Review: The Water Cure

Click here for an interesting review of Percival Everett's new novel The Water Cure.

Here is an excerpt from Jim Krusoe's excellent review:

"The narrator of The Water Cure is a man whose 11-year-old daughter has been raped and killed. He now is in the process of torturing her murderer, but this, as they say, is only the tip of the iceberg. True, as a subject it's plenty disturbing in itself, but through a variety of devices -- including drawings, mini-lectures on language, philosophy, politics, theology and nature, and even excerpts from a romance novel called "The Gentle Storm" -- Percival Everett has made his new novel much more than a simple horror show or self-righteous rant."

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The Great Swaddling Debacle

Virginia is depressed. It seems apparent to her that the years and money she put into fashion-design school and starting her own line would soon be wasted unless Christians came to their senses and borderline psychos lost more of theirs.
After graduating in the top of her class at from the Raymondo Dior School of Fashion in Topeka, Kansas, Virginia took the inheritance her grandmother had left her, borrowed some more money from her parents, and took her dreams and designs to Kansas City to break into the big time fashion world. She prayed about her fashion future a lot and felt with money and God behind her, success would be in front of her.
Virginia’s business plan included the knowledge that about 90 percent of Americans were Christians, and Satan was spreading a lot of mental illness around to try and destroy them. Vowing to use her design gifts for a higher purpose, Virginia prayed some more and was rewarded with a divine inspiration: swaddling clothes. A voice came to her in the night and said, “Virginia, make some swaddling clothes.”
When Virginia arrived in Kansas City, she rented a small studio and set about creating a line of swaddling clothes she felt sure the country would embrace. Of course, she began with baby clothes because swaddling babies was a biblical tradition; what better endorsement could swaddling clothes have than Jesus himself? Virginia worked day and night sketching her visions of modern swaddles; she even produced styles such as punk, hip-hop, redneck and neo-Arabic. However, Virginia didn’t limit herself to designing baby swaddles, she decided to bring swaddling clothes into haute couture. Gold lame, silk, velvet, linen, seersucker and cheap polyester were but a few of the materials she stitched and sewed and puckered and hemmed in an effort to create new, young, hip, old-testament fashion for a modern world.
Since the word swaddling also means, “to restrict,” Virginia, in order to broaden her chances at financial success, started a line of institutional swaddles she felt would replace straightjackets. The rise in Satan-caused mental illness had increased the demand for restrictive garments for lunatics, and Virginia felt being embraced by a terrycloth swaddle would have a more calming effect on the insane and make it easier for them to find Jesus.
After months of preparation, Virginia opened a retail store in the Big Corn Shopping Mall and hired a sales manager named Sammy Dandy to handle the institutional part of the business. She named her store “Swaddles” and took out ads in the Kansas City Star to promote the grand opening.
That was three months ago. Since that time, the inventory at Swaddles has only diminished by two baby-swaddling outfits and one swaddling chemise (which was sold to an S&M transvestite). The institutional line fared worse. On his first, and last, sales call, as Sammy Dandy was demonstrating the terry-cloth, lunatic swaddle, he was viciously attacked by a schizophrenic patient named Mr. Cheese, and had his ear bitten off. Mr. Cheese thought Sammy was Satan.
So, Virginia is depressed. She knows she is going to have to close her store and pack her dreams, but she also knows there is hope. She’s been praying a lot, and the other night, the same voice came to her and said, “Swimming suits for dogs.”

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Orwell On Writing

I ran across this essay by George Orwell. In it, he discusses his motives for writing and what and what he believes all writers face.

Excerpt:

"I think there are four great motives for writing, at any rate for writing prose. They exist in different degrees in every writer, and in any one writer the proportions will vary from time to time, according to the atmosphere in which he is living. They are:

"1. Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen—in short, with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all—and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.

"2. Æsthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a pamphleteer or writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons; or he may feel strongly about typography, width of margins, etc. Above the level of a railway guide, no book is quite free from aesthetic considerations.

"3. Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.

"4. Political purpose.—Using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples’ idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude."

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The Barleyville Baseball Incident

Robbie Stockbreath was a godsend to coach Edwin Nardlinger’s little-league baseball team. The kid was a 10-year-old phenom. The team, the Barleyville Rangers, had played four games so far this season, and Robbie had gotten a hit every time she came up to bat. Eleven of the hits had been home runs. But, young Miss Stockbreath’s prowess on the diamond was not limited to swinging the bat; she could rifle the ball into home plate from center field, run the bases with exceptional speed, and in two appearances as the team pitcher, she had not allowed a hit. With the 81-pound, 4 foot, 10 inch, blond-haired, blue-eyed baseball wizard on his team, Coach Ed had hopes they would win the district playoffs and maybe, just maybe, the Little League World Series in Cooperstown would be in their future.
The Rangers were in first place in the league going into today’s game against the Logan’s Ferry Lizards, last year’s district champions coached by Saul Persimmon, the county prosecutor and Coach Ed’s second cousin on his mother’s side. Ed disliked his cousin. Even as a child, he found Persimmon to be an odious, unethical, lying little scumbag, and the prosecutor had done little in the intervening years to alter that opinion. It was rumored he had railroaded more than one innocent man onto death row at the state prison. Coach Ed also didn’t like the way his cousin’s team played ball. He felt they played dirty, tried to hurt opposing teams by throwing at them. With Robbie in the lineup, Ed was sure his team would clobber the Lizards today.
While the kids were warming up, Coach Ed sat in the dugout filling out the starting lineup for the game. He decided to start Robbie in center field, and then move her to the pitcher’s mound in the third inning. In this league, pitchers could only pitch a maximum of four innings, and he wanted Robbie to close the game strong. Her fielding skills should prevent any long balls from driving in runs, and once on the mound, he didn’t think the other team would be able to get wood on the ball.
Coach Persimmon was starting his son Starmo as the Lizard’s pitcher. The kid was good, with an earned run average of 1.2. At 5 foot 10 inches and weighing 198 pounds, the hulk-child would usually dominate the smaller players with his fastballs and curves. He was also a terror with the bat, but his fielding was not impressive. He was 12-years-old, and already had a gut that hung over his belt like a tired dog. That made him slow.
The head umpire blew a whistle, and the kids came off the field for last minute instructions from their coaches and the flip of a coin to see which team would bat first.
The Lizards won the toss and headed to their dugout while the Rangers took the field. Coach Ed started Chico Escuela III on the mound, and he told the boy to relax and “keep it in the strike zone.”
The first Lizard batter, Davy Minnow, went down swinging on three consecutive pitches. Batter number two, Chad Vlad, connected on an outside slider, but it was easily fielded by second baseman Sud Nord, and Vlad was thrown out at first. Escuela retired the side on the next pitch when Doug Church fouled a pop-up down the first base line, and Stallworth “Stally” Chance, cradled it in his glove.
The Rangers first inning at bat was not much better. Starmo struck out the first batter, Stally Chance was hit by an inside pitch and got on base, but Peter Ming grounded into a double play.
In the top of the second inning, Starmo, the clean-up hitter, came to the plate. His beady-eyed, pit-bull face seemed to unnerve Escuela, and he served up a floater across the plate. Starmo jumped on it and smashed a long fly ball out to center field. The ball’s trajectory looked like it would take it over the fence, but at the last moment, Robbie Stockbreath leaped high into the air and snagged it with one hand. Starmo had already rounded first when he saw the girl’s amazing catch. He took off his helmet, threw it to the ground, and stomped his feet. Good sportsmanship was not one of his strong suits. When he got back to the dugout, he sat on the bench and pouted. The next two batters were both thrown out at first.
As the Lizards were taking the field, Coach Persimmon grabbed his son and whispered in his ear. The boy got a devilish smile on his face and trotted out to the pitcher’s mound.
“Here we go,” thought Coach Ed Nardlinger. Robbie Stockbreath was first up, and she hadn’t missed getting a hit yet. Starmo stared her down, then wound up and threw a screaming fastball on the inside. Robbie jumped back as the ball narrowly missed her, and the umpire called, “Ball one.” Starmo figured he had her scared now, so he aimed another fastball at the outside corner. Robbie watched calmly as the pitch went by, missing the outside corner by inches. “Ball two,” the umpire called. Back on the mound, Starmo was getting a little frustrated. He caught the ball returned by the catcher, kicked the dirt around the mound, and tried to settle down. He stared down the alley again and shook off a called slider from the catcher. “No,” thought Starmo, “this little girt is going to get a curve ball.” The ball left the pitcher’s hand and started breaking right. By the time it reached home place it was high and two feet inside. Robbie had to dive in the dirt or she would have had her chin busted. “Ball three,” said the umpire.
Coach Ed came out of the dugout and protested to the umpire that the pitcher was trying to throw at Robbie. Saul Persimmon came rushing over and said, “Bull.” Starmo stood on the mound picking his nose, and Robbie calmly stood up and waited for the next pitch. The umpire issued a warning to Starmo, and his dad walked out to the mound. He put his arm around his son and said, “Remember what I told you, girls have no place in baseball. Now, do what needs to be done.”
“But dad,” Starmo protested.
“But dad nothing, this little girl is not going to beat us. Now, do what I told you.”
Coach Persimmon returned to the dugout, and Starmo nervously began his pre-pitch ritual: wiping the ball on his pants, touching his cap, and loosening his shoulders. Robbie stepped into the batter’s box showing no emotion. She stood there at ease and took a couple of practice swings, staring at Starmo the whole time.
Before starting his wind-up, hulk-boy looked over at his dad, who nodded to him. Starmo locked his eyes on Robbie, wound his arm, kicked his left leg high in the air, and let loose with a blistering fastball. He put every ounce of his strength into the throw, and when the ball left his hand, the heft behind the pitch carried him forward and he fell face down in the dirt.
Robbie picked up the trajectory of the ball, but it was traveling at such speed, by the time she determined it would arrive high and inside, it was already there. A loud crack of hard leather on plastic rang out as the baseball smashed against Robbie’s helmet, just above her ear. Silence exploded in the ballpark, and all eyes turned towards home plate. For a moment, no one moved; the sight of Robbie’s little body standing in the batter’s box still holding the bat stunned them. Her head was dangling down her right side, stopped at her elbow an assortment of wires and tubes tenuously attached to her neck. Coach Ed shook off his disbelief and ran to her. A lone cry went up from the stands. “Oh God,” yelled Dr. Berk Stockbreath, Robbie’s father, as he shoved people out of his way trying to get to his daughter.
By this time, Starmos Persimmon had picked himself up off the ground, and when he looked at the batter’s box, he wailed in a high-pitched voice, “Oh Jesus, I killed her, I killed her.” Starmos turned and ran towards left field where he jumped the fence and tore down Cutter Street screaming in terror.
When Ed Nardlinger reached Robbie, he fell to his knees. He wasn’t sure what to do; he grabbed her wrist to see if she had a pulse. The umpire stood by mute, an awed expression on his face. When Coach Ed pulled Robbie’s arm toward him, it caused her head to swing around towards the front of her torso, directly in front of him. Robbie’s eyes opened and stared at him. Before Ed could react, Berk Stockbreath arrived and gently cradled Robbie’s head in his arms. “It’s Ok baby, don’t worry,” he told her.
Dr. Stockbreath turned to Coach Ed and said, “Can someone go to my car and get my bag out of the trunk?” Before Ed could answer, Todd Mogger, the umpire, stammered, “Uh…I’ll go.” The doctor tossed him the keys, and the returned his attention to his daughter. Ed told his assistant coaches, Brad Nurn, Betty Nolan and Lionel Mason, to keep people away and have someone call EMS. Dr. Stockbreath quickly countermanded Ed’s order, “No EMS, I can take care of this.”
“But her head’s been knocked off, she could die,” said Ed incredulously.
“Please coach, I’m a doctor, I can take care of this.”
“But she could bleed to death.”
“She won’t bleed to death. Do you see any blood?”
Coach Ed looked over Robbie’s body and the ground surrounding it. He hadn’t noticed before, but there was no blood. Her uniform was wet on the left side, but it looked like sweat stains. “This is nuts,” he said. “What is happening?”
Before he got an answer, Todd the umpire arrived with the doctor’s bag. Stockbreath opened it and retrieved a few odd-looking tools and ointments. “Coach Nardlinger,” said Dr. Stockbreath, “I want you to hold Robbie’s head for a few minutes while I work on her neck.”
Ed was flying on autopilot and did what was asked. He gently took the girl’s head from her father and gingerly held it in his hands. He almost fumbled it when he heard her whisper, “Don’t worry coach, it’s gonna be Ok.”
“Ok,” he said, but he was thinking, “This is not real. This has got to be one of those deals where I’ll wake up shortly and puke last night’s clams into the toilet bowl.”
As Stockbreath worked on Robbie’s neck, the girl’s blue eyes would flicker occasionally. Her lips twitched once. Finally, Dr. Stockbridge told Ed, “Ok Ed, now help me lift her head and place it on her neck.”
Ed had little choice but to do what he was asked. Interestingly, as they placed Robbie’s head back on her neck, Ed noticed there was a clean break where the head had detached. In fact, there seemed to be a gasket lining her neck and head. The skin was torn, of course, but it didn’t look like torn skin. Once the head was in place, Dr. Stockbreath pulled out what appeared to be a small caulking gun and ran a bead of opaque material around Robbie’s neck. Suddenly, her eyes opened again, and she spoke. “Thanks dad, I think everything’s fine now.”
Saul Persimmon came charging through the crowd that had circled the girl about ten yards out. He was yelling, “Forfeit, this game is a forfeit. They lose. This girl is a robot, and robots are not allowed in baseball. Nardlinger, you son of a bitch, you thought you could get away by using a robot ringer, didn’t you? Well, that just ain’t gonna fly. You lose, we win.”
Dr. Berk Stockbreath stepped in front of Persimmon, “She’s not a robot,” he stated.
“Blow it out your blowhole, Stockbreath,” shouted Saul Persimmon. “I know what I saw. She’s a damned robot. Look at her, she’s a freak.”
Coach Ed had heard enough from his loudmouth cousin. “Saul, shut up. Leave that girl alone.”
Robbie Stockbreath walked over to Coach Ed’s side. “It’s Ok coach, really.” She turned to face Coach Persimmon. “I’m not a robot Mr. Persimmon, I’m a PHIIL, a Post Human Intelligent Integrated Life-form. I carry human genes and brain cells as well as microchips and solenoids. I may not be fully human, but I’m not inhuman either. I think, feel, hope, dream, smell, taste and I love playing baseball. As far as I know, there aren’t any rules about PHIILs playing baseball.”
Chico Escuela III, Stally Chance, Peter Ming and the rest of Robbie’s teammates came up and stood behind her. They said in unison, “Yeah.”
Coach Ed turned to Todd the umpire for a ruling. Todd shrugged his shoulders and dug out the rulebook from his back pocket. The crowd was hushed as Todd leafed through the book. After several minutes, Todd announced, “There’s nothing in here about no PHIILs. The rules don’t even say anything about robots either.”
The Barleyville Rangers let out a cheer. Most of the people in the crowd followed suit. Todd the umpire yelled, “Play ball.” Saul Persimmon screamed, “This is crap. We’re not playing, and I’m going to sue.”
“Forfeit,” said Todd. “Rangers win.”
Later that afternoon, Starmo Persimmon was found crying hysterically at a Krispy Kreme donut shop. A month later, his mother Laura filed for divorce from Saul and is getting the boy the help he needs.
Saul Persimmon was indicted two months later on charges aggravated weaseling and supplying steroid to his son. All of the cases he prosecuted since his time in office are under official revue.
The Barleyville Rangers went on to become district champs and advanced to the little-league regional finals. Coach Ed Nardlinger’s dream of a trip to Cooperstown for the Little League World Series was dashed when the Rangers lost the regionals to a team from Roswell, New Mexico that went on to win the Series. There was some controversy when it was found that the Roswell team’s all-star third baseman was, in fact, a Kraykax from the outer moon of Celtius 6. The losing team sued, and the case was taken before the United States Supreme Court, where it was unanimously decided the rules of baseball did not prevent alien life forms from participating in the sport and order the little-league commissioner to change the name “World Series” to “Intergalactic Series.”
Robbie Stockbreath did not compete in little-league baseball he following season. After the incident at the Lizards vs. Rangers game, Dr. Berk Stockbreath decided to re-build his daughter into a 24-year-old young woman. These days, Robbie now plays quarterback for the St. Louis Rams professional football team and serves as the spokeswoman for BAPOP (the ‘Bots Androids and PHIILs Alliance for Peace.)
As for Chico Escuela II, baseball been berry, berry good to him.


.

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Barry Eats Sheep

Last week, I started old school, and tomorrow, my first homework assignment is due for my class in memoir writing. I’ve already completed the assignment, and anticipate a fairly decent grade, but I’m worried about my classmate Barry.
Barry is 81 years old, and up until 11 years ago, he was in the poultry technology field for more than 50 years. He says he is gay even though he has never had sex with a man…or a woman. His statement made me a little wary, so I asked him if he had had sex with a chicken. He assured me that that was not—nor would it ever be—the case. I dropped the subject.
I’m worried about Barry not because of his gayness, but because I think he might receive an F on his homework assignment. Our teacher asked us to write about our favorite childhood foods. After class, Barry confided in me that he wasn’t very keen on revisiting his childhood and recalling the slaughter in which he participated. “You see,” Barry told me, “I was raised by wolves.”
Now, I was raised by a military officer, and I don’t think being raised by wolves could be any more traumatic than that, but Barry insists he will be ridiculed and persecuted if he puts down on paper the somewhat grizzly meals he consumed as a child. “I just know that other people are going to write about fried chicken, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and stuff like that,” said Barry. He looked around to make sure no one else was listening, and said, “You know, Em, I wish I could have eaten that kind of stuff, but mostly what my parents gave me was raw, bloody sheep. Damn, to this day, I can’t even wear a wool sweater.”
“Well,” I told Barry, “why don’t you just write that you liked mutton as a child, even if it is a lie.”
“Oh, I couldn’t lie.”
“Ok…uh…I’m sure you probably ate something else besides sheep once in a while; there must have been something you liked.”
“Well…yeah,” said Barry with a guilty look on his face. “There were a few treats.”
“Then write about them,” I suggested.
“I don’t think people would understand Em. I mean wolves have different appetites than humans.”
“How bad could it be Barry? People eat animals all the time.”
“I’ll tell you, but you got to keep this to yourself, Ok?”
“Sure Barry, no problem. I think you’re blowing this way out of proportion, but go ahead.”
“Well, when I was a kid my favorite things to eat were aliens.”
I just sort of stared at Barry, thinking Alzheimer’s hat set in. “Aliens?”
“Yeah, the wolf pack I lived with was based in the hills of southern New Mexico. About once a month or so, dad and my uncles would go out for a sheep kill, and as they were stalking, they’d run across and illegal alien who had gotten lost. He didn’t stand a chance. It was sure a great change of pace from sheep, and I always got the ankle.”
I think class tomorrow is going to be real interesting.

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The Big, Huge Thesaurus

A reader passed along a link to The Big, Huge Thesaurus. This site is based on source data from the Princeton University WordNet database, the Carnegie Mellon Pronouncing Dictionary, and suggestions from thousands of people on the internet.
It is filled with synonyms, antonyms, rhymes, writing prompts and blog-post suggestions.

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The Surprising Un-Surprise Birthday Party

A bellicose parrot thundered in my right ear, “Try the damn fajitas.” Startled, I reflexively stepped to the left, which caused me to make full-body contact with a waitress named Sula, who was carrying a tray laden with bowls of hot, steaming chicken caldo. Sula went down hard, and the soup she was transporting took a northwest trajectory, landing on a party of four sheriff’s deputies, causing first-degree burns on one of the deputy’s fireplug biceps. This was not the sort of entrance I wished to make at my birthday dinner at Cantina Felipe.
I was unscathed, but I could feel accusatory eye darts fired in my direction. “It wasn’t me,” I explained desperately, “The bird yelled at me, and I got scared.” My excuse did not seem to be playing well; I doubt it was even heard over the howling of the napalmed deputy. I helped Sula off the floor as Manuel, the assistant manager, called EMS to transport the lawman to a local hospital. I was looking around for my party when one of the uninjured deputies approached me with malice and asked for my identification. “You’re in a heap of trouble boy,” he snarled.
I was both terrified and flattered. I felt I was about to be sucked into the nightmare of our legal system, but today I was 61, and he had called me “boy.” As I slowly reached for my wallet and ID, a young girl, about six-years-old, came up and said to the cop, “I saw it. I saw what happened, and it was the bird’s fault. That’s a mean bird, he scares me.”
The deputy smiled at the little girl, frowned at me, and then stared at the parrot. The bird just bobbed its head. By this time, the clamor had begun to die down in the restaurant, and relative calm was being re-established. It appeared the lawman might dismiss the incident and send me on my way when Pathetic Bob walked out from one of the small banquet rooms. “Jeez Em, where the hell have you been? Everybody’s waiting on you. They won’t let me have any food ‘til you get here,” he complained. “Who is this cop?”
I hadn’t realized my wife had invited the dog to my surprise party that was not really a surprise party but had become a surprise party after all. “Never mind Bob,” I quickly responded, hoping to get him out of the deputy’s presence, “Why don’t you just go back into the room, and I’ll be along shortly.”
“Is that your dog?” asked the cop.
“Well, he lives with me, but he’s his own dog,” I tried to explain.
As I launched into a further explanation about it being my birthday and the unsurprised-surprise party, the little girl went over to Bob and starting petting him. “Have you washed your hands?” he asked her. She giggled.
I was talking to the deputy, the girl was talking to Bob, Bob was talking to the girl, and the parrot was bobbing and weaving like a professional boxer. As the officer finally handed my ID back to me, Bob came up and said to him, “I think you ought to arrest that bird. The kid told me what the bird did. It’s a menace, take it away.”
“Bob, I don’t think…”
“To hell with that Em. I’m fed up with birds getting away with everything. They need to be held accountable. Every time I go out on the deck at home, birds gangs fly by and drop poop bombs on me. I’m sick of it. This city locks up dogs and cats just for wandering around not hurting anyone, but birds, they get away with any damn thing they want to do.”
The deputy looked Bob, then back at me. “Are you a ventriloquist?” he asked.
I laughed nervously. “Uh, yeah. I was just fooling around, you know, I was entertaining the little girl. Look sir, I really appreciate your understanding. I’m gonna take Bob, and we’re going to go have a nice birthday dinner. I hope your friend will be Ok.”
I picked Bob up and headed towards the banquet room, but before we had gone two steps, he turned around and yelled at the parrot, “We’re gonna have chicken!”

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Swimming With Owls

In August of 1863, an 18-yera-old boy named Rene Poupier was swimming in the ocean by the small village of Cusionairre in Southern France. Like his father before him, Rene was an owl tender, and he had developed quite a reputation for his innovative methods of owl husbandry. In the late afternoons, as his owls slept, dreaming of field mice and Lycanthrope moons, it was Rene’s custom to spend an hour in the salt water propelling his muscular body back and forth along the natural harbor around which the village was built. As he swam, Rene too dreamt. His dreams contained no rodents or astral bodies; they consisted mainly of ocean leviathans, gold-dust maidens, and cities heard of but unseen.
Villagers would often stand on rocky outcroppings and watch the young man smoothly cut thought the sea. Some would say, “That boy should have been a dolphin.” Other might exclaim, “The owl man is in the sea again. I wonder if he is planning on teaching his birds to swim.”
Unbeknownst to the villagers Rene had, in fact, already tried to teach his owls to swim two years ago. The experiment had ended in failure and the death of one of the birds. He had mourned the bird for months and vowed never to try such a risky venture again.
On that August day, Rene had been in the water for about 40 minutes, and as usual, a few village spectators lined the edge of the cove observing his effortless progress from one side to the other and back again. As Rene approached the southernmost end of his swim and was about to make his turn, his rhythmic glide broke, and he seemed to be struggling. Manush, the village idiot who was a regular spectator cried, “Look, his rhythmic glide is broken and he seems to be struggling.”
Others rushed to where Manush was standing, and moments after they arrived, they witnessed the young man disappear below the surface. “What should we do?” asked Pierre the net maker. “What can we do?” said Maud, the tobacconist’s wife.
The small group of villagers debated for several minutes about a plan of action, but before they could reach a decision, Rene broke the surface, gasping for air. The villagers shouted cries of relief, and Manush gingerly climbed down the lichen-encrusted rocks and pulled Rene to safety. The idiot gently hoisted the owl tender over his shoulders, scaled the outcropping, and then laid Rene on the well-worn path.
As Rene lay there breathing heavily, the villagers closed in, inspecting him for signs of damage. And, they found some. Rene’s body was covered with what appeared to be small bites and bruises. Tiny rivulets of blood rolled down the side of his legs and arms, and there was a nasty bruise on his left cheek.
When his breathing had returned to normal, the villagers asked Rene, “What happened? Did a shark attack you?”
“No,” replied Rene, “It seems I was attacked by mollusks. There were hundreds of small clams nipping at me and dragging me down. I was sure I was going to die.”
“How did you get away?” asked Maud.
“Just as my oxygen was almost depleted, I swear I saw an underwater owl swoop in on wing-fins, and the mollusks fled in panic.”
A hush fell over the crowd. Finally, a somber Pierre said, “These are strange times.”
Manush the idiot grunted then pensively stared at the ground. “I think it’s global warming,” he said.

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Pronoun Therapy

Interesting science news concerning pronouns:

Science Daily — New research suggests that pronouns may play a far greater role than simply replacing a proper name in a sentence. A University of South Carolina study suggests that pronouns help keep the brain’s complex circuitry and limited memory system from being overloaded.

I may have to start naming the characters in my stories He, She and It.

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Upcoming stories

In addition to a story titled "The Therapist's Apprentice," which will be published by Every Day Fiction on September 23, I have a couple more stories being published.

"Janet Goes To Dinner" is already up on Hecale, an interesting webzine, and "The Guilt Trader" has been purchased by Drabblecast, a weekly web podcast featuring actors reading short stories.

These sites support writers, support these sites.

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Writing in the Rain With Dogs

The juice from tropical storm Erin has been spilling on us all day, swelling the soil and delighting my plants. Cat is afflicted with rainy-day lethargy and is stretched out next to me on the extra chair in my office dreaming of catfish. For her, my keyboard tapping is soporific.
I’ve been at work for hours on a new story, interrupted frequently by sharp gnawing on my toes and requests to play tug-o-war with a raggedy stuffed duck. The dogs get restless when it is liquid outside. The absence of thunder has given Pathetic Bob the courage to dart out on the deck occasionally to pee, but he has been spending the rest of the day practicing couch slumping. Judy, the deaf one, has been trying to master macramé, but all she has created so far is a multi-colored rat’s nest.
My toes were getting sore from Lily’s incessant teething, and Sophie’s pleas for play were making me feel like a puppy abuser, so I saved the story and got everyone together for treat time. In the kitchen, copious liver treat were passed out as the dogs displayed their best behavior. Well, Lily didn’t behave, but she is young, tiny and insane. Even Cat snapped out of her coma long enough to slink into our group for her portion.
When treat time was finished, I tried to resume writing, but the liver had charged the dogs’ batteries, and they demanded attention. “Play with us,” they said.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“But we’re bored. It’s raining, and there’s nothing to do,” said Bob, acting as the group’s spokesman.
“You seem to enjoy doing nothing, Bob. Why don’t you do some more of it?”
“Come on, think of the kids. They need exercise.”
A chorus of yips, whines and barks accompanied Bob’s last remark. Cat hissed and told them to keep it down. At least someone was on my side.
Finally, I couldn’t take the complaining anymore and said, “Fine, you want to play? Let’s play.” I opened the door going out to the pool and went out in the rain. “Come on wimps,” I taunted, “Let’s run circles around the pool, and then we can eat some sticks.”
They stood at the threshold of the door and whined, “But it’s wet out there.”
“Of course it’s wet out here,” I said. “It’s raining, a tropical storm is dumping its bladder all over the city, but here I am, ready to play with you even though I should be writing.”
“We don’t want to get wet.”
“I don’t want to get wet either, but here I am, moist to the bone because you want to be entertained.”
“It is kind of entertaining,” said Pathetic Bob. “You look pretty stupid out there.”
The other canines began dog chuckling. I slogged back into the house, changed clothes and re-opened the document I was working on. The dogs gather around me, trying to hide their smirks with their paws. “Piss off,” I said.
Unfortunately, they did. About an hour later, as I walked to the bathroom, I noticed small puddles dotted the floor. My roof doesn’t leak.

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The Universe of Dick

A friend of mine recently sent me this speech Philip K. Dick made on a college in 1978. Dick, now deceased, was one of the best (if not the best) science fiction writers of the 20th century.

The speech, though quite long, is a fascinating look into his search for "reality" and his musings about the concept of time. Weather you are a sci-fi fan or not, I think you will find his thoughts provocative and interesting.

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Story Accepted

My story "The Therapist's Apprentice" has been accepted by Every Day Fiction and is schedule to go out September 23.

Every Day Fiction sends out a story a day to your inbox, and it costs nothing to sign up for the service. The writing covers all genres, and is a great way to get in some interesting reads during your lunch break.

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Panic

He was unusually quiet that evening. The words from his dinner companions passed through his ears, but once inside his head they fell apart into disconnected vowels and consonants. “I’m sorry, what did you say,” was an oft-repeated phrase he spoke throughout out the meal. His pulse quickened, and a slight discomfort scratched at his chest. He began to withdraw from the reality of the gathering, and once he had his fill of pasta and chicken with cream sauce, he excused himself, went outside to the back yard, and lit a cigarette.
As he paced and dosed himself with tobacco, short, staccato moans punctuated his breathing, and a slight unsteadiness assaulted his balance. He became conscious of his breathing, short rapid cycles followed by deep gulps of the warm, humid night air. His mental perceptions tilted a degree or two but not enough distort his memory of the feelings and physical reactions that were occurring. They had happened all too often in the past that their imprint would be with him forever. It had been years, however, since they had so aggressively made their presence known. He was unprepared to feel them again; he had stopped looking over his shoulder.
The illuminated pool water glowed an eerie blue, a fitting backdrop for the world into which he had slipped. Standing in the shadows, he watched his wife and friends inside, chatting about France and relatives and plans for visiting the Brittany coast in two years time. Inside his head, a liquid language was rising, and small-craft warnings echoed along the shore. “Jump in the boat and ride it out,” he told himself and re-entered the house.
“Are you OK?” they asked.
“I’m fine,” he lied.
They drank wine, and he plugged his ears with lemonade. He stood and said, “I need to lay down for a minute.” The living room was only a few paces away, and he made it easily, and then stretched out on the leather couch.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” they asked again.
“I’m fine.”
He was not fine, but at least he was now prone and with his forearm draped across his eyes it made being not fine easier. Ever since he was a child, he had known that demons would not hurt you if you don’t look at them. With his vision arrested, his nervous system attacked him from within. It sent out small, electrical hand grenades, causing his hands to twitch and legs to spasm. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted to himself, hoping to curse the demons into submission. It was a mantra of frustration, a song of sorrow, and empty linguistic talisman that had never worked before, but he clung to it like a holy relic.
The sound of chairs at work, the movement of familiar feet, his wife and friends were coming into the living room for more comfort and conversation. He knew they could see the spasms, hear the occasional low moan, but they also knew his past and left him alone.
The words, the electric tics, and the mind slips became too much, and he went back outside to stand in the pool glow. He hugged a gazebo post like it was his mother, cheek on grain, longing to be an uncut block of wood. Crickets complained loudly about the night heat, raccoon patrols noisily made their evening rounds on the other side of the fence, the moon smelled of ginger. The sliding glass door swept open, and the woman he has lived with forever stepped out into the night world and said, “Do you want to go?”
He does want to go, but he is trapped inside himself. “No, I’m Ok,” he says. She doesn’t believe him…she knows.
The hosts come out, and he tries desperately to quell the riot in his head. Sitting at the patio table, he is asked a question. He knows it is a question, but has no idea what it is about. A garbled hand full of words escapes his mouth, but he doesn’t understand them. His mind is now fixated on a dog, and he begins to cry. He hates crying. Embarrassment and humiliation pool on the ground in front of him, and he asks himself, “Why now?” It’s been so long. Why now?”
He should know better; he gave up asking “why” long ago. “I think it is time to go,” he sobs, I’m very sorry, but I need to go unconscious.”

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Janet Goes To Dinner

“I’ll have a squid and seconal salad please,” Janet told the waiter.
“I’m sorry maam, we no longer serve barbiturates and we are out of squid, but there is a smoking area in the alley.”
A slight pout rolled down Janet’s face as she picked up the menu. “That doesn’t fit well with my plans,” she said.
The waiter, whose friends called him Butter but whose real name was Roman, stood mute, awaiting Janet’s second selection.
“Hmm,” mused Janet, “you don’t seem to have any other cephalopods, and I’ve heard bad things about the penguin-on-stick.”
Roman-Butter bristled inwardly at the penguin put-down, but he smiled politely and waited, which, after all, was his job.
“Does the beaver spleen come with seasonal berries?” Janet inquired.
“No maam, it is served with Swiss peaches soaked in a raisin liqueur. They are topped with a mild, soft cheese made from Shetland pony milk and churned by virgin stenographers working evenings at the dairy.”
Janet’s pout sagged further as she said, “Oh dear, I am horse-fluid intolerant. That just won’t do.”
Roman-Butter waited some more.
“I know,” Janet beamed, “I’ll have the salmon pancreas and lentils on a bed of odorless rice with a side of sautéed owl tongue.”
“Very good maam,” said Roman-Butter, relieved to exit Janet’s presence.
Before he could extract himself, Janet said, “I’d like a glass of wine with that. What do you recommend?”
“We have an excellent Argentine chardonnay, a 2001 vintage. The grapes came from a small vineyard halfway up Mt. Chacon. The harvest only takes place once a year at twilight when the temperature hovers around 53 degrees Fahrenheit and a fine mist is in the air. They are then transported to the pressing room by indigenous curanderos where stout village women lovingly squeeze every bit of fluid from the skins. The juice is then stored in barrels of French Oak for no less than two years before pouring. The skins are donated to the United Nations for it’s ongoing research into fruit-skin benefits in the cure for leprosy.”
“On second thought,” said Janet, “I think I’ll have a Coke.”
At this point, Roman-Butter picked up a sterling-silver fork off the linen draped table and shoved it into Janet’s ear.

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Gophers Killed My Writing

I’ve been fighting some seriously hot and humid Texas ennui, but I was determined to sit down at the computer this morning and write. My plan was to write an essay about why I am so disenchanted with my county at the moment.
Sure, I was going to rant about George Bush and his gang of thieves, predators and uber-Nazis, but as bad as our president is, I wasn’t going to lay all the blame for America’s decline on him. I was also going to lament the sad fact that the Democratic Party that charged into a majority in Congress last November has done nothing but jerk off the American public. I thought about mentioning the latest escalation of surveillance laws Bush wanted and a lot of Democrats voted for or the “non-binding resolutions” the ‘crats trot out to make it look like they are actually doing something about the war.
But, I wasn’t going to stop at Republicans and Democrats or any other political party. I had a lot of arrows to sling at the American public for putting up with all this shit. Points were going to be made about how we sit around with iProducts shoved in our heads watching imploding starlets on television while the economy is ready to crumble and political candidates put on dog and pony shows.
It was going to be good stuff, and you would have probably said, “Jeez, that Mike can write his ass off, and he’s damn erudite and insightful.” Unfortunately, before I sat down at the computer in my office, I opened the sliding glass door so the dogs could easily come and go to the pool. When I did sit down, I heard a weird noise, turned towards the door and saw a small group of gophers, about 10 or 12 of them. They were carrying tiny swords and wore headgear that resembled a buffalo’s skull. Even in my world, it was an unusual sight.
Before I could utter a sound, one of the diminutive creatures stepped forward, raised his sword, and said, “We are Viking gophers from hell, and we command you not to write.”
What could I do? The dogs were no help. In fact, they were hiding under the deck. It was too damn hot to get into a melee with armed rodents, so I surrendered. “Hey,” I said, “no problem. Look, I’m turning off the computer.”
When they saw the screen flicker and die, the Viking gophers retreated, shouting Norwegian war cries and scurrying through the back fence.
I’m sorry you had to miss a great essay.

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The Yak Itch (Part One)

The Yak Itch

Delva Pachinko decided to ride a yak across Europe to raise awareness of uvula itch in overdeveloped countries. Her decision did not sit well with her husband and children or with her colleagues at Princeton University where she was a tenured professor of deconstructionist literature. Nevertheless, Delva was adamant about her decision. She applied for and was granted a sabbatical from her department and began her preparations for her yak expedition.
“I’d like to begin the journey in Spain,” she told her husband, Fontenot. “Then I will move up through central Europe and over to the Eastern Bloc and conclude the trip in Russia. I realize this is a complicated undertaking, and I’m counting on you to help with the logistics.”
Although Fontenot, who owned a mid-sized software development company specializing animal waste-disposal models, believed his wife’s uvula-itch campaign to be idiotic, he also believed people should try to live out their dreams so he put aside his doubts and agreed to help Delva.
“First of all,” he said, “have you ever seen or touched a yak?”
“I’ve seen pictures and tapes of them, but I’ve never actually met one.”
“Then I suppose you’d better start by driving over to New York and visiting the Bronx Zoo. They have a couple yaks there, and I think I can fix it so you can visit them up close and personal.”
“Oh, that would be great, Font,” Delva gushed.
“Once you meet a yak, and you still want to continue with your quest, the next thing we need to do is plan a route, obtain the necessary travel documents and visas, and buy a yak. I don’t think there are any Spanish yaks so we’ll probably have to import one to Spain so it will be waiting for you once you arrive.”
“I can handle the yak purchase,” said Delva. “I have a friend in the veterinary school who can help me with the paperwork and finding the best yak dealers. He should also be able to advise me on the proper inoculations the animal will need to pass through the various countries.”
“Ok,” agreed Fontenot, “I’ll work out a budget, but you are going to have to contact a European public relations firm to handle the publicity.”
“Not a problem.”
“I guess the last question for now is when do you want to go?”
“I was thinking at the end of the semester, perhaps late June.”
“That’s only three months away. It doesn’t give up much time, so we’d better get busy.”

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Skip This

I have been told by my nieces and nephews that skipping, if you are past age 7, is highly uncool. They also say it is "gay" or "girly", and anyone who practices the fine art should be lobotomized, or better yet, crippled. Kids.
It's a shame, really, that skipping has fallen on such hard times. I admit that skipping is gay, but it is gay like gay used to be before it is now. Actually, you don't even see many gay people skipping these days.
Skipping seems to be lighthearted and carefree, attitudes we are in much need of in these times. Skipping is also wonderful exercise, a discipline both young piglets and old lumps would be better off to follow. Finally, skipping looks goofy. What better way to heal your mind and body than to embrace your inner goofiness?
The only things people seem to skip today are lunch, meetings, introductions, ta ma lou, a beat and rationality. It's just not the same.
Come on over, we'll skip on up to crazy Marjorie's and look at the vegetables in her hair.

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Electricity and Hats

After I had finished The New York Times crossword puzzle and started on the Sudoku puzzle this morning, my dog, Pathetic Bob, finally crawled out from under the bed covers and came into the breakfast room. I greeted him cheerfully only to receive a, "Yeah, sure, whatever," from the normally upbeat Bob.
"Somebody got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning," I said.
"Yeah, well fuck you!" Bob retorted.
Now I could have responded with, "Fuck you, too," and we could have spent the morning hurling obscenities at each other, but being the sensitive and somewhat caring lemur that I am, I merely said, "Obviously there is something bothering you Bob. Do you want to share your feelings with me?"
"What are you, a woman?" Bob cracked.
I knew enough to let cranky dogs bitch, so I returned to my puzzle and kept a watch on Bob as he wandered around mumbling and grumbling. After a while, he came back to the table and said, "Look, I'm sorry Em. I had a bad night, and I have a lot on my mind. I might have PMS."
"Trust me Bob, you don't have PMS. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind. Maybe I can help."
"Well maybe I have weltsmertz then. Anyway, there's a whole lotta stuff bothering me that nobody seems to be worried about. That worries me 'cause I think some really bad shit could happen while nobody's paying attention."
"Tell me about some of the shit and then you won't have to worry alone."
"First, people aren't paying enough attention to electricity. If we are not careful, electricity wars will soon break out all across the globe."
"I'm not sure I follow you Bob."
"Wow, how surprising. OK, here's the deal. Global warming is really screwing up the planet. There's way too much carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, oil prices are high, coal-powered electricity plants are helping to pollute the air, there are too many goddamn computers and video-game consoles being used, and George Foreman is making too many useless kitchen appliances. It seems like the only companies that aren't trying to encourage electrical use are automotive manufacturers. Critical mass will soon be reached; ac will rise up against dc. Remember the Watts riots of the '60s? Wait until you see the Volts riots that are coming. "
"That's a pretty damn bleak assessment Bob. What do you think we should do?"
"Well, if you were smart Em, you would take your money out of your IRA, and invest it in battery companies."
"What else is on your mind Bob?"
"Lots of stuff Em. For instance, the coming hat shortage. Do you know how far down fedora production has fallen in the U.S. alone? Seventy-eight percent, that's how much. And, nobody's doing anything. Another thing is the mental-health crisis. Pharmaceutical companies are cranking out new brain pills faster than rabbits fuck. People are getting to mentally healthy. If the trend continues, we will end up being way short of lunatics, and without lunatics the creative arts will suffer. I could go on, but I'm hungry."
"Well, here's the rest of my toast. After you finish that, why don't you read the comics in the newspaper, that usually cheers you up?”
"Fuck you Em, I'm going back to bed.”

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Holy Humor

Jesus, Buddha, Yahweh (aka Allah), the Pope, Zeus, Odin, and Mohammed walk into a bar…. You don’t hear too many jokes that begin this way.
Religious icons have been fodder for humorists, comedians, and novelists for centuries, even though a lot of the mockery has been underground until the 20th century. Good-natured a bad-natured humor directed at prophets and gods could, and often did, result in the death of the person so bold as to find hilarity in buffoonery of moral edict dictators. Religion, for the most part, frowned upon funny, unless of course, it was directed at heretics, apostates, infidels, or insurance salesmen.
Of the holy people listed in the opening sentence of this essay, the two that stand out as being the most humorless come from the Middle East: Yahweh (Allah) and Mohammed. Yahweh (Jewish), Allah (Muslim) is the same character worshiped by Christians, who called him God. In the holy books of all three religions, God is a pretty humorless, nasty character, a serial killer in fact. Early stand-up comedians found out quickly that making fun of God would get you and your whole family cast into a fiery pit or some equally appalling torture. Crack a joke, and God would fuck you up.
As time wore on, I think people got fed up with all the gratuitous violence that God had perpetrated or supposedly commanded to be perpetrated in his name, and decided to write a sequel to the holy book. It was called the “New Testament,” and it reinvented God into a more pleasant guy named Jesus. The Jesus character eschewed violence, liked wine, hung out with hookers, and wasn’t above cracking a joke or two. Nevertheless, after Jesus dies a particularly gruesome death, his followers started reverting back to Old Testament rhetoric, and the sequel ends with horrifying scenes of beasties, blood, and mass killings. Humor was one of the first victims of the last chapter.
People seemed to like all the mayhem and strict dogma of it’s old God and forgot about Jesus’ teaching. However, they formed a religion based on Jesus, and for a couple thousand years they seriously kicked the asses of anyone who dared jest about that religion.
Eventually, most of the Old Testament people and the Jesus people decided, “What the hell, we can take a joke,” and they stopped whacking people who made fun of religion.
A few hundred years after Jesus took his last bow, a new holy guy named Mo arrived on the scene in the Middle East. Mo proclaimed himself a spokesman for Allah and ripped off parts of the old holy book, added a bunch of new stuff, published it, and it became a best seller. The new book had a lot of nice and peaceful stuff, but also a lot of the same old kill, smite and misogynistic doctrine as the old book. (Gotta give the people what they want.)
After Mo cashed in his chips, his followers did pretty much what Jesus’ posse did, and put the scimitar to the scrotum of anyone bold enough to joke about their religion, which in this case, was known as Islam.
Followers of Mohammed (Muslims) and the followers of Jesus (Jesims) tolerated each other for a while, but had no sense of humor about it. Eventually, a Palestinian comic named Rasheed made one too many jokes at the Jesims’ expense, and Europeans sent crusaders and anti-Muslim comedians to stamp mockery of their religion in Jerusalem. The Muslims fought back, and the people on both sides enjoyed a great religious bloodletting. When you’re not allowed to poke fun at things, I think it breeds savagery.
Religious savagery has continued right up until today, but in the modern world, the comedic overtones are freely expressed. Unfortunately, is seems the vast majority of Muslims have decided not to enter the modern world.
If you make a joke or write a parody about the Pope, it is unlikely Catholic ninjas will be dispatched to blow up you and your family. If you expose a bloated televangelist for the corpulent weasel he is, the likelihood of you being burned at the stake is small. You can joke about Jesus, write a limerick about the Buddha, or draw a caricature of Zeus with a tiny penis, and it’s doubtful you will suffer slings and arrows. But, mention Mohammed in an unflattering light, and you’ll have 18 million fanatical sheep bleating for your death. It wouldn’t be so bad if the sheep would just bleat, but a lot of them are armed and will point their weapons wherever the sheepherder tells them to.
I expect a lot of people are saying, “That’s bigoted; you are prejudiced against Muslims.” Given today’s climate of appeasement to even the most radical elements of society, I am not surprised that people might say this. The truth is, I don’t give a monkey’s scrotum about religion. I am prejudiced against stupid, intolerant and humorless people. We all have our prejudices; those are mine.
So, Jesus, Mohammed and Buddha walk into a bar. Jesus asks for a glass of water so he can turn it into wine. Mohammed asks where the virgins are. Buddha sits back and laughs his ass off.

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