is my second pro-rate sale. I'm very excited and am grateful to any readers or commenters over on FFO. You can read the story by clicking here.

Bathroom Monologue: Pitching In Without Fingers

One guy, Gilee, was very interested in their little prison reformation movement. He was enthusiastic about their tolerance of tolerable religions and philosophies, and quite happy to take nightwatches. Beside the positivity, he had one quirk: he never took his hands out of his overalls. This raised suspicion since Gilee claimed to have been a masseur before being imprisoned. He’d offer anyone a massage after a hard day, but no one took him up on it. Not until Berren, who having been jailed for politics, was all about comfort.

At least a dozen people watched it through the crack in the door, like a curious totem pole, trying to see what was up with Gilee’s hands. That’s when they found out that he didn’t have hands. The wardens had cut off his fingers, you see, leaving him only with palms. He was eager to do his part, though, and Berren was glowing when he emerged from the makeshift parlor.

“Could have used his thumbs more,” he commented, “but it was great. Felt like tiny feet running laps on my back.”

He just about threw up when he turned and the masseur waved to him, but afterwards Gilee got a lot more business. Word-of-mouth travels farther than vomit-of-mouth. It's a wonder.

Bathroom Monologue: Men in Reflective Houses

 This story was written from the above photo prompt,
provided and taken by Icy Sedgwick.

 

Tidwell and Aloysius liked to people-watch in-between meetings. By streamlining charts and skimming facts in their 10:10 meeting, they were granted a brief reprieve for this hobby before their customary 10:25 consultations. They would share one third of a packet of whole wheat saltines and ogle the aging joggers and purposefully striding suits on Main.

It was 10:17 as the man crossed before the Brightsides Building, dragging rolling luggage behind him. The Brightsides was unique for its many reflective windows, casting a near-perfect image of the brick establishment across the road. Tidwell and Aloysius’s brick establishment. The only thing that prevented it from looking real was the crisscrosses of molding between the Brightsides’s panes.

The man stopped before one pane. A breeze took his blue tie in a direction, and he declined with one hand. He walked toward the pane, shading his eyes as though focused on something behind the glass.

"Probably had a bender last night,” proffered Tidwell. “You think he's looking at himself for the first time this morning?"

"Must be. Those trousers haven't been ironed in weeks."

Tidwell couldn’t make out whether or not they’d be ironed lately.

The man walked a few panes down, to where the Brightsides reflected the image of a window from the other side of the street. He craned his neck, seeming to peer inside the window-within-a- window.

“You see that?”

"Probably just trying to see if his wife's working inside."

"Maybe she's sleeping with somebody in there and he's spying."

"Disheveled for a spy."

The man pulled a wallet from the luggage and shuffled through it for something.

"Is he counting cash?"

"Maybe he's going to buy the Brightsides."

"Hope he stocks up on glass cleanser."

The man nodded at his cash. He walked down past the doors of the Brightsides, to where their brick establishment's doors were reflected. There he stopped, turned and reached. Tidwell lurched, thinking he was about to see a nutter punch through the glass. Glare flew up from the Brightsides and both men shielded their eyes.

Just as he brought his hands down, Tidwell thought he saw a door swinging shut. He blinked his vision back to 20/20 and saw that no, it was only the image of a door. That door was still trembling as though having just shut, though.

Tidwell turned to face their brick establishment, to see if a man had entered there. But no – the secretaries were standing in that door, sharing a smoke.

Aloysius followed his eyes. He asked, "Did he just walk through that window over there?"

Tidwell scratched his balding head. He scratched harder when he saw that man with his luggage passing behind the windows - the windows of the reflected brick building. The two businessmen rose from their bench and waddled down the sidewalk, eying both the man within the reflection of the Brightsides, and their own establishment’s windows. There was no frumpy-trousered man in the latter. Only some secretaries, who shot them derisive looks.

Tidwell asked, "What was all that about?"

"I don't know. But I hope he doesn't intend throw stones."

Tidwell punched his friend in the shoulder, then crossed the street.

Bathroom Monologue: “Your scene is not a scene if….” –The Intern

-Your scene is not a scene if it has wheels and flies.

-Your scene is not a scene if it's tough enough for a man but designed for a woman.

-Your scene is not a scene if it’s redeemable for ten cents in Michigan.

-Your scene is not a scene if it’s the participle form of "to see."

-Your scene is not a scene if it's a condescending blog post.

-Your scene is not a scene if it’s supportive, reclines into the reader behind you, and can be used in a flotation device in the occurrence of a plot device.

-Your scene is not a scene if both P is true and ~P is true.

-Your scene is not a scene if Microsoft Word doesn’t underline anything in green.

-Your scene is not a scene if it's only a vehicle for conflicts designed to attract cheap readers.

Bathroom Monologue: On Polyamory and Gluttony

I would probably respect polyamory if it did more than merely triple the times people cry at me about their love-lives. Being single but obese, I liken it to food. The polyamorist is like a man who lost his meal.

If Tadd loses his dinner, I'll go, "That's terrible. You'll starve. Let’s got hunt you down a nice girlsteak with eyes only for your A-1 sauce."

But if Werner loses his dinner, I go, "Shut up. You have two other dinners living in your studio apartment."

"But they're not the one I lost!" Werner sobs with all the heartbreak of Tadd McOnedinner. And being unfortunately not heartless, I console the poor Werner all the other polyamorous schmucks.

Unfortunately five weeks later, I console Werner again when he breaks up with his second dinner. Let's call her a Pot Roast. You see ever since he broke up with the Taco Kit Bitch, Pot Roast has been less emotionally available. And when he started hanging out more with the Cinnamon Bun Twins, Pot Roast almost seemed to be jealous, and then they had less sex, and now he's crying again while I'm trying to calculate just how many women he's still eating.

Fucking. I mean “how many women he's still fucking."

Three Bindle Stiffs Audio Recording

This was originally posted a few weeks ago. It followed a challenge to use one hundred unusual words in one story. After several requests, I've stayed up past midnight trying to record a coherent audio version of it. You better damned well enjoy it.

To listen to the audio version that you damned well better enjoy either click the triangle to the left to begin streaming audio or click this text to download the MP3.

There were three bindle stiffs at the docks - let us call them Jackanapes, Factotum and Callipygian, for that is what they were. A homeless threesome, gathered by the loquacious Jackanapes, a louche scofflaw, supercilious about himself and curmudgeon to all other matters.  Factotum was his manservant, as a factotum must be to someone, an aimless ragamuffin with nothing beyond size to his credit. More interesting than this oaf (and more interesting to the oaf) was the bodacious Callipygian, one lady concupiscent and rivaling Factotum as a flibbertigibbet.

Now Jackanapes proposed some minor skullduggery as pertained to the Captain’s Quarters, a local tavern. Within was an ill-gotten goblet, periwinkle festooned with opals and inscriptions of ancient Australian gobbledygook. It simply begged liberation. Liberation into Jackanapes’s possession, of course.

The Beerkeep, once a bold and raffish scalawag, was now pusillanimous and lackadaisical, scarcely lifting his head from the countertop. His wife, let us call her Harridan, was less easily hoodwinked. A cantankerous termagant, heart tainted by broken promises, face tainted by carbuncles of particular effluvium, and given her abstemious nature, not too pleased about living in a bar. The Beerkeep was broken, for if he complained she was no longer a nubile sylph? Well he didn’t have the washboard belly of the swashbuckler she’d married, either.

So our mendacious tatterdemalions infiltrated on Discount Ale Night. Callipygian strutted across the bar and whispered obsequious debauchery into Beerkeep’s good ear. Into the left, she osculated. Broken men are so easily finagled.

Meanwhile Factotum elbowed through the crowd like a willy-nilly whirligig, knocking the pint and the hat from a haberdasher. The haberdasher caterwauled, and Factotum responded with brazen fisticuffs. Our ignoramus spun him widdershins, spilling the gallimaufry from his cup. Gawkers flocked with hullabaloo. The ribaldry instigated such a kerfuffle that even Harridan peered its way. So was the plan: to obfuscate by infidelity or ruckus.

Harridan shrieked for her poltroon husband and barged in to squelch the catawampus, only to be struck by a flailing hat-seller. She was knocked to the floor while the Beerkeep was drooping to the bar top.

Amidst the folderol, Jackanapes slithered behind the bar. He paused an instant to bask in the resplendent chalice – then skedaddled. For you see, his hornswaggle was on four people, not two.

The conspirators didn’t remark Jackanapes’s absquatulating immediately. The Beerkeep was looking for tongue before Callipygian came wise. Poor Callipygian and Factotum looked at each other flabbergasted; neither had prognosticated his exit, nor their own exit strategies. Beerkeep roused and squawked that his spiffy cup was gone, and the crowd doubled in size with accusations of subterfuge. Imbroglio flummoxed our lummox, while Callipygian babbled defensive rigmarole.

Perspicacious Harridan recognized that while they might be in cahoots, it was cockamamie balderdash that they’d carried off the cup. They looked as lugubrious as Harridan on her wedding night, and neither had any goblets bulging underneath his or her corset. Pushing through the ballyhoo she took each by an ear, twisting and demanding explanation. She’d forgive their peccadillo in return for their mastermind. They responded with mumbling and borborygmus.

Malarkey, she accused. Hadn’t they served hortatory to these shenanigans? To play Jackanapes’s factotum for so long and left clueless?

Factotum let out a paroxysm of obloquy. Their original hideout. The docks! With boats to abscond, or as Callipygian hypothesized, merchants to entice. Sooner than Harridan could summon a steed, rambunctious Factotum tossed both ladies over his shoulders and bolted for the seaboard.

Now Jackanapes possessed a foible of confidence. At safe distance, he gallivanted and lollygagged, whistling orotund tunes and regarding the foofraw of his ill-gotten doohickey. What fortunes flagitious life afforded.

So taken was he by his own hijinks that he was tackled higgledy-piggledy from behind. Two ladies and one ex-factotum began beating him about the head and shoulders. They were at loggerheads immediately, and at the fusty hoosegow ten minutes later, one man incarcerated on two counts of “jiggery-pokery and maleficence,” and a farrago of lesser charges. He was left with no cups or opals, only a two-bit pettifogger to hear his hokum. So was his comeuppance.

Harridan’s comeuppance came up at auction for the stupid cup. Proceeds went to her own copacetic hodgepodge of a juice bar and a dance parlor. Her star dancer took in a wealth of tips, and they were both generous to the hulking (if dull) bouncer. She hired her own husband two months later as Juicekeep, after her competition put him out of business. There may be a word for that sort of thing, but I don’t know it.

Bathroom Monologue: Nessy Gets Voted Out

Ugopogo, Kraken and the giant squid brigade all voted Ye.

None voted Ne.

"Then it's agreed," said Champ. "The Loch Ness Monster is henceforth no longer recognized as real."

Bathroom Monologue: Fantasy of Disablism

“Some days I just think giants are racist against dwarfs.”

“What? Some of my best friends are dwarfs.”

“That's what you always say.”

“But you're one of them. We hung out all weekend. I let you swim in my gin until you got drunk.”

“That was demeaning.”

“It was your idea! Are you reading that crazy blog again?”

“You won't even let us drink out of the same water fountains.”

“You are reading that shit again! Dude, you’re physically unable to drink from our fountains. I'm bigger than your house.”

“Perhaps I could afford a bigger house if I was paid the same wages. A giant dwarf house with plenty of water fountains.”

“The city commissioned ones that were height-appropriate.”

“A step-ladder! A simple step-ladder and I'd be able to use the ‘normal’ water fountain like the rest of the giants.”

“It'd take a staircase.”

“Do you know how many staircases in this city were built by dwarfs? We make up seventy percent of the engineering workforce and spend all our time on projects we’re never allowed to use.”

“That’s because your thing takes less time to build. It’s smaller.”

“Why do we have to have different things? Why can’t we drink from the same thing?”

“You'd fall in and drown.”

“Two dwarfs did drown in giant water fountains just last week. If we were valued as equal citizens, that wouldn't be possible.”

“Nobody thought dwarfs would be dumb enough to climb all the way up there.”

“So you do think we're of diminutive intelligence. Why don't you go ahead and call me less of a person?”

“Diminutive in height. In height! It's a technical term.”

“For the lesser race.”

“Stop talking like that. It makes me feel…”

“Small?”

“Stop that.”

“Admit it. You're biased against non-gigantic peoples.”

“I'm certainly heading in that direction now.”

“Have you ever tried drinking from our water fountains?”

“No, because I’m too large. And I have bad knees.”

“Don’t pretend you’re the oppressed one here.”

“You think I don’t want to drink from all the water fountains? The lines move quicker on yours. Giants take forever. You dwarfs look so much happier. Sometimes I wonder if it tastes different.”

“You’re shirking the issue!”

“I lie awake nights thinking if only I was non-gigantic enough to taste that water. To chatter with those chipper little girls. There’s no talking in the line for the giant water fountain.”

“You’re calling us a jolly wee folk? Why don’t you compliment our pointy hats next? You bigot.”

“Giants don’t get to wear hats. There isn’t enough material. You ever think about that? You ever been unable to wear a hat because that much cotton could outfit sails for three dwarf tall ships?”

“Hey, listen here…”

“No. I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to go get a drink.”

Bathroom Monologue: The Writing Fight

"We’re not having this fight. Was I paying attention? No. I wasn’t. I’m sorry your day sucked, but this novel isn’t going to finish itself. It wouldn’t be mine if it did. Is it more important than you? Of fucking course not. You are more important in the long term. That’s why it’s going to be finished by July, while you and I are death-do-us-part. It is more important in the tonight-term. Is your job more important than me? Probably not, but you still spent nine hours at it today instead of with me. And I’m sorry your manager is a bitch suffering from permanent hot flashes. But the novel is my job. My second job, with zany hours. So sometimes I will stare through you and into space when you’re telling me about your day. Much like you’re staring through me now. Just realize that if you make me sleep on the couch tonight, it’ll be with the pad and pen!"

Trending: Worldwide

1. Christ

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4. NASA says “angels”

5. fuckingfuckfuck

6. NYC

7. oceans boiling

8. Paris

9. Revelations was

10. Rebecca Black

Writing Prompt: Death of the Horrible

This is somewhere between a writing prompt and a challenge. I'm not sure how many people will try it for #fridayflash - but if you do, please tell me and link back to this post. If we get a few, I'll link them all together in a nexus post and we can see what directions everyone took it. It was the genesis for Possible Origins for Him. 12.

Make me regret the death of a horrible person based on some relationship he/she had to a living character.

Bathroom Monologue: Working Grandpa

“We damn sure can't show Grandpa any of our work. What would we show? He thinks TV is the Devil. My brother is a stand-up comedian who can't go three sentences without being offensive. What the fuck can we share?”

“Well, there's your sister.”

“She's unemployed. She's the last one who wants to talk about anything. All she does is search ads and call people who say 'No.' Grandpa does not need to hear about the economy shoving her soul in a trash compactor.”

“Okay. Conundrum.”

“And I'm thinking, what job could I get that he'd like?”

“You're going to get a second job to impress him? He's only going to be here for, like, a week.”

“I’m going damn sure make one up. If I can write a teleplay, I fucking sure can make up talk about a fictional job.”

“This is how ulcers happen.”

“What’s a good job? What could work? Flipping burgers? Work on cars? He’d look down on it.”

“Should have become an astronaut. You wanted to be an astronaut when you were a kid.”

“He thinks the moonlanding was fake anyway.”

“A fireman? You wanted to be a fireman when you were six.”

“He’ll want to go to the firehouse to meet my buddies.”

“Say you’re busy. Too women on fire. It’s an excuse to never come home.”

“Dude.”

“You could get a cat out of a tree in front of him.”

“At which point he’d complain that I was wasting my time.”

“Police officer?”

“He’d get nervous that I was going to be shot. Same with the military.”

“Not all military jobs get you shot at.”

“I know it. He hated my dad just going into the army as a mechanic.”

“But—”

“That’s the degree of difficuly we have here.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

“Wait.”

“For?”

“No, no. You’re a spy. Don’t say another word. You’re totally safe so long as not another word is spoken.”

“But—”

“Unless he wants to get you killed, he’ll just watch TV.”

“Huh.”

“It’s flawless.”

“Except, what’s my cover?”

“I never thought I’d actually be happy that my grandparents were dead.”

Bea Arthur: A Novel, Audio Redux

This monologue first ran in 2006. Max Cantor recently sent me his audio reading of it, which I simply had to share. Since most current readers haven't seen Bea Arthur: A Novel, I'm presenting both the original text and Max's reading today.

To listen to Max Cantor's reading of "Bea Arthur: A Novel" either click the triangle on the left to begin streaming audio or click this text to download the MP3.



Don't you want to slap authors who add " : A Novel" after their titles?

Hearts: A Novel.

Orchard: A Novel.

Who are you helping here? The guy who restocks the shelves? It's sitting next to six hundred other novels. It's not my fault your horribly unoriginal cover doesn't convey what kind of book it is (it's probably a picture of a building, a road, an empty beach or a photo of you, isn't it?). It's a book in the Fiction section! Picking the thing up and flipping through it, which I'll have to do anyway if I'm going to buy it, will tell me if it's an anthology or a picaresque.

If you shaped the book, say, like the Himalayas, disguising the pages as 1,000 meter-tall sheets of ice and rock, then, then I might need you to label it " : A Novel." I'd be quite surprised. I'd probably buy two, for stocking stuffers. But not your 250-page paperback of My Doves: A Novel in the middle of the Fiction section.

It doesn't even say, "Checkpoint: A Good Novel," or, "Company: A Novel That Has Some Shortcomings, But There's a Really Clever Ending." Even culinary anti-artists like candy companies put more on their bags than, "Oreos: A Cookie." Given, they do have a more compelling product than most literary authors, but still. It's the principle of the thing, and novels are about the principle of the thing. How am I supposed to trust you with the English language for hundreds of pages when you're wasting words right on the cover? Strunk and White frown, madame.

You know what I'd like to do someday? Drive past one of those capital offenders' houses and huck a stone with a note on it through her window. The note would read " : A Rock. "

Bathroom Haiku: Digital Laughter

PCs flying free.

No sound in space, yet there is

digital laughter.

Bathroom Monologue: This Country, Spring 2011

Squabbles over a few billion dollars halt trillions in a budget that nobody has. The government shuts down and no one thinks about the nation it represents.

A Mormon is leading a former Baptist minister as the top candidate to challenge the black president.

Meanwhile, Feminists despise the most famous female candidate.

As Hillary Clinton winds down her career, a young nephew asks, “Can boys be Secretary of State?”

People are more afraid of radioactive milk than unions being busted.

Ayn Rand’s secular propaganda prepares to become a Summer blockbuster, guaranteed to draw enthusiastic Christian audiences.

This nation is bad Science Fiction, and I love B-movies.

Bathroom Monologue: Possible Origins for Him. 12.

To listen to today's story either click the triangle on the left to begin streaming audio or click this text to download the MP3.

He started when there were still a few gaslights on the streets. Probably took inspiration from Prohibition, and he's fought snuff, glue, cocaine, venom, all the way to whatever kids do to themselves today. Nobody asks how he's survived at least seventy years of stab wounds, gun shots, druggings and falls from skyscrapers. You figure, he pals around with aliens and amazons. He's probably picked up STDs stronger than the average human, so of course he's timeless. Many think he's immortal. Many are cowardly and superstitious.

They all ask how I made it this long. Wondering why some do-gooder hasn't snapped my neck. Wondering how, with all the times I've gotten it wrong, or lost control of a dirigible, or just didn't care about malfunctioning detonator - how I lasted these decades.

This one I can answer: I'm not the first of me.

There's been at least three. Me, The Boss, and Grandpa. No telling who preceded Grandpa J. He was good, though. A bit of an anarchist firebug.

“Where's the judge? Is he in this room?”

No, it's a bomb. Kaboom.

“Where's my wife? I hear something in the closet. Janine, is it you?”

No, it's a bomb. Kaboom.

“Where's the bomb? I hear this locker ticking. Let me open and snip the wires.”

No, that's a clock. The actual bomb is under the floorboards. Kaboom.

That sort of humor. One day it blew up in his face. As best we can tell, the only thing that made Grandpa J frown was his inability to blow up The Bat. Tried and failed, tried and failed. Somehow that caped freak kept coming back unsinged. So on this last time he hid the bombs in his own coat and held on. By the range of the blast, he also wired himself up to the surrounding nine buildings. No way to escape that intimate a detonation, you see?

Grandpa J was the one who walked away. Depending on when The Boss was telling it, he lost somewhere in the range of a foot, an arm or two, half or two thirds of his face, either half or all of the flesh on his person, and his entire wardrobe save a pair of boxers with hearts on them. Whatever his state, it was gruesome. And Grandpa J made it seven city blocks out of the smoke, avoiding or murdering police until he came to The Boss's little den.

I wasn't even working for him back then. He was operating in a boarded up row house, giving out free meth and beds, and lacing every fifth dose with his newest concoctions. If everybody's high, nobody cares when one guy freaks out and starts eating the insulation.

Somehow, Grandpa J broke in. He shambled straight into the lab. Made eye contact with The Boss. Shuddered from the strain. Gave one gasp that sounded like a laugh, and took his last pratfall. Thud. Dead.

Mmm. The professionalism.

The Boss saw an opportunity. No more Mr. Third-rate Drug Dealer. No mere mad scientist. All those mind-altering gases he'd worked on? Now fashion them so the kids laugh theirselves to death, or see nightmare clowns, or whatever. A little facepaint, a book of one-liners, and suddenly The Boss had a topflight gimmick. Live-action fan-fiction that the crowd thinks is genuine.

If you go back through the headlines, you'll find that period when The Joker began wearing more black and carrying more conventional guns. Mainstream bullshit. See, he got carried away on the power trip. All that buzz Grandpa J had built up around the brand. The thrill of a single phone call convulsing entire police departments. Superheroes who once upon a time wouldn't even visit the scene of his crimes now racing to head him off.

Simply put, he sucked. He couldn't fight. He couldn't plan more than one twist at a time. He had to hire every goon in the city to cover his ass, to get into fisticuffs for him. Twice I tied up the damned Bat over vats of acid I knew he'd never actually fall into. Some weeks I was in clown costumes. Other weeks, bad imitations of movie stars. I spent half a summer as a chauffeur Buster Keaton, powdering myself into monochrome before speeding the boss away from his latest bank heist.

Bank heists. Grandpa J never would have lowered himself to knocking over banks.

The night with the shark tank was it for me. I guess it looks like they’re smiling if you tilt your head like so and huff paint. The Boss stole that one from Grandpa J – and did it worse. The Bat got loose, like always, and got onto our boat. The Boss fell into the motor. Lost an arm. I was gathering the bits in a net when I saw the Bat throttling him. Hit the freak from behind and dumped him overboard.

He lived. I’m sure he had something in his belt for sharks.

The Boss lived – because of me. I had to beat the Bat just to keep him alive. I was so angry that I slapped him with his own dismembered hand. He didn’t laugh. How dare he not laugh at that? That’s hilarious, right?

He lacked class. I explained this as I jammed his wrist down his throat. I didn’t want his hand, or his coat, or his machine gun. Only took the book of one-liners.

If you go back, there’s this period when the Joker goes neon. Bigger smiles. More musical. More explosions, like Grandpa J would have wanted.

Knew where he was buried. I dug up his skull. Put a honking red nose in the socket and left him on my mantle. Talk to him when I’m lonely. He doesn’t talk back – I’m not crazy. I’m just respectful of my elders.

Bathroom Monologue: R.R. Crossing

Looking through a windshield and a hundred windows rushing by, moving too rapidly to make out any faces. You look for a girl who isn’t looking for you anymore, and catch a glance at someone with her hair color staring at something in her hands. Her phone? Then the train carries her to her Full Ride. Red lights cease flashing and the bars come up. You are now safe to cross the railroad and drive to a permanently quieter house.

Maybe she was on her phone. Maybe she’ll have left a message. Maybe she’s calling you right now while she travels several hundred miles an hour towards dorm rooms, late nights and the lies of boys becoming men.

You check your cell just in case. No message, no hum of the vibration setting.

You press the gas pedal and roll across the tracks. Time to go put the things she missed in boxes. Time enough to catch the news. It would be nice for Lester Holt to announce, “Bright young woman’s train arrives safely. World welcomes her. Promises to retain virginity until Nobel is won.”

What twit said you couldn’t go home again? Didn’t he have a mother who had to? You wonder if he went to university.

Bathroom Monologue: Multi-Function Books

Physical books are unfavorable items. Chapters lack ringtones, you have to turn all those pages, and Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse comes with no free flashlight app. Telling a story, developing new characters and plot devices, commentary on society and the world – "Meh," says the market. "These are single-function devices. I don't want a book that’s only always Shakespeare."

Hark, I beg you. It may only be The Norton Shakespeare, restricted to the same words on the same pages no matter how many times you scroll over them with your fingers. But observe. It can be placed in front of a door to keep the thing open. Somebody annoyed about the door always being open? With its convenient heft, The Norton Shakespeare makes a convenient bludgeon to resolve most any argument. You may even pick up a few insults from the book’s “single-function” as you discover its new functions. Should you be ousted from the apartment complex for unruly behavior, your can tear up the book and line your clothing with its crumpled pages. As you shudder in the evening chill, you can peek at whatever pages emerge from the fraying ends of your jacket. They are often inspirational, or at least so vacuous you can infer whatever you want into them, making certain whatever you read is uncannily germane to your circumstances. You can’t line your coat with iPhones. Those are the really restrictive devices.

Bathroom Monologues: Ism

Like all religions, Humanism struggled to appeal to new generations. The next generation just so happened to be killer robots.

Reading While Writing

By Mendhak [민다ᄏ] [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons

I read capriciously. Some times I want Horror, others long Fantasy, or I’ll binge on history or pop science or anything that makes me laugh. I’m a terrible consumer of books, perpetually borrowing and purchasing more than I’ll read. I had copies of Good Omens and Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency for eight years before actually finishing them. Upon recent reflection, I realized nothing’s gotten in the way of my reading more than writing.

Reading consistently is nigh impossible when I’m working at high volumes, plugging into a novel daily or spurting out short stories every week. I have anecdotal confirmation from other writers in multiple fields that it’s the same for them. You spend so much time producing and criticizing words that your enthusiasm or energy is spent. I write “or energy” because there are times when I hanker for that new Stephen King. Then I pick it up and even his mastery of voice can’t get me through two pages. My mind won’t go. It’s irksome to realize that you are still able to watch a movie, play videogames or have a night with your significant other. More irksome when your significant other finds out you think that's bad.

I ran into a new complication while composing my next novel. When I did read, I was reading less useful things. Yes, Cobra II was an important report – but shouldn’t I be catching up on fiction? Fiction in my genres? Or all those classics that I bought and swore I’d go through? Laurence Sterne can’t read himself. He’s dead.

Triage of reading while in heavy-production periods was too difficult. I could take in a superhero trade paperback, but not Walter Isaacson's Einstein. Simply to get through my pile, I had to cave and let myself read whatever my mind could grab onto. A grown writer was excusing himself, “At least he’s reading.”

If I couldn’t curate individual reading order, I had to triage what was available. My old formula had been to read:

1. One contemporary Speculative Fiction book (since Horror and Fantasy are my primary wheelhouses).

2. One important Speculative Fiction book over ten years old.

3. One piece of classic fiction literature.

4. One book of non-fiction of any stripe I pleased.

5. One trade comic book or miscellaneous publication over one hundred pages.

All in about that order. The first two covered my primary industry, then I plugged into my passions for older books, the style of which always left me ready for thoughtful non-fiction, before closing with comics. Comics are the easiest thing to read – I’ve had English teachers who said they weren’t reading at all. My whole scheme worked so well before I began working so well.

I examined the formula for my new habit. Now I’d only borrow or purchase books like this:

1. Does it have three or more recommendations from friends, peers and/or critics you trust? Should you trust them – have they steered you incorrectly before?

2. Is it popular? Is it selling fast? You need to know more about the marketplace. Remember how embarrassing it was when you thought Toni Morrison was a guy?

3. Is it important Speculative Fiction? You can always know more about the history there.

4. Is it a classic? Is it at least really old? How cheap can we get this thing for? If it’s not in the library or very inexpensive, come back in three months and ask me again.

5. Non-fiction, you say? Is it that fascinating? Wait six months, then ask me again.

6. Is it in the twenty-five cent bin? Okay, you can have it.

That last is why I read four Greek tragedies in a row. Thanks, thrift stores.

The new checklist of priorities made sure I only had specific books available. If I am going to read capriciously, it’ll be from a thoughtful selection. It’s akin to shopping when you’re full, so the wiser choices will be in your cupboard. Sometimes that leaves me scanning the shelves for literary Oreos, but you can only eat what you've got.

If you regard my Goodreads scroll for the last two months, you’ll see that those literary Oreos have still popped in. Comics are allowed in, in moderation. Even the Persepolis and Bone-type comics are easier reading, I respect them as an art-form, and hey. “At least he’s reading.”

Bathroom Monologue: The President is a Foreigner

To listen to the president's address either click the triangle on the left or click this text.

Some of my fellow Americans are concerned that my birth certificate brings my citizenship into question. They fear that a foreigner has usurped the laws and will of our great nation to subvert its government. I can promise to you that I was indeed born on American soil, but I will also confess that the birth certificate you’ve seen is fraudulent.

You see, I was born in Kenya and when I come from, they do not issue birth certificates anymore. Some Americans may be concerned that Kenya is not a state in the present union. To those I say: it will never be. It’s a commonwealth. It was admitted to our great union in twenty-two-eighty-three when we finally gave up that “protectorate” nonsense. That was the same year that Puerto Rico, Turkey and Venus joined the U.S.

I was born three years later at Abraham Lincoln Memorial Hospital in Mombasa, which was firm U.S. soil. In a field trip to the second Dark Ages I fell in love with this rustic, primitive way of life and decided to remain. Manipulating politics with decades of foresight just seemed like the thing to do. This way I could quash burgeoning time traveling projects and prevent any further competition from my own future, leaving this present my own pseudo-democratic playground. Evil? Possibly. But I have done it all as a citizen of the United States of America.

Worst Convention Story at Geektress

Earlier this week I posted my "Worst Convention Experience" story. I've since recorded and sent it to the fine women of Geektress, who included it in their rundown of conventions-gone-wrong stories. The podcast includes tales of inept security, late staff, tornadoes, and of course one fat kid stalking a perfectly nice Maryland couple. You can listen to my oppressive male voice defiling their otherwise feminine utopia by clicking here.

Bathroom Monologue: The Real Sword of Damocles

So there was this Greek suck-up named Damocles who got a free lunch at Dionysius the 2^nd’s barbecue. Damocles saw all the food, cooks, concubines and other assorted suck-ups, and praised Dionysius’s job. Who wouldn’t want this?

Thinking to show Damocles and the court that it’s hard on the streets for a pimp, Dionysius offered to switch places. He’d be the professional hustler suck-up for a day, and Damocles would rule.

As he stepped down from the throne, he told the guards to leave a sword hanging around to remind Damocles of the responsibilities of office. It was going to be a metaphor or something.

But the second the new ruler Damocles stepped up, he told the courters to cut that crap down. When they got the sword down, he ordered one of them to follow Dionysius around with it. He ordered them to behead the bastard if they could catch him, since that way he could keep these sweet digs. And if they didn’t, well Damocles would get the heck out of Greece. If Dionysius was psychotic enough to leave swords floating over the seat he’d just offered, it wasn’t safe around here.

So the armed courtier stalked Dionysius around his own palace until sunset. He’s hiding behind vases and under the skirts of third-rate hookers, forced to realize if anybody replaces him they could be madmen and the whole territory will go rotten. Look how little time it took Damocles to go bloodthirsty? Playwrights hammed this stuff up something fierce as the great example of politicians fearing that their replacements are going to be incompetent, malicious or worse. I think it’s Cicero that said, "Does not Dionysius seem to have made it sufficiently clear that there can be nothing happy for the person over whom some fear always looms?"

So the sun sets. Damocles is off the throne and already at the docks with the biggest boat he could “commandeer” as temporary ruler, loaded with gold and ladies. He sets sail before comeuppance can come up. Dionysius resumes the throne and his whole regime goes mad tyrannical, to make sure that only his competent self ever rules this poor world.

That’s how I heard it.

Bathroom Monologue: Happiest Man in the World

He exists above zen and above sea level. Like every cynic suggested, the happiest man in the world exists alone, with no contact to disturb him from the way that works. Some will say, and I’ll swear to it, that he’s so tranquil his heart hasn’t beat in the nine years anyone’s known him. He is simply the happiest face you can see.

You want to meet him? He’s up that mountain. No, the one behind it. The very tallest one that still has trees at the apex. You go up its winding path. You disobey the signs and climb seventy feet of sheer rock. There you’ll find a few beer cans and weeds conquering the last successful campsite up there. That’s when you know you’re on your way.

Go through the brush, through the poison ivy. Beware the bear traps hidden beneath years of pine needles – I believe a few are still unsprung. He did not plant these problems, but they’re the closest thing to a trail you’ll find. He’s left no candy wrappers or fire wood. No tent. In the nine years anyone’s known him, he hasn’t even owned a scrap of underwear.

If you wander enough without getting split open or covered in hives, you’ll find an outcropping. A slender tree has split the rocks and is growing right towards the heavens. What you’ll want to do is take a firm hold on this tree and circle around, careful of your footing. If it’s like it was last time I visited you’ll barely have room for your toes. Now you circle on around, sliding your hands up the trunk. You slide them up so you can see the carving.

There it should be. A circle, with two equidistant dots near the top, and a crescent swooping down near the bottom. That’s the smiley face of the happiest man in the world. Hasn’t changed his expression in nine years. Like every cynic suggested, the happiest man in the world isn’t real. He sure is consistent, though.

Bathroom Monologue: Fire!

Later the officer conceded, “I wish I hadn’t arrested him. If I’d paid more attention, I could have helped evacuate. But the law is the law. You can’t yell ‘Fire’ in a crowded theatre.”

Bathroom Monologue: He Who Tests

When did humanity go wrong? With the first monarch. With the first election. When buildings got so tall that if you dropped your hat off the side you'd never see it again. Take your pick.

This is all much easier than you think. Do I miss Him? Yes, yet I am still in the service. I am He Who Tests. I invent nothing. I invite. They seduce themselves to me, every useless, unworthy one of them. I get them by the millions, and every day they do more of my work for me, and think it their own. When they fall? I punish. An eternity of suffering, of torture and knowing that they were wrong. An eternity of knowing I was right. An eternity of suffering and knowing this in the service. I disobeyed once. All this fire and fury is at His command. I will earn my way out of the flames and back into the warmth of the sun, trading a world's souls and climbing its writhing bodies. They earned it by proving me right.

True Stories of John 8: Worst Convention Experience

After struggling with severe health problems for my entire teens, I was eager to go to a convention by myself. Independence, teen angst, nerdery – all those stupid reasons. So I got a train ticket, arranged a hotel room and set off for Otakon in Baltimore.

I departed from the Stamford Train Station in Connecticut. I got there early and descended onto the platforms early. This is a bad idea if you’ve never ridden a rail alone and don’t know which side your train’s arriving on. As one came up, I stopped a passenger and asked, “Is this headed to Maryland?”

In retrospect, the smile and nod he gave me were distinctly the “I don’t speak English” variety. I was too excited to lug my stuff on board, though. Half an hour later the ticket taker informed me that, no, this was not headed to Maryland. It was a Metro North train headed only to New York City. I’d have to get off at Harlem.

Hell no this sheltered, underaged white boy was not getting off at Harlem. I told the car my situation in the hopes to borrow a cell phone and calling home for advice. I even offered to pay cash for the time I’d use. They responded by not making eye contact. I went down some cars and found a phone that would not take coins, but only credit card information you had to speak into it. I still don’t understand how that was supposed to work. Seeing how inept I was, a couple of girls lent me a cell and advice that I actually would need to get off at Grand Central and go across town to Penn Station. I confirmed it with my relatives in Maryland via the phone while hiding from the conductor.

A few firsts ensued. First cab ride alone. First time realizing I’d overpacked. First time in three years my back began to crack, and I realized it might go out on me lugging far too many bags around Grand Central Station. Oh, and first time navigating Grand Central Station. Only getting lost in a city-sized subterranean transit system will teach you just how many pairs of pants you don’t need for a weekend.

It took me at least an hour to find the Amtrak station. I waited in the terminal until my train came up as "BOARDING." On the way down, I confirmed with three strangers and two conductors that this was definitely headed south. I spent the ride trying to keep pressure off my back, one of the spots my syndrome used to flare up the most. My grandmother actually met me at Baltimore’s Penn Station and was very sorry to hear about my incompetence.

We got to the door of my hotel room and Grandma couldn’t figure out the keycard. I put down my bags and swiped it for her. I bent, picked my bags up, arched my back, and something popped. Even she flinched at the sound.

I could not bend anymore. I had to drop my luggage without inspection on the floor and ducked in the bathroom for fifteen minutes. My back had either gone out or this was a wave of spasms; either way, bad. I had to hide this because I was convinced she would make me give up the convention. Priorities, you see.

Suspicious, she insisted we go to dinner. I spent another hour pretending my posture was always this good and no, nothing was wrong, I was just tired.

She spent another hour informing me about the grizzly murders in this city. Baltimore of Maryland, it seemed, was the murder capital of the United States. She begged me not to stay out after dark and not to talk to anyone. I had to stay in groups at all times. Between how addled my brain was from the train trip and the back injury, her ranting pierced my psyche. After she left, I slumped face-first onto my bed.

The next thing I knew, it was after six. I hustled outside and to pick up my attendee badge. With my back the way it was, I walked like I was trying to co-opt The Twist.

The line wrapped around the convention center. Twice. It was only overcast when I got there, and only began pouring and thundering after I waited for half an hour. We got soaked. Then we went inside where it was far too air-conditioned, and got the pleasure of being both wet and too cold. Every time I shivered, my back would spasm again. The people in line shied away from me like I was deranged.

I emerged with my badge and barely able to move. I was actually shuffling like a penguin when I realized it was pitch black out. I saw a single guy sleeping on a bench and was instantly convinced this city was out to kill me. I waited for the first couple to walk in the direction of my hotel and followed behind them.

I stayed close enough to ward off invisible muggers, while not too close as to seem annoying. They sped up.

I groaned in pain and kept pace. The couple huddled closer together and went even faster.

I couldn’t believe this. I was going to die out here.

Then the girl of the couple looked back at me. Her eyes were wide with abject terror.

That’s when I realized: I was disheveled from the day, grimacing from my back and effectively chasing this cute little couple. They thought I was a murderer.

I let them get away. When I got back to my hotel room, I laughed until my back popped a second time. I didn’t sleep that night. It hurt too badly, and there was a rave next door. I was half-delirious for most of that convention and could not tell you what I did for most of the weekend. Grandma says I was very happy when she picked me up Sunday afternoon. I went back for several years.

Bathroom Monologue: How the World Really Is

To listen to today's flash either click the triangle on the left to begin streaming audio or click this text to download the MP3.

You maintain at least two extracurriculars a year until you break your leg at Track And Field. You start having heartbreaks as soon as you hit puberty, and you’ve got an afterschool job to start saving for cars by fifteen.

Early Acceptances and Deans’ Lists are goals. Settling and limits are lessons. The pregnancy scare, the Recession from nowhere, and not having a family house to return to are simply facts.

The man who sticks in your life is complicated, yet somehow your relationship is simple. Your pregnancy is smooth (so the doctor says).

Getting up every night to feed the baby is mandatory. So is getting into the Diner by seven. You budget Christmas presents on tips. You draft resumes and calculate mortgage rates on the backs of napkins. You watch social barriers crumble while your tires sink.

You re-learn trigonometry and European history to help him with his homework. These winters are harsher, these summers are hotter, and he won’t wear the same clothes for more than three months in a row. You postpone your OB/GYN to afford his iPhone. You risk you getting axed four times to drive him to the colleges he wants to see.

You do all this so that some Spring Break you can cook his macaroni and cheese while he tells you how the world really is.

Bathroom Haiku: Space Party

spheres spin 'round the star,
it's not a solar system
it's a space party.