Welcome to Fantasy Friday! Every week, you are invited to write and post anything having to do with fantasy, science fiction, etc., right here in the comments: a heartfelt appreciation of Madeleine L’Engle, a bit of a story you’re trying to write, a review of the ancient mythology in Battlestar Galactica or the ancient architecture in H.P. Lovecraft. At 5 p.m. today, if we’ve got at least ten participants, we’ll choose the day’s most entertaining writer and PayPal them $10 on the spot. Go start your weekend off with a cold one on us! (Minors, make that a cold ice cream sundae.)
When I was a kid, Scholastic would distribute an order form every month, through school, for its latest books. I would pore over that thing for hours, trying to prioritize, to winnow the Want list down to whatever amount of cash I thought I could realistically wheedle out of my parents atop my weekly fifty-cent allowance. There was no set budget; everything depended on unpredictable adult moods, and guessing how many books I might get in a given month was more like forecasting the weather than, say, doing addition.
I still have a few of those books, among them THE CASE OF THE MARBLE MONSTER AND OTHER STORIES, by I.G. Edmonds, which was about a samurai named Ooka Tadasuke, a Japanese magistrate of Edo who was so incredibly wise that he now has his own Wikipedia entry. Ooka was a trickster judge of the “rip the baby in half” variety, and I loved him. He was witty, he was smart, and he was kind. I read that book a hundred times. It’s survived every move and every book cull since.
One of the stories is “Ooka and the Honest Thief,” and begins thus:
One day, Yahichi, owner of a rice store, came to Ooka’s court, complaining that each night some of his rice disappeared.
“It is such a small amount that I hesitate to trouble your Honorable Honor,” Yahichi said, touching the ground with his head to show proper respect for the great magistrate. “But I am reminded of the story of the mountain that was reduced to a plain because a single grain was stolen from it each day for centuries.”
Supposing a random adult had told me, at that age: “Hey, small person–if you attempt to complete just a tiny bit of a big task every day, it’ll get done!” Odds are good that this simply wouldn’t have sunk in. But, wow. It says so in the Ooka book, and is therefore unquestionably true? Slow and steady actually does win the race? Dogged persistence can take down a frickin’ mountain? Coooool!
I believed; in a small way, on that day, fiction changed my brain.
This has been on my mind lately because there’s a number of things I’m trying to accomplish this way, a bit at a time, every day: music to learn, CDs to rip for my iPod, photos to sort and label. Whenever I decide to do something a teeny bit at a time, to chip away rather than power through, I think of that story, and all the other ones in that book. And even though I now know better than to believe everything I read, I still believe, deep down, that I can flatten that mountain.
Anyone else out there remember the books of childhood that shaped your worldview?
I propose a new Genre Movement- Monkey Fiction. That’s right. All about talking monkeys, all the time. We use stories like Le Fenu’s The Green Monkey for inspiration. The only way it could have been better is if every character had been followed by a green monkey. Green monkeys everywhere!
And we have several sub genres already. Iron Monkey- steam punk style monkey fiction done in Victorian flair. Or Ninja Monkey- stories with ninjas AND monkeys in it. No shit. Both. At the same time.
The revolution is now. And it likes bananas.
Magpie Sisters
By Craig Laurance Gidney
Sister Magpie was the greatest thief of all, greater than the crow or the fox. Her top half was darker than the spaces between the stars. But her underside was splashed with white, where she had been burned when she mistook a fragment of a fallen star for a coin. She was a true daughter of the night. On nights of the blue moon, she could shift her shape like all of animal kind could. In her human form, she was a black woman mantled in a robe of black feathers. A single stripe of white bisected her body, from the wild tufts of her hair, down her face, through her torso. You could see the things she stole woven into a necklace: bits of glitter, a thimble, the nib of a pen. Only a glimpse, though, before the moon hid behind sapphire-lined clouds. Then she was in bird-form, off in the air, searching for brightness.
*
Vonda tried to ignore the calling as she walked in Greenwich Village. The vendors set things out to temp her, wares on dirty blankets on the street. DVDs, books arranged in neat stacks, empty perfume bottles, knock-off Hermes bags. I don’t need any of this shit, she reminded herself. Her room in a Queens townhouse was overflowing as it was with knickknacks. She had enough earrings to open a shop herself.
No.
She quieted the urge with the mantras Seline, her counselor, had given her. I am strong and whole, she though to herself, swimming through crowds of hipsters in colorful t-shirts and gay boys in tighter versions of the same t-shirts. She had a new job (a crappy one) at a clothing store for a month; her record was going to be expunged. No way was she gonna fuck it up. But the calling was persistent. The calling was like an tickling behind the eyes, a feather-touched shiver. It quarreled in her ear, mocking and singeing, just below comprehension.
I am strong and whole, strong and whole, strongandwhole. If she could just get home, call Seline…
It sparked on the ground. The necklace. Vonda had never seen its like before. A variety of weird things hung between blue gem stone markers. Dice, a baby’s tooth, the nib of a pen. She had to have it. The tickling behind her eyes became unbearable, as if a murder of crows were behind the mask of her face. Vonda stepped into alley that stank of old cabbage and cat piss, to get a good look at the vendor. Even though it was relatively warm outside, as it was mid October, the vendor was so muffled up in scarves, fingerless gloves and woolen cap that it was impossible to tell the even the gender. But after a moment where the squatting vendor was illuminated by streetlight, Vonda surmised that she was an Asian woman in overalls. The rest of her wares were interesting, mish-mash hodge-podge necklaces made of wire and trash. But the blue one—Vonda could taste it, feel it in her hands, against her neck. She hadn’t felt like this in months. She stopped the useless tattoo of Seline’s mantra. She would steal this one, she knew it in her bones and blood. Having it would make her feel strong and whole.
The vendor walked away, not visible from the slice of sight that Vonda was granted. Perhaps there was another customer. Vonda took the chance and stepped out from the stinking alley. Into the whir of foot and street traffic. She didn’t see the vendor. She did, however, see a woman standing on the blanket. Like the vendor, the woman was ridiculously overdressed. She wore a coat of napped black wool that looked feathers. It was a very couture garment. Her hat was of the same stuff, except – when she turned – Vonda realized that it was her hair, not a knitted cap. The woman turned.
She was nude beneath her robe. Her body, even her hair, had a single stripe of white that went down her body, right down the middle. It was a lightening strike, frozen, against her dark, moist body. The black and white woman smiled. She held the beautiful necklace in her hand, offering it to Vonda.
Here. Take it.
The world was frozen, in stasis, except for the two of them. Vonda only had to make her choice and the start the world again.
When she accepted the blue necklace from the strange woman, the honks and beeps and cell phone conversations of Greenwich Village on a Saturday night started up again. Vonda stuffed the stolen treasure into her jacket pocket. She swore she heard the flutter of wings above her. Looking up, she could see nothing.
I’m afraid my experiments to connect the internet with the afterlife have failed, and what’s worse, my wife announced last evening that she’s leaving me for a troll who lives under the footbridge in a park nearby.
In all my work, I had neglected her needs. I had assumed that our love was strong enough, that she was patient enough to let me get through my struggle. I was doing it for us; the money, so we could have a baby, like we’ve always talked about.
But we had stopped talking because of my single-minded pursuit. And she started taking long walks. And now, I am alone in my laboratory. This morning, she packed a few things into a duffel bag, and left for the park.
I want to know how they met, but I can imagine it. The troll probably sprung upon her in the middle of one of her late night strolls. His three questions were more attention than I had paid to her in months.
Now she lives with him under the bridge.
I watch them from a park bench nearby. Her clothes are tattered, but her smile is not. I forgot how pretty she was when she smiled.
I wanted to feel betrayed, but who betrayed whom? Certainly, I let her down. And in doing so, I betrayed myself. I let the unimportant things take over. What use would a working link to the dead and massive piles of money be, without her?
Well, I say to myself, perhaps with massive piles of money, you could buy the park. Have the bridge torn down, and have vengence upon the creature that stole your wife.
No. No, there’s no sense to that. Trolls cannot be expected to behave civilly in such matters. He cannot be blamed.
I can only blame myself. Time to go disassemble the laboratory, and sell what’s left of my equipment on eBay. Meet up with some fellow mad scientists, and drink myself into oblivion.
I really do miss her smile.
Not sure if this is too long, but this is a just slightly over flash piece I slapped together yesterday for a newsgroup contest. And beer money is beer money.
The Witch of Bachelor Heights
So, here I am, schlepping along the sidewalk in Bachelor Heights with a black pillowcase filled darned close to ripping, smelling my own end-day breath inside this vac-form “Top Hat Kitty” mask, and doing my best not to squash every squealing rug-rat that scurries in front of me in the twilight. And, God help me, I can’t help but think to myself, “I remember being like that. When did Halloween stop being fun?”
This, my friends, is the ugly state of affairs you can find yourself in when your girlfriend is a witch.
I wish Sundra hadn’t popped this on me last minute. Did you ever try to find a decent costume at Wal-Mart at five in the evening on Halloween? Cripes.
I stroll down the hill between Bachelor Heights proper and the housing development they’ve built in the dell. Halfway between the housing development and the condos where the oak trees of the Bloomington Country Club back up against piles of torn up clay, I hang a right into a puddle of shadows. I tromp over the piles of dirt and construction debris and look up into the lower branches wreathed in fall color.
The last bit of setting sun provides enough umber-hued color for me to pick out Sundra sitting sidesaddle on a thick branch about two feet higher off the ground than my head. Of course, she didn’t have to make do with a kid’s mask. Oh, no. She’s wearing this gauzy “tatters” black dress that kind-of sort-of stops at her knees every once in a while, complete with plunging front neck line that exposes her curve makers very well, sleek black strap heels that accentuate her long legs, and a see-through mesh “witch’s hat” that she’s holding down against the light, gusty breeze with her left hand. How she’s keeping her balance with one hand on her hat and the other holding her tattered skirt close to her thighs, I’ve got no idea.
Regardless, put your old stereotypes to bed, right now. No warts here, boys. Not that Sundra’s personality matches her getup, mind you, no matter how much my libido wishes it did.
She notices me crunching my way up through the leaves and looks down. Her gray eyes widen when she spies the bulging bag in my right hand.
“Ooh! What did you get, Mike?”
I pause to lift my mask, open the bag, and dig around.
“Uh. . .little bit of damned near everything.”
She makes a couple of disapproving clucks at me from her branch. When I look up, she waggles a finger borrowed from hat duty at me.
“Don’t swear. I won’t tolerate my boyfriend being impolite.”
I drop my head for a second and sigh. Then again, since she’s a white witch, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.
“The usual then?” I ask, raising my attention back to her.
“Did you get some?”
I pull a small envelope of candy out of the bag.
“M&Ms dark?”
She licks her lips and then holds out her hands.
“Help me down.”
I drop the candy back in the bag, set the whole thing down by the trunk of the tree, and then step back to lift my arms toward her. Sundra slips off the branch and into my embrace, lighter than she can possibly be and warm against my black T-shirt. I hold her for a second, looking into her pales eyes turned blood red by the last light of the sun, and I can’t stop moving my face closer to hers.
A warm fingertip covers my lips.
“Don’t cling.”
“Not even a kiss?”
“We’re in public.”
I look out from the dark under the tree. All the kids are up in the Heights or down in the addition. There’s no one in sight for the moment. When I turn back to Sundra, she just cocks her head at that indescribably cute angle that dangles her shoulder length blond hair to one side and frowns at me.
What can I do? It’s back through the dirt to the sidewalk we go.
After setting her down on the concrete, I scurry back to recover the pillow case and then hand her the M&Ms. We walk side by side toward the addition in silence except for the click of her heels and the sound of distant kids screaming and laughing. I can’t help stealing glances at her as we go. Between the expression of ecstasy on her face as she savors each candy to the way the wind is wrapping her dress tight against her form, I feel like my heart is going to pop. My gaze probably lingers too long, because she notices me looking at last and raises one of her perfect eyebrows in a question mark.
“What? You’re not having perverted thoughts, are you?”
I cough and look away in the direction we’re walking. She “harrumphs” at me.
“I thought so.”
“I wasn’t thinking like that! I was just appreciating a beautiful moment, okay? I’m not some kind of animal that’s going to maul you. Besides, who decided at the last moment that it would be a waste of time not to go trick or treating?”
Her right hand slips into the bend of my left arm and sends tingles all the way up and down the side of my body.
“I know you’re not an animal.” Her lips warm my cheek for a fraction of a second and then disappear. “And thank you for the candy. All that walking would have killed me in these.”
Oh, thank God she can’t read minds.
I think.
I clear my throat and change the subject.
“So, you’re sure about Ms. Proctor?”
Sundra shrugs.
“Maybe. She’s had quite the run of luck lately, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, but then it all went south on her. Having that detective come right into class and arrest her for theft over that antique watch freaked me out.”
“I meant luck good and bad, Mike.”
I nod. We walk together through the development until we reach the house of Sarah Proctor. On another day, the place would probably look pretty good being new and all. But now there’s yellow police “Do not cross” tape everywhere and it looks like an army tromped mud up the sidewalk and through the front door. Worse, the place is pitch black, which makes sense since she got hauled off to the jail earlier.
Sundra walks past the broken plastic picket fencing straight for the front door.
“Hey! What if someone sees us?”
She turns around and taps the brim over her eyes.
“I’m the one with the hat, remember?”
“I was standing next to you at Walgreens when you bought that. In fact, I gave you the money to buy it!”
Sundra does an elegant courtesy with her tattered dress.
“And I thank you once again, Sir Knight.”
She heads back toward the house and I follow. We pass through the tape and the front door without any kind of effort at all – at least from me. Unlike her grandmother, Sundra’s magic isn’t all flashy and spectacular. Instead, it lives in subtle discontinuities and non sequiturs that you have to watch for to see.
We walk into the living room together and she moves immediately to a curio cabinet that looks empty to me. Nonetheless, my mysterious girlfriend opens up the glass door and reaches in above the top mirrored shelf. When she pulls her hand back, she’s holding a small bundle swathed in strips of moldering yellow linen.
“Got it!” She holds up Monkey’s Paw number eight in triumph. “Only seven more to go.”
I sigh and take a Kit Kat out of the pillow case.
“I wish your Gram would quit handing those things out as party favors.”
It has a monkey in it! SEE? We are taking over. The revolution is NOW
Apparel for the revolutionary simian:
http://www.cafepress.com/kevinwasden.13645040
I realize now that there are hidden monkeys in other stories. At the core, all stories are Monkey stories. We who are part of the REVOLUTION bring the hidden monkeys out, so that you can see them clearly in the light of day.
For example, in the Brother’s Karamazzov there is a hidden monkey in the monastery at the beginning. You can’t see him, but he is hiding in the rafters.
Or, in Faulkner’s as I Lie Dying. The famous one sentance chapter was originally “My mother was a monkey”. It got changed to fish when the fishmongers threaten to kill.
In Lord of the Rings Aragorn has a pet monkey that he left in the shire. You don’t know about him because he is a secret monkey. He steals fruit and farts on Old Gaffer’s crops.
See? Hidden monkeys. Everywhere.
You guys must be reading my mind about Monkeys! I was just working on this earlier!
See No Evil, Say No Evil
This is a dog…
The dog says…
Woof!
This is a cow…
The cow says…
Moooo!
This is a robot ninja
The robot ninja says…
Hi-Yah!
This is a cat…
The cat says…
Meow!
This is a stadium vendor…
The stadium vendor says…
Beerhere!
This is a bird…
The bird says…
Beerhere!
This is a monkey…
The monkey says…
Well, the monkey keeps to himself mostly.
This is a friend’s dad
The friend’s dad says…
Get off my damn lawn!
This is a bird…
The bird says…
Get off my damn lawn!
This is a bee…
The bee says…
Buzzz!
This is a robot ninja beating up my friend’s dad and drinking his beer…
The robot ninja beating up my friend’s dad and drinking his beer says…
Hi-Yah! Glug-Glug!
This is a bird…
The bird says…
Beerhere!
Whoops…meant to post this earlier. Not enough posts to have a contest anyway, right?
The Half Bereft
Half the people disappeared from the world. Inexplicably. There was no apocalypse. No alien invasion or war to end all wars. People were just gone. Streets empty. Maybe it was more than half. Those of us who were left had no way of counting. At first, we couldn’t have if we tried. We were all too busy grieving.
It happened on a balmy, overcast summer night in Boston. I was standing on a crowded subway platform under orange halogen lights–the red line, Charles St., the river north, rows of little shops leading south towards the Common–when the eerie keen of collective loss arose all at once from those around me, and I turned to find Erin gone.
I retraced my steps, walking over every inch of ground we’d travelled that night, stopping at every corner, every store window. The whole way I had to fight against everyone else. They were all as distraught as I was, all occupied in the same task. But the people we were looking for weren’t there. Finally, again collectively, we all accepted they were gone. People sat on curbs staring into the silent streets, speechless. I got up sooner than the rest, resolved to systematically seek out every person I cared about, in order of shortest distance. Somewhere I found a bike. I rode across the bridge to Medford, but Amy wasn’t at her house. Who knew where she might be. So I took my bike and got back on the T, which was still crowded, though quieter now. I went to Brighton.
I found Diana sitting on the floor outside her room. She’d just come from home. My parents were gone. She didn’t know where Amy was, or Udi. So we got up and went into her room and just kind of sat there on the bed, listening to mp3s from her computer. We talked about how weird it was that everything still worked even though there was nobody to run it or use it. We could ride the subway and surf the internet, but the quiet and the mass grief had impressed upon us a sense that the world had ended and was empty, that we who were left didn’t count.
We decided we’d live together from now on. Exhausted from our search, emotionally drained, we agreed to go to sleep. She got up to take a shower. I lay down on the bed.
Hey folks,
Alas, Michael is correct: even waiting for 5pm to roll around Pacific time, we didn’t hit ten participants today. There can be no free beer this week! The horror! And after last week’s winner was so happy!
However, we did arrive at an important truth: monkeys are key. Whatever the topic… monkeys are key.
Come back next week. Bring your friends.
PS. Dear Paul,
Your interest in monkey genre makes me think you might enjoy the following image of monkeys having a sauna on a snowy mountaintop:
http://pantlessjohnny.livejournal.com/122014.htm
Michael
er…try it now
http://pantlessjohnny.livejournal.com/122014.html?mode=reply
Here’s my Wergle Flomp entry. If you don’t know what Wergle Flomp is, it’s on http://www.WinningWriters.com (I’m not from there, I just entered the contest). The idea is to come up with the worst poem you can think of, and get one of the vanity poem markets to accept it so they can sell you one of their overpriced books.
So… here’s my entry for 2008:
With Certainty
by Guy Anthony De Marco
My life is one big mess.
I ogle the closet, select a red dress.
My life lacks a certain certainty
I forgot, I stand when I pee.
I can’t make up my mind.
At least I think I can’t, and that’s being kind
I like writing poems that rhyme.
If I don’t, then I’ll use a different word.
My work life is bruised like an orange.
I can’t think of anything that rhymes with ‘Orange’.
I live in a cubicle writing fake press releases
Yes, I’d like some coffee, if you pleases.
I wish my love life was gold and silver.
Damn it, I can’t think of anything that rhymes with ‘Silver’.
Either.
Oh bother. There goes my meter.
I guess I can’t write poetry
At least not without some certainty.
I’d wear that red dress to the Poetry Oscars.
Too bad I’m a hairy guy and only wear boxers.
Im looking in to getting one, who has got one of these:
http://www.grindtv.com//video/skate/travel_system_nurseryvaluecom/